Chapter 18
Emery
“Go, go, go! Skate!” My palm slaps against the Plexiglas as Isla and her line mate rush toward the net, and I hold my breath that she’ll score.
It would be the first time for her this season and on her new team.
But the opposing team’s defense keeps them on the outside and, instead of shooting anyway, Isla attempts a redirect. They strip her of the puck.
“Next time, take the shot!” a dad yells from the stands.
I grit my teeth. Of all the parents on Isla’s new team, I’ve already pegged him as the most irritating.
He’s not unique either—I’ve run into a dozen others over the years, all men who played as children and are now reliving their youth through their offspring who, of course, are future Olympic-potential stars who can do no wrong.
It’s why I prefer staying at ice level to watch—so I don’t have to listen to adults criticize teenage girls. Plus, it’s faster down here.
Isla waves as she glides past me on the way back to the bench, her face red from exertion.
Why didn’t she mention seeing Logan at the stables every morning this week? We have a good relationship, don’t we? She tells me pretty much everything … or I’d like to think that, as any mother foolishly tells herself.
I don’t like her keeping secrets, even the harmless kind.
Then again, I now have a colossal secret to keep from everyone.
My pulse races as I replay last night in my mind, struggling to keep my expression even.
I haven’t had a night like that in … never.
I’ve never had a night like that. The intensity, the emotion.
We barely spoke, letting our bodies convey our thoughts.
And Logan’s body had a lot to say. It was never idle, his hands roaming, his hips thrusting, his lips rarely leaving mine, unless it was to kiss another part of me.
By the time I drifted off, I felt utterly ravished, sapped of all strength.
Sore. It was different from how I remembered Logan and I being together, but I guess that was to be expected. We’re different. I’m different.
It was mind-blowing.
Jon had to walk in. Of all people! Obviously, he’ll tell Sarah, who’ll tell Annie, and then all the Landrys will know that I slept with Logan. How long before Isla somehow figures it out? And Dillon? Mike and Breanne?
Is there any way to keep a lid on this?
And how am I supposed to look at Logan again and pretend last night didn’t happen?
Or that, despite everything I said this morning and everything I know to be true, I already desperately want it to happen again.
The two teams are battling for the puck on the far end when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I groan when I see Jenny Monroe’s name appear on the screen.
This must be about last night. What did Holly tell her parents?
Do I want to deal with this right now? I waffle on answering but decide it’s best I do, in case it involves a lie about Logan.
I force a cordial tone. “Hey, Jenny. What’s up?”
“Hello, Emery. Will you be driving Holly home soon or do I need to come and get her?” comes the crisp response, rife with irritation.
“I’m supposed to drive Holly home?” I repeat, caught by confusion.
“Yes. She knows we’re celebrating Thanksgiving today, and she promised she’d be back by noon. She said you’d be dropping her off.”
I finally clue in. “Was Holly supposed to be staying at our place last night?” After Jenny not-so-subtly suggested Holly wouldn’t be allowed there anymore?
“Yes.” There’s a pause. “Didn’t she?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I roll my eyes even though she can’t see it. “Isla stayed in North Bay at her teammate’s house. And I—” Was not home, but that’s not Jenny’s business. “Drove down for her game today. Holly was not at our house.”
“Well, where did she stay, then?” Jenny huffs, more to herself.
“Probably with one of her other friends. I saw her at the Bale House with a few girls.”
“Isn’t that a bar?”
“It is after a certain time. Holly and her friends were escorted out.” No need to highlight exactly why. “She was still in the parking lot when I stepped out briefly, but I didn’t see her when I left, a little after nine.”
Jenny’s heavy sigh fills my ear. “Well, she’s not home yet and she knew she had to be.”
I bite my tongue against the urge to ask Jenny how often Holly actually does what she’s supposed to. “Obviously, you’ve tried calling her.”
“Of course I have. She’s not answering.”
“Can you track her phone?”
“No. I mean, I used to be able to, but the feature hasn’t been working well. I don’t know, it glitches a lot.”
Glitches? “Or she’s been turning it off so you can’t see where she is.”
“She swears she isn’t.”
I check my watch. Now’s not the time for judgment. “You said she was supposed to be home by noon. It’s twenty after, so let’s not panic yet. When Isla’s game is finished, I’ll see what she can find out. And text me if Holly shows up before you hear from me.”
“Okay, I … okay. Thank you.” Where snippiness laced her voice before, now there’s sincerity within the worry.
