Chapter Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Seven

Since Sky had told me I didn't have to rush to bring her the clothes, I figured I'd do what I'd planned to when I first took the case: talk to Dylan Welch's girlfriend-turned-stalking-victim, Teresa Leone. Only now that my focus had shifted to Sky, I had an entirely different set of questions.

I knew where Teresa worked—a PR firm near Copley Square called Nichols and Associates. It was walking distance from Sky's apartment building, and when I called her direct line and asked if I could come by, Teresa said, "Sure," adding, "Is this about you-know-who?"

"Partly," I said.

"Well, now I'm intrigued."

"I am, too." Though there was probably a better word for what I was feeling.

"There's a Starbucks in my lobby, with places to sit," she said. "If you get there before me, grab us a table. I'll buy us a couple of lattes."

"Decaf for me. And you don't have to buy."

"I insist," she said. "It's the least I can do."

With my purse over one shoulder and Sky's duffel bag over the other, I reached the building within ten minutes. It was a mirrored high-rise that managed to dwarf the Public Library without being obtrusive—a building designed to reflect the beauty of its neighbors. There were many architectural juxtapositions like this in Boston—the new and historic coexisting harmoniously. It wasn't like that down the Shore, where the historic district was its own separate entity. Yet one more thing to get used to, I supposed, if I decided to relocate. If.

After I found the Starbucks, I started to phone Teresa to tell her I'd arrived, but she was already sitting at a table, our two lattes in front of her, waving at me as though we were old friends. I was a little confused by all this enthusiasm, as I'd been by her insistence on buying.

I'd spoken to her only once—and it wasn't as though our conversation had been particularly enjoyable, centered, as it was, around Dylan.

Yet when I sat down, the first thing she said to me was, "I've been meaning to send you flowers or something."

She slid the decaf to me. I took a sip. "Why?"

"You scared Dylan Welch away."

"I did ?"

"One chat with you, he's never spied on me, texted me, called me, or purposefully run into me again. I'm free. I can go out with my new boyfriend without worrying about him showing up wasted and threatening to cut him." Teresa smiled. "I don't have to wear disguises anymore."

I'd thought she looked different. The last time I saw her, Teresa had on a face full of makeup, a lacquered updo, and heels—aging herself by at least a decade—all so she wouldn't be recognized by Dylan. Today she was wearing a pink T-shirt, a charcoal blazer, jeans, and boots, her hair loose. Minimal makeup. Younger, more comfortable, and, I imagined, more like herself.

"I wouldn't quite call it a chat," I said. "How did you find out about that, though?"

"Lydia called me," she said. "She said he was in rehab, he wouldn't be bothering me anymore, and that you had taught him a lesson. She apologized for him." Teresa grinned. "I don't know how you did it, but thank you."

"Well, my dog helped."

"I remember that dog."

"Everybody does."

She sipped her latte. "So what can I help you with?" she said. "Like I said, I haven't heard a word from Dylan."

"Well, he's actually been missing for the past couple of weeks."

She frowned. "Really?"

"I was hired by his mother to try and find him."

Teresa put her cup down. "Wow," she said quietly. "Poor Lydia. She must be hurting."

"She is," I said.

"I'm sorry," Teresa said. "I couldn't have imagined saying this six months ago, but I really do hope he's okay."

"I hope so, too," I said, thinking of Lydia. That pained smile. At least we know Dylan's close by…

"So you met Dylan at Harvard," I said.

"Yep."

"I'm assuming that when you were there you had a similar circle of friends."

"Well, mine was a little wider," she said. "But more or less, yes."

"I wanted to ask you about Dylan's friend, Sky Farley."

"Oh, Sky," she said. "She was everybody's friend."

"Really?"

"Yeah, we all loved her," she said. "What do you want to know?"

"I'm interested in her hobbies," I said.

"She had a ton of hobbies," she said. "That brilliant, restless mind of hers. I never quite got why she hung out with Dylan. I mean, don't get me wrong. I hung out with Dylan back then, but she was so far ahead of us in terms of intellect."

