Chapter 19

Maisy spots Jordanacoming out of the lecture hall and beeps her horn to catch her attention. Jordana turns her head toward the sound, then says goodbye to her friends and sprints toward Maisy’s vehicle.

She throws herself into the passenger seat with a small, celebratory whoop. “That was my last final. It’s over!”

“Don’t you want to go out with your friends and celebrate?” Maisy gestures toward the group of students walking across the green.

“No, most of them still have another exam or two. Besides, we’re going out to Dead Man’s Hollow today.”

“It’ll still be there tomorrow.”

Jordana turns and gives her a serious look. “I want to do my job. I know you think I’m missing out on some sort of college experience, but I’m not, okay?”

Maisy raises her hands in mock surrender and notes, not for the first time, that Jordana seems to have acquired some of Sasha’s single-mindedness. “Okay, okay.”

“Anything interesting happen while I was in class?”

“I got a call from Amy Marino this morning.”

“What did she have to say?” Jordana looks up from buckling her seatbelt as Maisy puts the car into gear.

“She talked to Rich last night and got him to admit that there was a fight. Apparently, he’s the one who got everyone to conform their statements, but he insists the fight wasn’t relevant, so there was no point in getting anybody in trouble.”

They exchange a look.

“And the guy?”

“Same answer.”

“Yikes, bro actively interfered with the investigation into his sister-in-law’s disappearance. I wonder what the mood is at the Marino house today?” Jordana muses.

“Judging by the tone of Amy’s voice, she’s mad as a wet hen.”

Jordana nods at that, then says, “Hey, let’s make a stop before we drive out to the hollow.”

“Did you change your mind about lunch?” Maisy is ever-hopeful.

“No. We’re gonna pop in at my old high school.”

She glances at her passenger. “Feeling nostalgic?”

“What? No. I was on the yearbook staff. There’s an archive of old yearbooks. We’re going to ask to borrow the one for 1994.”

A grin breaks across Maisy’s face. “You’re a genius.”

“I know. I’ll do the talking.”

When they arrive at the school, Maisy parks and follows the younger woman’s lead as they navigate building security and the front office staff. Watching Jordana charm her way into the building, Maisy’s tickled to realize the college student not only has Sasha’s determination, she has some of Maisy’s charisma and extroversion, too.

They stick their name tags to their blouses and wind their way through the mostly empty halls and up a staircase. Jordana pauses in front of a closed door and gives it a quiet knock before pushing it open and sticking her head in.

“Mrs. Marshall?” she calls.

Maisy hears a woman inside exclaim in surprise. “Jordana Morgan, is that you? Get in here, young lady!”

Jordana laughs and pulls Maisy into the room alongside her. A woman with thick dark hair shot through with silver streaks pushes a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses up to the crown of her head as she hurries from a desk that holds a massive computer monitor to cross the room and envelop Jordana in a hug. Then she stands back and holds her at arm’s length to inspect her.

“Look at you.” Her eyes trace an invisible line on the ceiling as she counts off the years. “Did you graduate college last year?”

“I would have, but I did the five-year bachelors/masters program, so I just came from my last final.”

The woman beams. “Congratulations! Now, if I remember correctly you planned to major in communications.”

“I did, with a concentration in journalism.”

“Do you have a job lined up?”

Jordana uses the opportunity to turn and introduce Maisy. “Actually, I already have a job. I’ve been working since last year as the producer of the Farley Files. This is my boss, Maisy.”

“You don’t need to introduce Maisy Farley to me. It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” she says as she pumps Maisy’s right hand between both of hers. Her hands are soft and warm, and the scent of vanilla lotion wafts through the air.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Marshall,” Maisy says.

“Call me Shannon. I remember when you first came to town. You were the weather girl. You had the sweetest southern accent.”

Maisy thinks she detects a hint of an accent herself. “You’re not a native Pittsburgher either, are you, Shannon?” she asks.

“Guilty as charged. I moved here from Michigan in 1989. I started out teaching middle school, then transferred here two years later and have been here ever since.”

She turns back to Jordana. “What a coup. Producing a podcast. I can’t say I’m surprised, though. You always were so driven.”

Jordana blushes faintly.

“The podcast was Jordana’s idea,” Maisy tells the proud teacher.

“And a brilliant one at that.” Excitement sparks in Shannon Marshall’s eyes. “Is that why you’re here? The podcast?”

Maisy and Jordana exchange a look.

“Maybe,” Jordana says. “I was hoping we could borrow a copy of the 1994 yearbook.”

She waves a hand toward the row of metal shelves lining the far wall. One section is filled from ceiling to floor with yearbooks. “Help yourself.”

As Jordana runs a finger over the hardback spines, her former teacher wonders, “What could our yearbook have to do with a missing girl all the way out in McKeesport?” she wonders aloud.

Jordana returns clutching a dark green book to her chest and flashes Maisy a look. Maisy nods for her to go ahead.

“This hasn’t been on the podcast yet, so I’m telling you this in confidence,” she tells the yearbook advisor.

“Understood.”

“We received information that there was a fight that night at Dead Man’s Hollow. Between the McKeesport kids and some students from Allderdice.”

Shannon wrinkles her forehead. “I don’t recall any rumors about a fight. You know the yearbook staff, Jordana—the kids forget I’m here and gossip among themselves when they’re working. But I don’t remember hearing about a fight at Dead Man’s Hollow.” Her face falls. “Of course, we had a crisis of our own to deal with at the end of that school year, so it’s not surprising that our kids wouldn’t have been as wrapped up in Heather Ryan’s disappearance as everybody else in the city was.”

“What kind of crisis?” Maisy asks.