“Of course.” We may not be great fans of each other, but none of that matters when our kids are involved.
I end the call just as Isla trips a girl with her stick, sending her sprawling across the ice and the ref’s hand into the air.
With a wave for the huddled group of parents, I murmur, “Come on, my little goon.”
“Didn’t you see her cross-check me twenty seconds before that? The refs weren’t calling anything.”
“They called you.” I hold open the door and Isla plows through, her giant bag slung over her shoulder. “You’re lucky that penalty didn’t cost your team the game.” While a tie isn’t ideal, the season is long and every point counts toward playoffs.
“Can I drive home?”
“You already know the answer to that one.” Not in my station-issued vehicle. And we have more important things to discuss. “Did you know Holly told her mother she was staying at our place?”
“Uh …” Caught off guard, Isla fumbles for an answer that doesn’t get her into trouble.
“The truth, Isla. This is important.”
“She said she might, and I told her I wasn’t around.” She shrugs, like it’s nothing to do with her and no big deal. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Holly hasn’t come home yet.”
“Oh.” Isla tosses her equipment into my trunk. “Well, it’s Holly. She’s always late.”
We climb into our respective seats. “I know, but it’s Thanksgiving weekend and she was supposed to be home by noon for family stuff.” It’s now after one. “Can you try calling her? She’s not answering her mother.”
Isla digs her phone out and dials. And waits. “I’ll try texting?”
I navigate out of the parking lot as her fingers fly over her keyboard. She sends the message and then flips through her apps to one all the kids use. “It says she’s at the Bale House.”
“Yeah, she was there last night until the bouncer escorted her out at curfew. I was there. I saw it.” I instigated it.
“No, it says she’s still there. I can always see where she is, real time. You can set it up like that.”
So Holly blocks her mother from all visibility; meanwhile, she lets her friends track her every move. “Maybe she forgot her phone there.”
Isla spares me a look that matches my doubt. “Holly? Forget her phone? No way.”
“If she was drunk?”
She pauses to consider that. “She’d have to be really drunk.”
But wouldn’t she be awake by now and able to get herself home if she was crashing at someone’s house?
A sick feeling gnaws at my senses. This is how these cases always start—with a quick dismissal of the situation, a range of excuses to explain away things so no one jumps to worst-case conclusions. But there’s always a moment when a switch flips and the what-ifs take over.
That switch has flipped for me. “Okay, I need you to ask around and see who she was with last night and what they know.” Give a group of teenagers phones and fifteen minutes, and it’s almost frightening what they can sleuth. “And make sure no one’s covering for anyone, got it?”
While Isla starts messaging, I call the Bale House.
Matt answers on the fourth ring, his smooth, deep voice filling my car’s interior over the speaker.
“Did Holly come back to the bar last night?”
“Emery?”
“Yeah, hey, sorry.” I wince. I’ve never been good at small talk. “The young blond we escorted out last night at curfew. Did you see her again?”
“Uh … no, not that I recall, but it was busy as hell in here. I mean, you saw it.”
“Yeah, but I left early.”
“Joey wouldn’t have let her back in, even with a fake ID.” There’s a pause. “Why?”
“Her mother’s looking for her, and her phone says she’s still there. Did anyone turn it in?”
“It has a pink case with silver sparkles,” Isla interjects loudly.
“You heard that?” I ask.
“Pink case, silver sparkles,” Matt repeats, and I can picture his brow furrowing. “I didn’t see anything turned in this morning. Let me look around. Like I said, it was stupid busy.”
“Okay. Thanks, Matt. Let me know.”
“You got it.”
The unease slipping into my spine with each passing minute grows exponentially.
“What now?” My daughter looks to me, concern in her eyes.
I think about those young girls sitting on the back of that tailgate, about all the people coming in and out of that place on a busy Friday night.
About the Murphys, and about the kinds of people Hank associates with, including apparently a vile rapist pig like Travis Dorsey.
“Keep asking around. Find out everything you know. Every little detail, even the stuff your friends don’t want me to know.” I punctuate that with a serious look.
Isla nods solemnly.
And I start making calls.
The Bale House is quiet when I push through the doors that afternoon, with only three tables seated and an old man hunched in his stool by the bar, paying no one and nothing but his pint any heed. My platoon sergeant, Clara, is waiting with Matt by the bar, her lengthy red hair braided today.
I nod in greeting. “Where was it?”