Perfect Nightmare

“What do you say?” Ellen prompted.

“Thank you,” the girl whispered, her eyes still avoiding Rick's.

“Sweet little girl,” Mancuso said. Ellen frowned, glanced at Mancuso, and felt a sudden urge to end the meeting right then. A moment later, though, she remembered her financial plight, dismissed her misgivings about the agent, and signed the listing. “We’ll get a good price for this house, Ellen,” Mancuso went on. “You and Emily can—” His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and though he tried to resist it, he couldn’t help pulling it out and looking at the screen. The police again, and obviously not about to give up. “Sorry,” he said, throwing his new client an apologetic smile. He opened the phone and turned away from Ellen Fine. “Rick Mancuso.” “This is Sergeant Grant from the Camden Green police department, Mr. Mancuso. We’re investigating the disappearance of Lindsay Marshall.” The real-estate agent nodded as if the officer were in the room with him. “Listen, I’m with a client right now. Can I call you back in a few minutes?” He scribbled the sergeant’s name and phone number in his notebook, then folded his phone and tucked it back in his pocket. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning back. “Where were we?” “I think you were about to pitch us another house,” Ellen Fine said. “But I’m afraid we’ll be moving out of the area entirely.” “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“We’re moving to Missouri to live with my grandmom,” Emily said.

“Lucky her,” Rick said. He picked up his paperwork and put it in his briefcase. “I’ll get this right into Multiple and we’ll start showing it.” He stood up.

Ellen hoisted her daughter to her hip and walked him to the front door. “The sooner the better,” she said. “Thanks for your help.”

Rick opened the back door of his black Mercury and threw in his briefcase, then got into the driver’s seat, wondering how long he could postpone his call to the cops. Not long at all, he decided. Might as well get it over with. He pulled out his phone and punched in the numbers.

“Sergeant Grant,” a gruff voice responded after the first ring.

“This is Rick Mancuso.”

“Thanks for getting back to us so quickly,” the officer said, somewhat moderating his tone. “We’re just following up on a few things. You were at the Marshalls’ open house last Sunday?” “Mark Acton’s open house in Camden Green. Yes, I was there.” “You were there with clients?”

Rick frowned. “That was the plan, but they had to cancel.” “But you went anyway?”

“I was meeting them there, and they called at the last minute. I was already there, so I took another look at the place, with them in mind. And it’s perfect for them, by the way.” “You were at a broker’s open house there the previous Wednesday.” It was a statement, not a question, and Mancuso thought he detected an edge to the cop’s voice now. Where was this going? “Yes,” he said, remembering his father’s advice never to volunteer anything.

“And you went back again on Sunday by yourself?” Sergeant Grant pressed.

“Yes.”

“Have you taken your clients to see the house yet?”

“No,” Rick said, but the definite edge in Grant’s voice told him he’d followed his father’s advice long enough. “I called Mark to schedule a showing, but he said the house had been temporarily taken off the market because of what happened to the girl.” “What did you do after Sunday’s open house?”

Rick told himself this call was nothing personal. The police were just following up, calling everyone who had been at the open house. “Let’s see,” he said. “I dropped by the post office to get my mail, went to the grocery store, drove to my sister’s place to take her some ice cream, but she wasn’t home, so I went home and grilled myself a steak.” “Can anybody vouch for any of that?”

Rick’s heart began to pound. The post office had been closed — he’d just picked up the mail from his box.

He’d paid cash at the store.

His sister wasn’t home, and he lived alone — her ice cream was still in his freezer.

So he hadn’t talked with anybody. There was nobody to corroborate his story.

“Mr. Mancuso?”

“I–I guess not,” he finally said. “Unless maybe someone at the store remembers seeing me.” “And what time would that have been?” Grant asked.

Rick hesitated. “I’m not sure. Five? Five-thirty? I remember getting home in time for the six o’clock news.” Grant thanked him and hung up, but even after the phone went dead in his hand, Rick sat there, staring numbly through the windshield of his car.

Maybe he ought to stop by Fishburn's, he thought, and see who else the police had called.

And it wouldn’t hurt to show his face after leaving Ellen Fine’s place, either.

That was the other thing his father had always told him: You can’t be too careful.

“I heard we were the last to see her alive,” Tina McCormick said, tossing her blond hair in the way she thought was so sexy but that Dawn D'Angelo thought was just kind of slutty. Both of them, along with the rest of the cheerleading squad and their coach, Sharon Spandler, were sitting at a table in the cafeteria, facing the policeman who had called them all there.

“Well,” Andrew Grant said carefully, ignoring Tina’s flirting, “you were certainly among the last to see her.” “And we’re sure she’s still alive, Tina,” Sharon Spandler said, fixing her eyes disapprovingly on the girl. Tina tried to pretend she didn’t notice the coach’s glare, but reddened in spite of herself.

“I was the last to see Lindsay,” Dawn said. “We walked home together Sunday after practice. And she’s still alive,” she added, glowering at Tina. She could hardly believe Tina had said that. If the policeman and Ms. Spandler hadn’t been sitting with them, she would have thrown her water bottle at Tina. But the coach was there, looking almost as tired as she herself felt, and the cop was there, so she hadn’t. Not that doing anything to Tina would help her feel any better, Dawn thought. She hadn’t been able to eat since last Sunday night, when Mrs. Marshall had called, saying that Lindsay was missing.

And she couldn’t stop feeling it was her fault. If she’d only asked her stupid stepmother if Lindsay could come with her — or better yet, not asked at all and just brought Lindsay with her on Sunday night — then Lindsay would be fine, and everything would be good again, and none of them would have to be sitting here talking about her.

“I heard she ran away,” Becka Saunders said.

“I heard her parents were taking her to the city and putting her in a private school,” Heather Blaine offered.

Grant’s eyes swept over the group. “Anybody hear anything else?” Dawn sat silently as every rumor that had swept through the school was repeated, each of them with new embellishments. She sat with her arms crossed, and with every new theory that was aired, the dull ache in her belly grew worse.

And it would continue to get worse until she saw her best friend’s face again.

“Did Lindsay have a boyfriend?” Sergeant Grant asked. “Maybe somebody who didn’t go to school here? Somebody older? Somebody she didn’t talk about too much?” All the girls shook their heads.

“She was kind of hot on Zack Sorenson,” Tina McCormick said, “but I don’t think he even knew about it.” “They never went out?”

Tina shrugged, but Dawn rolled her eyes. “Zack is going with somebody,” she said, wishing Tina would shut up, since she barely even knew Lindsay.

“No boyfriends?” Sergeant Grant pressed. “Don’t you all have boyfriends?” The girls all nodded except Dawn. “Lindsay didn’t have a boyfriend,” she said firmly.

“At least not one you knew about,” Tina McCormick taunted.

“Is she gay?” Sergeant Grant asked, making a note of what the McCormick girl had said.

Dawn rolled her eyes. The other girls only giggled.

“What about drugs?” Grant went on.

The girls glanced at each other, and Dawn could see three of them blushing. “Not Lindsay,” she finally said. “Lindsay was as squeaky clean as you can get.” “Not as squeaky as you!” Tina McCormick threw in, and Grant began to wonder if Dawn D'Angelo knew Lindsay Marshall as well as she claimed she did. But when he looked at Sharon Spandler, the coach shrugged.

“I never heard any talk about Lindsay using,” she said.