Her father rose and crossed the room. He put a protective arm around her and led her to the couch. He placed his daughter between Jenna and himself. Jenna too put her arm around her stepdaughter. Frank waited a few moments, letting them coo words of comfort.
“Amanda, I’m Investigator Tremont. This is Sheriff Walker. We need to ask you a few questions. You’re not in any trouble, so please relax. We just need you to answer the questions as honestly and directly as you can, okay?”
Amanda did a quick nod. Her eyes darted about like two scared birds seeking a safe perch. Her parents huddled in closer, leaned a little forward, wanting to take the hit for her.
“Do you know Haley McWaid?” Frank asked.
The teen seemed to shrink right before his eyes. “Yeah.”
“How?”
“School.”
“Would you say that you two are friends?”
Amanda gave him the teenage shrug. “We were lab partners in AP chemistry.”
“Was that this year?”
“Yeah.”
“How did that come about?”
Amanda seemed confused by the question.
“Did you two choose each other?”
“No. Mrs. Walsh assigns it.”
“I see. Did you two get along?”
“Yeah, sure. Haley’s real nice.”
“Has she ever been to your house?”
Amanda hesitated here. “Yeah.”
“Lots of times?”
“No, just once.”
Frank Tremont sat back, gave it a second. “Could you tell me when?”
The girl looked to her father. He nodded. “It’s okay.”
Amanda turned back to Tremont. “Thanksgiving.”
Frank watched Jenna Wheeler. She gave away nothing, but he could see it was an effort. “Why was Haley here?”
Another teenage shrug. “Just hanging out,” Amanda said.
“But on Thanksgiving? She wasn’t with her family?”
Jenna Wheeler explained. “It was after. The girls all had Thanksgiving dinner with their families and came over here late. There was no school the next day.”
Jenna’s voice seemed to come from far away now. Flat, lifeless. Frank kept his eyes on Amanda. “What time would that have been?”
Amanda thought about it. “I don’t know. She got here about ten.”
“How many girls were there?”
“Four. Bree and Jody were here too. We hung out in the basement.”
“After Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah.”
Frank waited. When no one volunteered, he asked the obvious question: “Was Uncle Dan here for Thanksgiving?”
Amanda didn’t answer. Jenna sat very still.
“Was he here?” Tremont asked again.
Noel Wheeler leaned forward, lowered his hands into his face. “Yes,” he said. “Dan was here on Thanksgiving.”
CHAPTER 16
POPS GROUSED THE entire way home. “I had that shawty in the palm of my hand.”
“Sorry.” Then: “Shawty?”
“I like to keep up on modern terms for chicks.”
“Good to keep up.”
“You should only know.”
“Please don’t elaborate.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Pops said. “So this is important?”
“Yup. Sorry you lost your shawty.”
“Fish, sea.” Pop shrugged. “You know the deal.”
“I do.”
Wendy hurried into the house. Charlie was flipping channels with two of his buds, Clark and James. They were sprawled on the den furniture as only teenage boys can, as though they’d removed their skeletons, hung them in a nearby closet, and slid to a collapse against whatever upholstery was nearby.
“Hey,” Charlie said without moving anything but his lips. “You’re home early.”
“Right, don’t get up.”
He smirked. Clark and James muttered, “Hey, Mrs. Tynes.” They didn’t move their bodies, but they at least rolled their necks to get a glance. Charlie stopped on her suddenly former station. The NTC News was on. Michele Feisler, the annoying, new, and very young anchor they should have fired instead of Wendy, was reporting a follow-up to a story from a couple of days ago about a man named Arthur Lemaine who had been shot in both knees while leaving the South Mountain Arena in West Orange.
“Ouch,” Clark said.
“Like one knee wouldn’t be enough.”
Arthur Lemaine, Michele recapped in that pseudo-serious news-woman inflection Wendy hoped that she didn’t have, had been shot following a late-night practice. The camera now panned over the South Mountain Arena, even showing the sign that said the New Jersey Devils practiced here—like that added something important to the story.
The camera came back to a properly grim Michele Feisler at the anchor desk.
“I hate her,” James said.
“Her head is, like, way too big for her body,” Clark added.
Feisler continued in that milk-curdling voice: “Arthur Lemaine is still not talking to authorities about the incident.” Big surprise, Wendy thought. If someone shoots you in both knees, it was probably best to see, hear, say nothing. Even James bent his nose as if to indicate mafioso. Charlie flipped stations again.
James turned around and said, “That Michele chick isn’t in your league, Mrs. T.”
“Yeah,” Clark added. “You kick her lame ass.”
Clearly Charlie had filled them in on her recent employment woes, but she was still grateful. “Thanks, boys.”
“Seriously,” Clark said. “Her head looks like a beach ball.”
Charlie added nothing. He’d once explained to his mother that his friends considered her a major MILF. He said this without embarrassment or horror, and Wendy didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not.
She headed upstairs to the computer. Farley was an unusual first name. Sherry Turnball had said something about holding a political fund-raiser for him. She recalled the name and remembered hearing something about a sex scandal.
The speed and thoroughness of the Internet should not shock her anymore, but sometimes it still did. Two clicks and Wendy found what she was looking for:
Six months ago, Farley Parks had been running for Congress in Pennsylvania when he was waylaid by a scandal involving prostitution. It had only gotten minor play in the press—political sex scandals were not exactly rare nowadays—but it had forced Farley out of the race. Wendy went through the first few Web sites on the search engine.