“We had a student go missing that weekend, too. A junior, Andre Newport. He was a good kid. I had him in my second period English class.”

“He went missing Memorial Day weekend? The same weekend as Heather?” Jordana eyes Mrs. Marshall.

“Yes, the same weekend. It didn’t get much media coverage. People were so focused on Heather’s disappearance.”

“Missing white girl syndrome,” Jordana mutters under her breath, but her words are loud enough for her former teacher to hear.

She twists her mouth and gives them a knowing look. “Exactly. It was criminal the way they swept Andre’s disappearance under the rug.” She hurries to add, “I’m not saying that they shouldn’t have been looking for Heather Ryan. Of course they should have. But they should have been looking for Andre too, and they didn’t.”

“He never turned up?” Maisy asks.

“No.” She shakes her head sadly. “His poor mother. The police told her they had information that he’d been involved in a gang, and I assure you he was not. But there was a Gang Peace Summit that weekend and it seems like everyone was looking for a convenient explanation. So they decided he must have gone to the summit, gotten into trouble with a rival gang afterward, and hightailed it out of town.” Her eyes blaze. “Even though nobody actually saw him there, and there were exactly zero reports of violence related to the summit. After several years, his mother went to court to have him declared dead. She passed away herself a few years back, and I guess the memory of Andre died with her.”

Jordana flips through the junior class photos until she reaches the Ns. She turns the book to show Maisy a picture of a handsome boy with deep dimples. His hair is styled in a tight fade and a diamond stud sparkles in his ear. He’s grinning widely.

Shannon Marshall leans over and studies the picture, too. “His smile was infectious.”

“Was he flirtatious?” Maisy asks.

The teacher gives her a surprised look. “I suppose you could say that. He was chatty. Especially with the girls. Why?”

The thrum of energy that courses through Maisy when she’s hot on a story is zinging wildly. Her hands tingle. “Because our sources also say that the last time anyone saw Heather Ryan, she was flirting with a Black boy from Allderdice.”

The room falls silent as the three women consider the implications of Heather and Andre having been together the night they both vanished. Finally, Jordana clears her throat.

“We’re going to show Andre’s picture to some people. If we can confirm that he was talking to Heather in Dead Man’s Hollow, can we come back and record an interview with you?” she asks.

The teacher lowers her chin and looks at Jordana and Maisy with a serious expression. “Absolutely.”

Maisy waits until they’ve left the high school building and are back in the car to caution Jordana.

“Don’t get too excited. It might be a coincidence.”

Jordana pauses in the process of buckling her seatbelt to shoot her a disbelieving look. “You think it’s a coincidence a guy matching the description of the boy Heather was talking to before she disappeared also disappeared?”

“We don’t know that he matches the description.”

“He generally matches the description. But sure, we’ll have to confirm it. We can show the picture to Amy and anyone else who agrees to talk to us.”

“It’s possible there’s a connection,” Maisy agrees. “But we can’t get ahead of ourselves. We have to focus on this story.”

If there’s one thing she learned working in television journalism, it’s that reporters who follow rabbit trails get distracted. Single-minded purpose gets the story.

“So Andre Newport doesn’t deserve justice?” Jordana presses.

“Of course he does. If his disappearance is related to Heather’s, it’ll come out in our investigation. And if it’s not related, we’ll cover his case for our third season. You have my word. But right now, we’re investigating the disappearance of Heather Ryan. One thing at a time.”

“Okay. I get it,” Jordana says grudgingly.

“Did you get ahold of those two women yesterday—Lynn and Michelle?”

“I left them both messages. You know, sometimes it takes people a few days to decide whether they want to go on the air.”

Maisy nods. Earning the trust of a witness is a delicate dance, requiring patience and empathy. Luckily, she has both in spades. She puts the car in gear and pulls out of the space.

“Our next order of business is to go out to Dead Man’s Hollow and see the location for ourselves.”

“I have an idea about that. Like you said, Dead Man’s Hollow isn’t going anywhere. We should save that and do Amy’s interview there. Imagine the emotional impact of having her tell the story of that night in the place where she last saw her sister.”

Maisy squeals. “I love it! We’ll have to run it by Amy beforehand. I don’t want to ambush her.”

“We could stop by and talk to her now,” Jordana says casually.

Maisy’s not fooled. “And, let me guess, we could just happen to show her the yearbook while we’re there.”

“Great idea,” Jordana says wide-eyed, feigning surprise.

“It actually isn’t a half-bad idea. And maybe we can talk to Rich, too. Get some background on the fight. But not today. We need to get Kristy’s interview recorded first.”

Beside her, Jordana slumps her shoulders in silent disappointment. The gesture triggers a memory of Maisy’s own utter frustration as a newly minted graduate with a journalism degree, big goals, and endless ambition. There she was, ready to dig her teeth into a political scandal, cover breaking news, or provide in-depth analysis of key social issues. Instead, she was told she had to prove herself, then relegated to standing in front of a green screen to deliver the weather forecast while wearing a tight dress and a pretty smile. Single-minded purpose is all well and good. But Jordana’s a resource, and she’s underutilized.

“Tell you what. Kristy’s place is just around the corner from Amy’s. I’ll do the interview while you drive over and talk to Amy—and Rich, if he’s there.”

“Really?” Jordana eyes her with surprise.

“Really. Things are heating up. There are two of us, so there’s no reason you can’t do the legwork on some of this stuff while I meet with Kristy.”

Excitement gives way to concern. “Are you sure you can record without me? You won’t forget to do a mic check, right?”

Maisy casts her a sidelong glance. “Darlin’, I was recording interviews when you were learning multiplication and division. Respect your elders.”