Chapter 11

True to their word,the McKeesport Police Department sends over a copy of the entire Heather Ryan case file. Accustomed to being stalled, stonewalled, and stiffed in response to public records requests, both Maisy and Jordana greet the tower of boxes with squeals of surprise. To the courier’s undisguised amusement, Maisy hops up and down and claps her hands.

“Keep acting like a high school cheerleader, and you’re going to end up in a viral video,” Jordana warns ominously.

Maisy tips the delivery person, who is kind enough to help them lug the boxes into Maisy’s dining room before he leaves.

“There’s no such thing as bad publicity,” Maisy reminds her producer.

“That old chestnut is PSM.”

“PSM?”

“Pre-social media. Believe me, bad publicity definitely exists now.” Jordana breaks into a smile. “But you bopping around like a little kid is too cute to be bad publicity.”

Maisy throws back her head and laughs, then fists her hands on her hips and surveys the work ahead of her. “I’ll get started on these boxes while you finish editing the interview with Diana. How’s it going with that?”

Jordana blows out a long, exasperated breath that ruffles her face-framing curtain bangs. “I’m going to be honest. It’s kind of boring.”

“A sixteen-year-old girl vanished in the woods. How can that possibly be boring?”

“Yeah, and Diana talked about going to church and taking care of her sisters. I’m not trying to run Diana down. But this interview has no pizzazz. There’s no hook. This isn’t going to go viral.”

“Maybe I need to dig out the cheerleader costume I wore to Naya’s Halloween party one year and film some videos to promote it,” she jokes as she plops down in the chair across from Jordana.

They’d recorded Diana’s interview two days earlier in a tiny conference room that Jordana converted into a makeshift temporary recording studio by hanging sound-absorbing panels on the walls. Maisy’s offered more than once to rent a proper podcasting space. She has the money now that the television station has finally bought her out of her contract. But Jordana claims she enjoys working out of Maisy’s townhouse. Maisy wonders whether the younger woman doesn’t want her to sink the money into a studio because she may not stick around.

Maisy won’t fault her if she decides to do something else. She’s in early twenties, after all. About to graduate with the whole shiny world ahead of her. And working on a podcast with a woman of a certain age as your only coworker isn’t the most glamorous way to launch your adult life.

Her musing about her producer’s life choices is interrupted when she realizes Jordana is watching her with an expectant expression. “Sorry, sugar. I missed that.”

“I said Diana might come across as hard or brittle.” She hesitates. “I don’t want to edit the interview to soften her. Unless you think I should?”

She waves a hand. “We knew she was the straightforward, factual one. That’s why we’re using her interview to set the stage. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not saying we need to have a big reveal in every episode, but ….” She trails off and rubs the heel of her hand against her forehead.

“You may have been spoiled last season since we started off with an interview with a woman who insisted her husband hadn’t committed suicide but had, in fact, been thrown out a window to his death.”

“I know investigations aren’t all excitement.”

Maisy narrows her eyes. “Do you, though?”

“Yes,” she insists.

“The slow build is a thing, sugar.” Maisy pats her arm. “Besides, I’m not worried.”

“Why not?”

She smiles. One thing she’s learned from her decades in television journalism is that people love nothing more than to prove their friends wrong. It’s impossible to overestimate the appeal of a gotcha.

“Because Diana’s insistence that they were this happy, normal family before Heather’s disappearance will be like catnip to people who know better.”

Jordana furrows her brow. “I don’t understand. You think they weren’t? Diana’s lying?”

“I don’t think she lied, at least not deliberately. But everyone’s got their secrets, Jordana. Nothing’s as picture-perfect as it seems. People who knew the Ryans will hear Diana describe their idyllic life before Heather disappeared and will think she’s either lying or deluded. And I’ll bet you peaches to peanuts someone’ll either call in or email us a tip to let us know what life in the Ryan household in the mid-90s was really like.”

Jordana perks up at the thought. “I hope you’re right.” Then she gives Maisy a sidelong look. “Peaches to peanuts? Really?”

“It’s like dollars to donuts, only Southern. And more delicious.”

“I think you make up half of these Southern sayings.”

“I most certainly do not.” This one, however, is a pure Maisy Farley creation. She’s going to have to remember to use it regularly. It’s some of her better work.

“Hmm.” The younger woman seems unconvinced.

Maisy flashes her brightest smile. “I’ll go ahead and start on the files while you finish editing the episode.”

Jordana holds Maisy’s gaze a moment longer. Then she shakes her head, settles her noise-cancelling headphones over her ears, and queues up her editing software. As she returns to her work, Maisy hears her mutter, “peaches to peanuts” under her breath.

Maisy smothers her smile. She’s glad she’s assuaged her producer’s worry, and she believes what she said. In every investigation she can recall, when she’s turned over the rocks, creepy crawly things have skittered out from underneath. There’s no reason to believe this one will be any different.

A sudden chill races along her bare arms, like an invisible spider scuttling across her skin. She shivers, grabs her sweater from the back of her chair, and shoves her arms into it. Then she puts all thoughts of critters firmly out of mind, opens the nearest box, and pulls out the topmost folder. Let’s see what crawls out from under these rocks.