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“We have to gather information first,” Jackson responds coolly. “I promise you, we have a team already working on it, sir.”
Just then, another young officer strides into the room, breaking the mounting tension. Perez, if I recall correctly. Another city cop.
We turn our attention to him.
Perez reads from a small pocket notebook in his hand. “The local hospitals have been called—no one under the name James Carrington has been admitted. The chief is currently working to obtain James’s cell phone information from the cell phone company. From that, we’re hoping to pin his location and also read his texts.”
Tristan looks at me. I look away.
The officer continues. “I have Suzie getting the CCTV footage of the school now to confirm he never showed.” He closes the notebook and stuffs it into his pocket. Unlike Baby-Boy Jackson, this officer exudes confidence and competency. “Door to door will begin within thirty minutes.”
“What’s door to door?” I ask.
“We’re going door to door to ask the neighbors if they’ve seen James or his car.”
Just then, Perez’s phone rings and he disappears out the front door.
Jackson refocuses on me. I steel myself for the question we’ve all been waiting for him to ask.
“Mrs. Carrington, ah, I mean, Nina”—he clears his throat—“have there been any issues going on within the household? Family drama?”
I glance at the brown envelope tucked neatly under the mail. The one that contains the divorce papers I’ve yet to sign. Before I can speak—
“No,” Tristan says.
Jackson nods, then looks down. He doesn’t believe my husband.
He shouldn’t.
“How about ... have there been any arguments between you and your son recently?”
“No,” Tristan says.
I stare at my husband.
Officer Jackson’s phone rings. “Excuse me.” He stands and answers the call.
A woman enters the room and begins laying printouts on the table—information on how to conduct telephone searches, where to print flyers, how to organize a community search. But I don’t hear a single word that’s coming out of her mouth.
I can’t quit staring at my husband, the man who can tell a lie almost as easily as he can sweep you off your feet.
2
The Present ...
Lavinia
Do you remember chain letters? Or chain emails, I should say. Unsolicited emails containing information sent by some random vigilante philanthropist or left wing/right wing nut job. At the end of every email is a message that reads:Forward to at least five friends or you will have(insert number here)years of bad luck.
I never forwarded those emails.
I also open umbrellas indoors, dance (not just walk) under ladders, and never once—not a single time—have I tossed a pinch of salt over my left shoulder. Hell, thirteen is my favorite number.
My point is, there is nobad luck.In fact, there is no luck at all. There is no invisible force that causes good or bad things to happen. What happens to us is a direct result of the decisions we made in the past—good or bad. It’s a snowball effect.
I am a walking example of this.
Most people would say I have chronic bad luck. In fact, I’ve been told this very thing more times than I can count. By my employers, mostly, but we’ll get into that later.
