Page 38 of The Thinnest Air
She looks away for a moment, pulling in a taut breath before clearing her throat. “He’s on paid administrative leave pending the outcome of an internal investigation. I’m not allowed to give out any information beyond that, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
Ma’am?
I’m easily ten years younger than this woman.
“Wait, what?” I laugh because this woman has to be joking. “I just talked to him yesterday. I’ve been working with him every day this week. What the hell happened?”
“Like I said, I’m not at liberty to share that with you, ma’am.”
My fists tighten. “I’m Meredith Price’s sister, and I’ve been—”
“Again, I’m sorry. I can’t share anything with you at this time.” Her compassion, which I’m convinced was nonexistent in the first place, is replaced with impatience the second the phone rings. She swivels her chair away from me, snatching the receiver and cradling it on her shoulder as she plugs her other ear with a finger.
I’ve been stonewalled.
Storming outside, I order another cab, chewing the inside of my lip as I wait on a nearby park bench next to a weathered bronze statue of a beaming police officer holding hands with two grinning children.
Beneath it is a plaque, engraved with the words CHIEFEDWARDPRICE. THANKYOU FOR35 YEARS OFDEDICATEDSERVICE.
Sneering, I exhale. Meredith told me once that Andrew was Glacier Park born-and-bred and that the Prices were a well-respected family in this area. I’m willing to bet money that Edward Price was Andrew’s father and that the Glacier Park police take care of their own.
Small town departments usually do.
The thin blue line isn’t reserved only for those with badges and guns; it extends to their loved ones as well. At least that’s what one of my regulars told me at the shop one day. A twenty-year veteran of the NYPD, that man had stories for days and little time for bullshit.
My kind of guy.
Scrolling through my seldom-used social media accounts, I see someone’s started a website called FindMeredithPrice.com, encouraging followers to use hashtags like #findmeredith and #whereismeredithprice to raise awareness.
I peruse the photos and posts. The outpouring of sympathy is appreciated, but sharing a post from the comfort of your sofa isn’t going to find my sister. If these people truly cared, they’d spend less time surfing Facebook and more time actually looking for her. I bet when they lay their heads on their little pillows tonight in their cozy houses with locked doors, my sister will be the last person they’re thinking about.
People might care, but only ever for a moment.
Down the road a Yellow Cab barrels this way, coming to a short stop in front of the station.
“Don’t they usually give you a bus ticket or something?” the middle-aged driver asks. He’s easily fifty pounds overweight, his salt-and-pepper hair in desperate need of a haircut. Clearly not a local.
“I realize I’m dressed in all black and I look like I haven’t slept or had a good meal in days, but I assure you I’m not an inmate.” I roll my eyes as I climb into the back seat.
He lifts a thick-knuckled hand. “Sorry. Little cabdriver humor. I pick up a lot of folks from here. County jail is just behind the station. Where you headed?”
“Twenty-Two Spring Grove Lane,” I say, reciting a cute little address that has no business belonging to an enormous, dark mansion.
“Ah. Nice area.” He flicks on his blinker. “Then again, this entire town is nice. Not a rough neighborhood in sight. You know, years ago they had an older part of town, smaller houses and such. The developers, they tore them all down, put up a bunch of fancy McMansions.”
I hate that word—McMansion. Everyone who uses that word thinks they’re being clever and witty when they’re really being banal and unoriginal.
I peer out the window, silently wallowing in how much I loathe small talk.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asks, punching the brakes at the next light. My hands brace against the back of the front seat so I don’t end up in his lap. I should probably wear a seat belt.
“What gave it away?”
Checking my phone and debating whether or not to fake a phone call to get out of this painfully stale conversation, I scroll through my Internet history and pull up the Glacier County Assessor page, the one I used to find the names of all Meredith’s neighbors.
On a whim, I type in Ronan’s name and press enter.
A single listing is presented on the next page. A modest ranch—by GP standards anyway—with cedar shingle siding and a one-car garage. It doesn’t look like the typical abodes that are so prevalent in this pretentious city, but the address is local.
