CLEO

Cleo

THIRTEEN HOURS GONE

I sit on one of the benches in the little triangle of green across the street from Lauren's building, my brain stuck on a loop: My dad was having an affair; my dad is having an affair; he lied to my face; my mom is missing. These facts don't line up well, no matter which way I look at them, and I have tried every single angle.

Detective Wilson will certainly think the affair is suspicious. I think it is. Do I really believe it's possible that my dad did something to my mom? No. I still do not. But I've entertained the possibility. I've been willing to ask myself the question. And that has torn a hole in something—something delicate and irreplaceable.

And Bella, of all people? My dad's obnoxious assistant who is, what, five years older than I am?

I open my mom's computer on my lap. Find a compelling alternative suspect. That's what I need to do.

I head back onto the dating site, to all those little squares of subpar men who probably abduct unsuspecting women all the time. Looking at them makes me feel both better and worse. Better because these guys do seem much more likely than my dad to have done something to my mom. Worse for the exact same reason.

I cut and paste a message into each one of the chats: Hey! How are you? I move fast, so I don't second-guess my plan. Moving fast also saves me from having to reread the awkward conversations, to think again about my mom lowering herself to them. But maybe that was what happened to you when your husband cheated with someone half your age. And then your daughter acted like she wished you were dead.

After that, I shoot off a text to my mom's assistant, Jules: Can you call me? It's about my mom. It's not even 7:00 a.m., too early to be texting. But Jules will understand. She's a good person, and she loves my mom. She's got to be worried, too.

Cleo, hi! Great to hear from you! Can I call you back in a little bit? xoxo

In a little bit? And Great to hear from you! Not exactly the level of care and concern I was expecting.

Sure np, I write back. Call me when you can.

"I wouldn't have taken you for such an early bird."

When I look up, Detective Wilson is standing in front of me, eyeing me with a furrowed brow. Shit. And my mom's incriminating laptop is right there next to me on the bench, in plain sight. The detective sits down on the other side of it and gazes up Broadway, which T's in front of us at the little green. Instinctively, I shove my phone in the pocket of my hoodie but resist the urge to hide the laptop.

"How would you know if I'm an early bird or not?" It comes out more rudely than I intended. But then, she did just show up out of nowhere. "Were you following me?"

"Mmm," she hums, looking again up Broadway, still nearly empty at that early hour. "I went to your dorm this morning, but it was so early and I didn't want to wake you—thought I'd wait a bit before going up to see you. Then I saw you leave. So, technically, I did follow you here. But it wasn't premeditated."

"Oh, in that case …"

"You don't seem happy about it."

"Let's see: My mom is missing. There was blood on our floor. And now you're following me instead of finding her?"

"Fair enough." She smiles slightly. "I wanted to give you the opportunity to speak with me alone. Back there at the house—it seemed like maybe there was something on your mind. But that maybe you weren't comfortable sharing it in front of your dad."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"If you say so," she says skeptically, eyes still on Broadway.

"Do you know anything about what happened to my mom?" I ask. "I mean, isn't that the way this is generally supposed to work? You find out things and tell us?"

She nods. "Well, let's see, the blood we found is a match for your mom's type. DNA will take longer. But more than a reasonable likelihood that the blood is hers, as we suspected. And the fingerprints on the glass aren't in the system, unfortunately. I'm not surprised, but you always hope you'll get lucky. We can take comparative fingerprints from anyone we interview who develops into a suspect. They're still running you and your dad's DNA comparison. You know, for completeness." But was there an edge to the way she said that about my dad? I'm not sure. "Your mom's friend here, Lauren Pasternak, tell you anything useful?"

Of course she knows I was there to see Lauren. We're only steps from her apartment, an address the detective has probably already come across in the investigation. Still, I feel unsettled. Maybe she's suspicious of me, too. Confessing about messaging my mom's dates doesn't seem like a great idea now. But there may be a work-around.

"My mom was on some dating site called Hitch. All these guys … I mean, who knows who they are?"

"That's unusual for a married couple," she says.

