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When she returned from the gas station and the supermarket, she sat by the swimming pool, but she was too preoccupied to enjoy the fact that she had access to a pool. It wasn’t like she was playing hooky from work. She knew she was playing a far more dangerous game.
How dangerous? Marisa didn’t materialize at three fifteen. Or three thirty. Usually, Betsy worked until three thirty, so depending on the traffic, she would get home between three forty-five and four. She told herself now that it was possible Marisa had gotten off the bus with a friend and was getting a Slurpee or some Little Debbie travesty at the nearby 7-Eleven, and was planning to be home five minutes before her. She liked that idea. She wanted her daughter to have friends and settle in. And the kid was thirteen. A very independent thirteen.
Finally, at four, Betsy texted her, trying to sound casual. She wrote to Marisa that she was home and supposed she was on her way home, too, and they should do something fun. She received no response. She texted again at four fifteen, more urgently, asking where she was. Still, nothing. Had it been any other day, the idea that Marisa didn’t text her back might have worried her, but it wouldn’t have sent her into a spiraling perturbation. Betsy knew what kind of kid she’d been, and she was sure that if she and her mother had had smartphones when she was thirteen, it would not have been uncommon for her to blow off a text (or two) from Mom. But Futurium was fucking with her bigtime, so Betsy could feel her alarm ratcheting up.
She decided that if she had not heard from the girl by four twenty-five, she would call the school. If she waited any longer, the only adults left at the building might be outside coaching football and field hockey and soccer.
But at four twenty, her phone rang, and for a brief second she was overcome with relief, convinced it was Marisa and everything was fine. It wasn’t. It was Frankie. And the moment she saw the number and then heard the quiver in his voice—a wobble he tried to hide behind reassurances that whatever was going down was “a hiccup” and all would be well—she understood that he was feckless and spineless and couldn’t protect her or her child. Marisa wasn’t coming home that afternoon.
“She’s A-okay,” he was saying. “That’s the main thing and the first thing you need to know as a parent. I get it.”
“What the fuck have you done? Where is she?”
“She’s fine. I just told you. I met her when she got off the school bus. And—”
“Frankie, are you insane? You kidnapped my daughter!”
“No,” he insisted, “it’s not like that. It’s—”
“I want her home now. Or I will call the police. I will make it clear—”
“Relax. Just relax and hear me out. Go to that meet-and-greet cocktail party tonight at Fort Knocks, and she will be home right after you. And Marisa doesn’t even know anything’s wrong. She’s happy as can be and perfectly safe.”
“That’s it. I’m going to the police.”
“Bad idea.”
“You wouldn’t hurt Marisa. Tell me that.”
“No, of course I wouldn’t,” he said, and Betsy thought she heard a strange emphasis on the pronoun. I. It was as if he wouldn’t, but he couldn’t speak for the others. “But you can’t go to the police. Look, the police already want to talk to you about Red Rocks. I happen to know that. Your sister is accusing you of lots of shit you had nothing to do with. But Vegas is a small town, and the PD isn’t all that hard to rein in. They see reason. So, they won’t come to see you. Unless they do.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means we really do have an in with the PD. Damon and Rory made sure of that. There are two detectives who are interested in you, but for the moment they’re on the leash. We got a little time.”
“Time for what?”
“Betsy, either you or your sister drove your sister’s car to Red Rocks. It’s on the cameras.”
“It wasn’t me!”
“But, let’s face it, baby—”
“I am not your baby!”
“Let’s face it: you were at the park yesterday, and the man Crissy fucked the night before died there. If someone decides this isn’t an accident, they’ll go right for your sister—which is where they’re aiming now, and which is exactly what everyone wants—unless you give them a reason to go right for you. And, your sister, being the unscrupulous mess that she is, is already telling the cops in every way she can that it was you and not her.”
“That’s not being unscrupulous. That’s not wanting to go to jail for a crime you didn’t commit!”
“This is all going to end well. I promise. It’s just how they do things.”
“So, let me get this straight: you’ve taken my daughter, and now you’re willing to tar my sister—or me—with the death of this Yevgeny person? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying you’re overreacting. Be Diana tonight at Fort Knocks. Be Crissy tonight. That’s all you have to do.”
“Put my daughter on the phone right now. I want to hear her voice.”
“Your daughter? God, you make it sound like—”
