All the Missing Pieces - Julianna Keyes Page 0,100

he cares is a different story.

“It’s Reese,” I continue. “Have you heard from my dad tonight? I think he needs your help. Come to the police station.”

We inch around the block, the streets crowded with haphazardly parked cars, the sidewalks filling with nosy locals hoping for cheap entertainment.

“Stop here,” I say, when we pass the entrance to the parking lot. “This is close enough.”

“You sure?” the driver asks. “I’ll take you the rest of the way.”

“Here’s fine. Thank you.” I pass him cash and climb out. For a few seconds, nobody even notices me, but I’m dressed to turn heads and soon enough there are cameras and shouted questions and I’m being swarmed.

“Did you help your father, Reese?”

“Are you here to turn yourself in, Reese?”

“Where’s your brother, Reese?”

I feel the hot burn of a hundred flashbulbs, the bump of a padded microphone on my cheek, too many gusts of breath and pinching fingers to count.

The officers guarding the doors quickly figure out what’s going on, and after a few suffocating moments I’m being escorted into the station, half-blind, ears ringing. My skin is clammy, my palms slick with sweat. I tell myself it’s the warm weather, not terror.

The doors close behind us, muting the worst of the cries, but it takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the fluorescent lighting and the overwhelming quiet of the station. The officers wait patiently while I collect myself, tugging down the hem of my dress. I wish I had a jacket, but it’s eighty degrees out, and I really didn’t think I was coming here.

“Is my dad, um... Is Kimball Carlisle here?” I ask. “I got a phone call.”

The officers exchange a look. “Mm hmm,” they say. “Hang on just a second. Would you like some water? A soda?”

I shake my head, wishing I had something stronger. They leave, and I check my phone. Lincoln hasn’t called back. I send another text. At police station. Dad is here. Come now.

A minute later a tall, thin man in a cheap suit comes out, his smile razor sharp. He looks more like a shady accountant than a detective. “Reese Carlisle,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Kyle Trapper.”

I shake his hand limply. “Uh-huh.”

“Your father has asked to speak with you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s unusual for us to allow a suspect to meet with a friend or family member, but given your father’s status in the community, tonight we’re going to make an exception.”

I’m used to being given free things. Prime tables, designer clothing, bottles of alcohol. But it’s never really free, and even though Trapper continues to stare at me like he’s being kind, and even though I can feel my entire world tilting on its axis, I’m never so off-kilter that I buy it.

“Thank you.” I bite my lip and gaze at him with wide eyes, my best impression of a lost puppy. “Thank you so much.”

His smile stretches. “Of course, Reese. Right this way.”

I follow him through a low swinging gate and down a linoleum-covered hallway that threatens to crack under my heels with every step.

“Is he...okay?” I ask when we pause in front of a heavy gray door in a hall of similar gray doors. The walls are chipped cement. The whole thing is depressing.

“He’s not injured,” Trapper assures me, pulling out a key and unlocking the door. “We’ll give you a few minutes.”

“Thanks.” I hope I sound grateful.

I peer into the room before I enter, just in case it’s some kind of terrible trap. It resembles every interrogation room in every TV show. Plain walls, a small table tucked in the corner with cheap plastic chairs on either side. There are two cameras in the corners, red lights blinking, and I feel unseen eyes tracking my progress.

My father, who was supposed to be at a business dinner tonight, sits in his rumpled suit, tie undone, nursing a Styrofoam cup of water. I cross the room, ignoring the click of the door behind me, and he stands to wrap me in a hug.

“It’s in the theater,” he mutters into my hair. “Basement crawl space. Get it. Hide it. Don’t tell Alex.”

I pull back in confusion, remembering the cameras and screwing my face into a mask of dismayed outrage. “What are you doing in here?” I exclaim. “What have they done to you? Look at you! Your clothes are ruined. Your hair’s a mess.” I swipe at his hair as though I can fix anything. I don’t know what he’s talking about at the