I shrug, but I don't meet her eyes. "I didn't know they were separated. But you must by now. His clothes were all gone."

She nods. "We did notice that. What did your dad tell you?"

"That it was no one's fault. That nothing was set in stone." I turn to look at her now. I want her to know that I'm not an idiot. "He didn't exactly tell me about the separation on his own. He only told me after I asked him directly about his clothes. But it was apparently my mom's idea to keep it secret." I sound like I'm defending him. "She was trying to protect me, I guess, which does sound like something she would do."

Detective Wilson nods again, waits for me to return her gaze. "We can look into the online dating. But with these kinds of … It's almost always someone well known to the victim."

"Victim," I repeat, like saying the word aloud might keep it at bay.

"Of something, that's all I mean," she says, more gently now. "Only of something."

She thinks my mom is dead, though—it's the first time it sinks in. But I need her to stay focused on finding my mom alive. Because I know she's still out there. And she could be running out of time.

"It does seem like your parents were a little further along the divorce path than maybe your dad told you. According to your neighbor, Janine, your dad has a divorce lawyer who's going after some kind of inheritance."

"What?"

"You're surprised?"

"No, I mean, that's wrong," I say. "I don't know where Janine heard that, but she's wrong. He wants to work things out."

"Your mom told her."

"My mom?" I ask. "They're not even friends anymore."

"According to Janine, your mom was surprised and upset about this lawyer being brought in. Could have been it resulted in some kind of moment of conflict between her and your dad. One thing led to another, things got out of hand."

I blink quickly to head off the tears. My throat already feels scratchy. "I don't think so."

I think of his affair with Bella. I couldn't imagine what Detective Wilson would conclude if she knew about that.

"You should know—your dad did call me with some information." Detective Wilson is looking at me now in a way I really don't like. Like she feels sorry for me.

"He did?"

"He told me that you and your mom had a bit of a tough relationship. Volatile, I believe that's the word he used."

The word rings in my ears. Volatile?

"Okay," I say, because it's clear she's waiting for me to respond. Obviously, my dad was not trying to point the finger at me, even if that's exactly what he did. There has to be a reason he told the detective that. Or a context to his comments that she's not sharing.

"He specifically mentioned some recent conflict over a boy," she goes on. "He didn't get into details. That ring any bells?"

I grip the side of the bench. He told a detective about Kyle ? Is he trying to get me arrested?

"What kind of conflict?" I ask, fishing gently. I need to know exactly how much he told her.

"He said your mom didn't approve of this boy you were seeing and it ended in an argument. That you haven't spoken in months. Is that true?"

Well, at least he didn't mention the drugs.

"We got into a big fight a while ago. I went to Park Slope last night for dinner as a kind of peace offering," I say. "My mom—for sure she drives me crazy sometimes. She can be really judgmental." I cross my arms, even as I tell myself not to. "So yeah, we're fighting about things."

The detective nods, her face unreadable. "Mother-daughter shit is complicated," she says. "I get that. I don't have a daughter myself, no children. Not a life experience I'm particularly interested in, at least at the moment. I have a very immature husband and an exceptionally needy dog. But I do also have a mother. A very opinionated one. My mom and I …" She brings her fists together like two cars colliding. "Like oil and water. Things can get pretty heated." She looks at me pointedly. "In the heat of the moment, sometimes things happen that you never intended. We're human. We all fuck up."

"Are you asking me if I hurt my mom?"

" Is your mom hurt, Cleo?" She turns to me. I can't tell from her expression whether she thinks the answer might be yes—or if she's only asking because it's procedure. Maybe she needs to officially cross this off her list now that my dad added it there.

"I don't know if she's hurt." I stare straight back at her. "Because I wasn't there. But you're the one who said it's her blood on the floor. So sounds like she's probably hurt, right?"

Detective Wilson considers this response.

"Like I said, what mother and daughter aren't at each other's throats? And for the record, I don't think you were involved in this, Cleo," she says. "But I was a little taken aback that your dad volunteered that information. Seeing as how it does kind of put the focus on you. Seemed worth you and me having a conversation about it. Or worth you knowing about it—maybe that's a better way of putting it."

