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“Did you know about the other kids? Did you know about Christina Russell and Danielle Hawker?” asked Whiskey.
“No. Not until the police showed up after Christina disappeared. Her parents are good people, and she’s a good kid. She’s always tried to include Spencer in anything that they did. I appreciated that, although I probably didn’t give in as much as I should have.”
“You never let Spencer go to parties there?” asked Nine. “Why?”
“I did! I mean, I said he could go, but I was going to go with him,” she said, getting quieter and quieter as she spoke. “You think I drove him away, don’t you?”
“That’s not what I think at all,” said Nine. “I’m just trying to find a motive for these missing kids. Something beyond having the tattoo that ties them together.”
“Other than being in the same school, all smart kids, I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. She seemed tired and frazzled, not having any clue what to do.
“Ms. Bowen, if you don’t mind me saying so, it looks like you could use some help around here. You’re exhausted. You obviously haven’t eaten anything. There’s nothing in the house to eat or drink. Maybe we could get someone to just help you get a handle on all of this. Would you be alright if we called someone for you?”
She stared at them, unsure of what to say at first. Then she looked around her house. Spencer would be appalled by the mess, and so was she.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she sniffed.
“Don’t be embarrassed, ma’am. You love your nephew, and I think you’ve done the best job you knew how to do. Kids are tough to raise. We both understand that.”
“I could use some help,” she nodded. Whiskey sent a text message while Nine helped to gather all the paper, stacking it for her on the table.
“When was the last time you ate something?” asked Whiskey.
“I-I’m not sure,” she said.
“I’ll order us all something for lunch,” he smiled. Nine sat down, holding one piece of paper in his hands.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Oh, it was a camp that Spencer wanted to attend this summer. He’d like to study neuropsychology in college, and this was a camp that Southern University in Baton Rouge was holding for kids involved in the STEM program.”
“It sounds, uh, fascinating,” said Nine, curling his nose. The woman chuckled, shaking her head.
“I know what you mean. It’s hard having a kid that’s so damn smart. He would prattle on about things he’d read or things he’d watched at school, and I tried to be interested. Lord, how I tried. I have to find him. I just have to.”
Whiskey stood to answer the knock at the door, grabbing the three Styrofoam containers of food. Before he could close the door, Calla was walking toward him.
“Hi, honey,” he smiled. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course, this has to be extremely difficult for her,” she said, hugging the man. “Hello. Hi, Uncle Nine.”
“Hi, sweetie. Calla Gibson, this is Hattie Bowen. Her nephew is one of the missing teenagers we’re looking for. I think she could use someone right now.”
While they ate their lunch, Nine and Whiskey listened to Calla speaking to the woman. She’d been carrying a lot of burden and guilt, taking care of her nephew. She’d given up her entire social life, which was once vibrant and promising, to be nothing except mother and father to Spencer.
“We’re going to leave you two alone now,” said Nine. “I promise we’ll let you know if we find anything else.”
“I can’t thank you both enough for coming by today. I was seriously considering doing something foolish,” she said, shaking her head. “I know the police are overwhelmed, but I just didn’t feel as if they cared about a couple of teenagers who’d gone missing.” Whiskey hugged the woman, pulling back and staring directly into her eyes.
“Well, we do.”
CHAPTER SIX
The Hawker family lived a little further out of the suburbs, but their home appeared well-maintained other than the overgrown grass. There were two relatively new cars in the driveway and a big pink ribbon tied around the oak tree in their front yard.
“Fuck, I hate seeing that ribbon,” said Nine. “It reminds me of being deployed and dudes getting taken hostage.” Whiskey nodded, following him to the front door.
“Can I help you?” asked the man standing in front of them. He was probably six-feet, a little overweight, but his hair was trimmed and clean. He wore loose drawstring pants and a t-shirt from the 1987 Jazz Fest.