"She was a science major, right?"

"Yeah, but she was also very creative," Teresa said.

"How so?"

"I mean…Dylan kept talking about film school, right? But I always thought Sky would be the one to make it big in Hollywood."

"As a sound designer?" I asked. "Or creating CGI?"

Teresa blinked at me. "No, as an actress," she said. "She was in all the plays, and she was amazing. She could do everything from Shakespearean tragedies to sketch comedy—and she could burst into tears at the drop of a hat."

My eyes widened. "Really?"

She sipped her latte. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, she works with Dylan at Gonzo now," I said.

"Yeah, I'd heard that."

"I don't know if you saw this, but there was a shooting today…"

"Oh my God. The female employee?"

I nodded slowly.

"That was Sky?"

"Yes," I said.

"Oh, no…"

"She's going to be okay." I drank some of my latte. It was very hot. "They're releasing her from the hospital in the morning."

"Thank God. I saw that story on my newsfeed today. Terrifying. I can't believe it was her ."

"I know," I said. "It seemed touch and go for a little while there. She was very lucky."

Teresa shook her head, both hands resting on the cardboard cup as though it were a crystal ball. "You're looking for Dylan, though."

"Yes," I said.

"So…does that mean you think that Dylan's disappearance and Sky's shooting might be related?"

I almost started to explain the entire situation to her but stopped myself. People like Teresa—they had an ability to make you feel as though you knew them better than you did. Like you could trust them before that trust was earned. I'm sure it was helpful in PR. It certainly was in my line of work, and I was able to recognize this because I had a similar skill set. I made sure not to take the bait.

"I'm just looking into everything at this point," I said.

She drank her latte. I drank mine.

"Why did you say ‘sound design'?" Teresa asked.

"Just…venturing a guess," I said.

"And why were you asking about Sky's hobbies? Do you think Sky's hobbies had something to do with her shooting—or with Dylan's disappearance?"

"Hey." I said it as lightly as I could. "Who's doing the investigating here—you or me?" I brought the cup to my lips and gulped down too much latte. My throat burned.

She put her cup down and laughed a little. "Sorry," she said. "I mean…I'm obviously jumping to conclusions. But I was wondering if maybe she might have pranked the wrong person."

My back stiffened. "What do you mean, ‘pranked'?"

Teresa shifted in her chair. She ran her hands through her shiny hair, pulling it back into a ponytail and letting it go. "Okay, so when we were in college," she said, "Sky used to record people and play with their voices. I think it all started for a class project, but then it just became something she liked doing. Deep-fake audio and video. You know what that is?"

I coughed. "Yes," I said. "I know what it is."

"A lot of people don't, even now. And Sky was doing it seven years ago. Just for fun."

"Was she good?" I asked.

Teresa snorted, which I took for a yes. "The one time I can ever remember her getting into trouble at school was when she created this video of one of our professors—a jerk of a guy named Dr. Stiffly."

"That was his real name?"

She nodded. "And God help you if you ever cracked a smile over it," she said.

I shook my head. "I'd have changed it if I were him."

"Same," she said. "Anyway, Sky made a video of Dr. Stiffly singing ‘I'm a Little Teapot,' with all the gestures and everything. She posted it on Instagram, and the Dean was furious. Sky wound up in front of a faculty tribunal. Nearly got kicked out of school. It was so funny, though. We all thought it was worth it."

She laughed. I tried to laugh along, waiting for the right moment to ask my next question. It took a while.

"Teresa?" I asked finally.

"Yeah?"

"Did Sky ever do prank phone calls using recorded voices?" I held my breath, waiting for the answer.

Her smile evaporated. "Not with me." She said it slowly, carefully, her entire posture changing—until I caught a hint of the frightened girl I'd met back in July.

"Okay, not with you," I said. "But with somebody else?"

"It wasn't what you'd call a prank."

"What would you call it?"