My mouth is so dry. Like my lips are glued shut. "Right." It's not much more than a whisper.

"Anyway." She stands, brushes off the backs of her navy slacks before heading toward Broadway. "We'll keep looking into everything, Cleo, including these guys she was dating. I promise, we are keeping our eyes wide open. But when you've been in this job as long as I have, you come to realize that the simplest explanation is usually the right one."

"And what's the simplest explanation for what happened to my mom?"

"Your dad."

When I get off the elevator, I can see that the door to the Veritas office is slightly open. I stop for a moment in the hall. I'm here for an explanation. But what if my dad has no excuse for throwing me under the bus? For telling a detective that my mom and I have a "volatile" relationship? I can't pretend that won't make him seem more guilty. That it won't also break my heart.

Inside the office, it's quiet and dark. No sign of my dad anywhere. Not in the conference room at the back or in his private office. Bella's desk at the front is bare. I walk over and pull a few of her drawers open. Empty. It looks like she doesn't work there anymore. I wonder if there could be some real connection between them. Would that make it better? You can't help who you connect with—I know that better than anybody.

"Dad!" I call out, staring at the framed posters of his movies on the walls. "Are you here?"

No response.

Where are you? I text him. I'm at your office. I thought you said you were going to work?

Oh! I'm at a breakfast with HBO. That is followed by a bunch of emojis—tired ones, exploding brain ones, tongue hanging out ones. Ones that might be cute if my mom wasn't missing or, you know, maybe dead. Is it an emergency? I can leave if you need me to …

I stare down at his text. I wonder if he and Bella are off having sex somewhere right now. I wish the possibility felt more absurd.

That's okay. We can talk later, I write back—later, as in after I have some kind of evidence that somebody other than him is responsible for my mom's disappearance.

Are you sure?

I've got to go anyway.

And I am about to go. I am. But then I find myself drifting over to his desk. I drop down into his desk chair, my hand taking hold of the mouse. I know I shouldn't. That it's a risk. But I guess I'm hoping that poking around a little will put my mind at ease. The computer comes to life, password-protected—even my not-good-with-details dad isn't that dumb. But I'm guessing his password is going to be obvious. I try his birth month, day, and year. Sure enough, the computer unlocks, email in-box already open on the screen. A subject line catches my eye— Good News!!!! I click on the email; it's from Javier Jameson, my dad's coproducer. But it's a reply, I realize, a response to an email my dad sent with that subject line a few hours ago.

What could possibly be good news right now?

I scroll down to my dad's original message at 5:45 a.m.: Kat came through with the entire thing, 2.75! I knew she would. The cash is in my account as we speak . We are full steam ahead!

Fifteen minutes later I'm in Hudson River Park, staring down into the steely water, still trembling. First my mom, and now it's like I've lost my dad, too. The world is gray and waterlogged, the humidity pressing in on my skull. I don't even remember walking to the river.

Lauren said my mom wouldn't lend my dad the money and that he was mad. And now she's missing, and he has the money he wanted? That much money. I'm pretty sure that's the kind of detail that could land him in handcuffs.

I pull out my phone and text Will: Can you meet?

A second later he replies: Sure. Where?

I respond with my location and Thank you.

You okay?

Not really.

OK. Be there soon.

It's only then that I notice the missed call, and the voice mail. A 212 number. I hit the arrow to play it.

"Hi, Cleo, it's Mark Germaine." His voice is deep and warm. Comforting. "Could you call me back when you get a moment? I'd love to see if there's anything we can do to support you." He hesitates, clears his throat. "Ruth and I have been thinking so much about you and your mom … I'm sure you know how much she means to us."

I was so busy obsessing that my mom had no Facebook friends, I forgot about all her work friends. She is beloved at her law firm—weddings and baby showers and birthdays, she's included in all of them. And my mom's law firm is one of the biggest and most powerful in the entire world—yes, I want Blair, Stevenson's help, immediately.

When I dial Mark's number, it goes straight to voice mail. "I—It's Cleo McHugh. I do need help finding my mom. Can you call me back? Please."