Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,8

off, his recorder bouncing along next to him.

I flip open my phone to check messages. A voice mail and three texts, all from Casey. Dammit, what now? The texts say, Call home and then Where r u? and Call ASAP.

The voice mail is similar. Casey telling me to call the minute I get the message.

I text back: What? Busy here.

I keep telling Casey she doesn’t need to consult me about everything. If we’re getting married, she has to learn to handle it herself when Dylan forgets his saxophone at home or Angel wants permission to go to a friend’s house.

I drive back to the office, weighing how angry I can be with Aaron for the old press release. I decide I can be pretty fucking well mad because what’s he going to do, fire me? We can barely run the paper with the staff we have now. Obviously.

And then, my dad. Good God.

At the office, I want to smash my watch on the desk, though it’s not my watch’s fault that so much of the morning has been wasted. Henning e-mailed me a great quote for the morning’s story, too: “Maybe now the city council can leave behind the sandbox-level bickering and make progress on the tough issues facing us today.” Won’t make the paper now.

I managed to restrain myself from forcing Aaron to swallow his own boot, but I did curse freely when I explained the press conference problem. He told me to type up my notes and he’d get Kate to finish the story, as long as I finished getting quotes for Kate’s holiday shopping feature.

“There, happy now?” Aaron had snapped.

“Ecstatic.” Even better than a press conference. Interviewing store managers about holiday shopping! Hurrah! Enough to make me jealous of the intern covering the shooting. I never got to cover shootings when I was just starting. But then again, we had experienced reporters to spare, back then.

Casey had sent a new text: It’s important.

“Fine,” I mutter to myself, and dial the home phone.

“Hi,” Casey says, and then right away, “Dylan’s missing.”

“What? No, he’s not, I dropped him off at school myself.”

“Well, he’s not there now. The school called this morning to say he never showed up in class.”

I suck in a deep breath. It’s probably nothing. It almost always is nothing, just like a hot news tip usually fizzles upon investigation. I recall a time at the park when Dylan was five and Mallory lost sight of him and went screaming his name in the woods around the playground. Turns out he’d been sitting inside one of those plastic slide contraptions while Mallory and Angel had an argument, and had dozed off. The effect of that day had caused her to start drinking earlier than usual. She should have just checked the damn slide.

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose, where a headache is starting to throb. “He’s probably being a rebel.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s fourteen years old. He’s hiding in someone’s car smoking pot or something. I’ll ground him for life when he turns up.”

“That doesn’t sound like Dylan. And you don’t sound worried.”

“Case, it’s only . . . 10:30. He’s probably just cutting class.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why, did he say something?”

“Not really, he’s just seemed distant. I tried to ruffle his hair this morning, and he ducked me.”

“He’s a teenager, not a four-year-old.”

“I know, but he never used to mind.”

“Just when you get used to kids, they change.”

“You don’t have to tell me that, it’s just—”

“Casey, look. I have to go. Call his cell and tell him to call us or he’s grounded forever.”

“I called it. Straight to voice mail.”

“See, he shut off his phone, which means he’s up to mischief. If he were dead in a ditch somewhere, it would ring. Anyway, he’s not dead in a ditch, because I drove him to school.”

“Not funny.”

“I didn’t say it was. Look, call me when he turns up, I really have to go.”

“Okay. Well. Bye, I guess.”

I guess. Casey’s classic hint, leaving the door open a crack, wanting me to walk through it and get into a long conversation. I guess means, Wait, don’t hang up, or Don’t walk away.

“He’s fine. He’s a boy being a boy. We’ll kill him later.”

She says “Bye” in a small voice that makes her sound like she’s twelve, a habit that sends a spark of irritation into my gut.

I’ve got ninety minutes to call mall managers before lunch with my father, the philanthropist, which means ninety minutes to