"What about them?"
I describe the way the pictures seemed to chronicle the way her perception of herself and her fame changed in such a short time.
“It's bizarre,” I say. “From the beginning of her career to a few months before she disappeared to when she's speaking at the victims’ rights conference, she looks like three different people. In one set, she's completely absorbed with herself and immersed in caring about what the world around her thinks of her. In the next, she looks as if she wants to disappear and not be thought of at all. Then in the third, she wants to be heard, and if she's seen at the same time, so be it. As if she's realized she can take control over the obsession. If people want to watch her, they'll have to watch while she's making a difference.”
"Your opinion of her is changing," he notes.
I snag a piece of broccoli with my chopsticks and look at him sarcastically. "You're putting more into this than needs to be there."
"Alright," he says. "Let’s put the brakes on this before it takes over our entire movie night." He sets his food down on the table, grabs the remote, and leans forward. “Now, were you thinking rom-com or horror?”
“Ugh, I’m so sick of horror right now. I deal enough with that in real life. Can’t we just put on something cute and fuzzy?”
“Man, if the others heard you just now, they’d have you committed. I can’t believe my ears. Hardened badass Emma Griffin wants something cute and fuzzy?”
I playfully punch him in the arm and rest my head on his shoulder. We pick out a movie and start it.
"I missed you," he whispers as the opening credits start.
"I missed you," I smile.
He kisses me, and everything else goes away. All around me is the smell of him, the warmth of him. It's the only thing that quiets that voice.
The next morning, I make an extra pot of coffee and pour as much of it as will fit into a travel mug for Dean. He meets me in the living room with his bags already packed. I hold the coffee out to him, and he takes it with a grateful smile.
"Sure you can't stay?" I ask.
"It's a bit of a commute every day," he replies with a soft laugh. "I need to be there."
"I know. You still have a disappearance to solve."
He nods, looking down at the mug, then back at me. "You were right about Mason."
"It's not exactly a victory I'm celebrating. And, to be fair, I thought he was dead a long time before he apparently was," I tell him.
"You still knew how it was going to turn out. I should have listened to you," he says as he looks down again.
"It wouldn't have changed anything." I tilt my head down to look at him. "Dean, this isn't your fault."
"Maybe if I’d found him sooner…"
"Stop. There's nothing you could have done to stop this. You don't know what happened, and you had no control over it. Just because somebody asked you to look for him doesn't mean that you were responsible for protecting him. It's horrible that he's dead. But you didn't cause it. All you can do now is try to find out who did."
He nods. "Thanks. I'll call you after I go to his house."
"Let me know if you need my help with anything," I say.
Dean smiles. "You know I will."
He hugs me and leaves. Last night he came downstairs and told me he had to cut his visit shorter than he’d thought. With the discovery of Mason Goldman's body, his focus has shifted. Now it's not about finding him, but about finding out what happened to him. It isn't lost on either one of us that his wife Eleanor is still unaccounted for. Even in the two days since his body was found, she hasn't made a move to report him missing or reach out to anyone about him, and just like before, nobody’s been able to contact her.
It begs the question: is she involved, or is she in danger, too?
As soon as Dean is gone, I pad into the bathroom for a shower, then grab a bagel and glass of juice to take outside with me. It's still early enough in the morning for the temperature to be reasonable. An impending storm has brought dark clouds over the sky that help to filter out the sunlight and pick up a nice breeze.
Sitting down on the glider, I take a bite of my bagel, then pull out my phone. It's been more than a week since I've talked to my father. In a way, I figure that's a good thing. The sudden and intense compulsions to call him at all hours just to make sure he's still there have faded. I'm comfortable now knowing that when I call him, he'll be there. And even if I don't call him, he's still there.
"Hey, honey," Dad answers the phone. "What are you up to?"
"Having breakfast. Dean just left."
"He was there?" he asks.
"Yeah, he was taking a break from his investigation, but things have kind of taken a turn."
I tell him about everything that happened, and he listens quietly. One amazing thing I've discovered about my father since having him back in my life is that he's an even better listener than I remembered. Not just in that I can pour my heart out to him or vent about anything, and he'll absorb it all. But also in his ability to let me be separate from him in my career.
It couldn't always be easy. No
