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“Do you think Jack Mooney did it?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
The images flash before my mind. Rocky with his tongue hanging out. Rocky looking at the camera, ears perked. Rocky in the dirt, a shovel lying next to his head. Rocky dead. “I don’t understand. Why? Why would he do this?”
He doesn’t offer a response. Not immediately, anyway. “You posted this all over social media, right? And the neighborhood app?”
I nod and then use the back of my hand to brush the tears off my face.
“It could be anybody. You posted your phone number.”
I purse my lips and look away. “I know it wasn’t just anybody.”
Obviously, this isn’t the way to handle this situation. But that doesn’t mean I can do anything about it. Just because you want to get out of bed and carry on as normal, doesn’t make it magically possible. How could I have been so stupid? Why hadn’t I just left Rocky inside?
Over the past twelve hours I’ve spent so mu
ch energy, an ungodly amount of energy, being concerned about the harm that people who call themselves friends caused at the barbecue. I’ve sulked over petty gossip and things that don’t matter, when all along I should have been concerned with the things that do. I should have thought about actual monsters. I should have put more effort into finding Rocky and bringing him home. I failed him, and now I have to tell the girls he’s never coming back.
I’d wanted to respond to the texts, but Greg wouldn’t allow it. He forwarded them to his phone and promised he’d find out their origin. He thinks it’s possible that Rocky is not actually dead. He thinks the sender wants reward money. He thinks this isn’t the end of it.
I think he’s grasping at straws. If that were the case, then why didn’t whoever sent them just say so?
I spend most of the morning in bed with my laptop propped up on my knees, Googling stalking terms, the laws against it, and what to do about it. It just makes me feel worse. So far, I can only prove Jack Mooney contacted me just the once. I have no proof that he sent the texts last night, or that he’s responsible for Rocky going missing.
And now, not only have I wasted half of the day, I have sales goals to meet and an income to earn, an income that my family depends on. What I do not have is time for his rabbit holes. I convince myself that it’s Monday, and no one feels like working on Monday. In reality, I think I actually might be coming down with something. Not that I can afford to ease off now, not when I’m so close to hitting gold status. And yet, it seems hopeless. My concentration is nonexistent, my thoughts flop from here to there, like a fish out of water. I am emotionally and physically drained. The only thing I want to do is sleep.
Which is exactly what ends up happening.
I wake dry-mouthed and bleary-eyed to the sound of my ring tone. When I finally locate the phone tangled in my bed sheets, the display shows two missed calls from the school. And one just now from Greg. Shit. I throw the covers off and fly out of bed, stubbing my toe. Not only does it hurt like a mother, the sudden movement makes me light-headed and dizzy, and for a second, I’m certain I’m going to black out.
Panic sets in as I tap Greg’s name on the screen. I was supposed to pick up the girls a half hour ago. “My God Amy—”
“I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling well—and I dozed off—I’m on my way now—”
“You scared the shit out of me. I thought something had happened,” he tells me flatly. I can hear that he’s in his car. He sighs as the concern in his voice turns to relief. I can hear in the sigh that his relief is about to quickly turn to anger. “I just walked out in the middle of a proposal—”
“I’m sorry—but I gotta go. I need to call the school.”
“I called Dana. She was in a closing, but I think she’s going to see if she can make it there before I do.”
“You called Dana?” It will take him over an hour with traffic to get to the girls’ school…but Dana?
“Who was I supposed to call?”
He has a point. We don’t have family here. “Lucy.”
“Whatever. Just call me when you get there.”
“Are you heading back to the office?”
“No,” he replies. Then another long sigh. “I’m already halfway home. And I’m sure they have gone by now.”
He had a big pitch today. It slipped my mind. This was an important meeting for him. “I’m sorry, Greg.”
“I know.”
I throw a jacket over my pajamas and slip my feet into house shoes. All the while, I berate myself. I should have sucked it up. I should have forced myself out of bed. I should have been a proper adult—a good mother.
