“I’m not even on social media,” Sky said.
“I’m not, either, except my dog has an Instagram.”
“I think we might be very similar, Sunny,” she said.
“I think so, too,” I said. Though I wasn’t sure as I glanced at her desk. It was a flat landscape. No framed pictures. No vases full of flowers. No paperweights or fake awards or bobbleheads, no silly gifts from friends. If Sky Farley had a social life at all, she didn’t like to advertise it.
“What do you want to know?” she said. It felt as though she was reading my mind. “What can I tell you…about Dylan?”
I lifted my gaze from her desk. “When was the last time you heard from him?”
“The Sunday after Thanksgiving,” she said.
“That’s the last time his parents heard from him, too.”
“I know. Mrs. Welch told me.”
“Was this a phone call you got? A text?”
“Text,” she said. “He said he was feeling under the weather,so he wouldn’t be at work on Monday. I called him to make sure he was okay.”
“How did he sound?”
She shrugged. “Under the weather. But, you know…coherent.”
“So no red flags at the time.”
“I didn’t think much about it at all,” she said. “But then Tuesday rolled around, and Wednesday. I texted him but didn’t get a response. I called. It went straight to voicemail. And his mailbox was full. That’s when I started to worry. Dylan is always good about keeping his phone charged and his mailbox free to accept messages, even in rehab, when he can only use it for an hour a day. I spoke to Mrs. Welch. We went to his apartment together. He wasn’t there, of course. The doorman said he hadn’t seen him in days.”
“How did the apartment look?”
“Same as always,” she said. “It probably wouldn’t surprise you that Dylan is kind of a slob.”
“Did you notice anything missing?”
“His phone. Maybe some clothes. I don’t know. He has a big wardrobe and his closets are a mess.”
“Right. When was the last time you saw him in person?”
“Wednesday before Thanksgiving,” she said.
“Did he seem like he was in good spirits?”
“Actually, no,” she said. “We had words.”
“What happened?”
“He was on something,” she said. “I told him to go home and sleep it off and he got angry with me. He never gets angrywith me. Told me to stop acting like his mother and went into his office and slammed the door. He was there for the rest of the day. We all left early for the holiday; his door stayed closed.”
“He told you to stop acting like his mother.”
“Yes.”
“I thought they were close, Lydia and Dylan.”
“They are,” she said. “He probably meant it figuratively.”
“Okay.”