"I think Sky called it a favor," she said. "But Dylan didn't feel that way."

I looked at her. "What happened?"

"Dylan had gotten into a fight with his father. I don't even remember what it was about—there were so many. But this one was really bad. Bill threatened to cut him off completely. Dylan claimed he didn't care. Lydia was begging him to apologize, asking me if I could get to him, but I couldn't. Dylan was adamant. Plus, he was abusing Adderall, I think, which made him even more stubborn."

"So Sky came to the rescue?"

"Yep," Teresa said. "Sky patched together audio of Dylan making this eloquent apology, telling his dad how much he appreciated him, all kinds of stuff Dylan would never have dreamed of saying in real life," she said. "Then she called Bill from Dylan's phone, played him this Franken-apology. Bill was touched. All was forgiven. He even back-paid Dylan for the weeks he withheld his allowance."

"Did Dylan ever find out why?"

"Yeah, and he was furious," Teresa said. "He didn't talk to Sky for months."

"I can't really say I blame him," I said.

"I guess I can't, either," she said. "But at the time…I don't know. I felt so sorry for Sky. She was only trying to help out a friend."

"That always seems to be her motivation," I said. "But in this case, she also made sure that the friend kept his fortune."

Teresa didn't seem to be listening. "I was scared for her," she said.

"Why?"

"Sky told me that when he found out what she'd done, Dylan got this look on his face, like a wild animal. I mean…She played the apology for me, and it was beautiful. She'd actually worked really hard on it, and, I don't know…for Dylan to react that harshly, to not even take into account her motivations…"

I gaped at her. "She used those words?"

"Huh?"

"You said Sky told you that Dylan got a look on his face, ‘like a wild animal,'?" I said. "Were those the exact words she used?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Yes," Teresa said. "I'll never forget it. Years later, I saw that look and I finally knew what she was talking about. And the way she cried when she said it, you know? Sky's tough. I'd never seen her cry before that."

"Except onstage," I said. "You told me yourself. She could burst into tears at the drop of a hat."

"Well, yeah, Sunny. But that's obviously not the same thing."

An image of Sky sobbing in her hospital bed flashed through my mind, remembering the fight they'd had before Dylan's disappearance over the missing funds—the first time, according to her, that she'd ever seen him shift gears like that. The very first time. He got this look on his face…like a wild animal…

"No, it's not the same thing," I echoed back to Teresa.

I didn't mean it, though.

We talked some more, finishing up our lattes. Then I thanked Teresa for meeting with me.

"Was what I said helpful?" she asked.

"Very."

"Really?" she said. "Is this info about Sky going to help bring you closer to Dylan?"

I exhaled. "Further, actually," I said. "But that's okay."

Teresa squinted at me for several seconds, as though I was some ancient text she was trying to decipher. "You work in mysterious ways, Sunny Randall."

I gave her a smile. "I try," I said.

We said goodbye, Teresa wishing me luck in finding Dylan and me wishing her luck in staying away from him.

After she was gone, I glanced at Sky's duffel, sitting so innocently next to my chair, and then I thought about Lydia, that shred of hope in her eyes—the thought that, even if he did need to be brought to justice, at least her only son was still alive. I couldn't guarantee her that now, though. I couldn't guarantee her anything. Sky had deep-faked Dylan's voice on a phone call seven years ago, with the technology available back then—and it was so good that his own father hadn't known the difference.

Who's to say she hadn't been doing it again with Elspeth?

I put in a quick call to Blake, who reminded me that at six-thirty tonight was my standing drinks-and-catch-up with my dad at The Street Bar. "He called to remind you," Blake said. "He didn't want to bother you during the workday on your phone." Blake told me that if I was too busy, he could reschedule for me, but I said no. I needed someone to talk to about all this—someone who I knew could help me put it all together. "It actually couldn't happen at a better time," I said.

After I ended the call, I picked up the duffel and walked back to my car. I'd be going to the hospital next—not because I had any desire to see Sky Farley right now, but because her things were giving me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies.