Page 8 of The Thinnest Air
He’s too pretty, too smooth, too green to be here. There are no dark circles under his eyes, no yellow pallor to his skin to suggest he decompresses with a six-pack of Coors Light every evening.
“How many missing persons cases has he solved?” I ask.
“Excuse me?” Andrew takes offense at my question.
“He’s standing around sipping coffee. Why isn’t he out asking questions?”
“He spent all day yesterday talking to people. Until he has more leads, there’s not much he can do.” He keeps his voice low, as if me scrutinizing the well-rested detective assigned to my sister’s case would reflect poorly on him.
Too bad for him. I don’t give a damn what people think.
My jaw tightens. “He needs to gofindthe leads. The leads aren’t going to find him. They’re not just going to land in his lap. For Christ’s sake, this is hisjob.”
“Calm down.”
I purse my lips until I can trust what’s about to come out of them.
“It doesn’t bother you that everyone’s just standing around like they’re waiting for the phone to ring?” I ask, knowing full well I’m overreacting, but I expected to see more bustle, more frenzy. The lack of frenetic energy among the ones who are supposed to be finding my sister only intensifies my anxiety.
Andrew hooks my elbow a little too abruptly, pulling me into an empty hallway off the kitchen, away from the horde of uniformed do-nothings.
“There are people at the station fielding calls on a dedicated tip line.” His lips pinch as he exhales, and he keeps his voice low. “Meredith’s picture is being broadcast on every local news station in the area, as well as dozens of national programs. They’ve dusted her car for prints. They’ve gone through her cell phone. I was at the police station forhoursyesterday, telling them everything they could possibly want to know about her, right down to the cherry-shape birthmark on her left ass cheek. So if you want to sit here and act like nobody’s doing anything, if you think you could do a better job, then be my fucking guest.”
Andrew has never sworn at me before. He’s never scowled or squinted or grabbed my arm so tight, his hands trembling.
“She disappeared into thin air, Greer,” he says, stepping away. His hands lift and fall with a hopeless slap at his sides. “They’ve got nothing. They’ve got nothing to work with. We’re all just ... doing the best we can.”
Folding my arms across my chest, I study his face, though I’m not sure what I’m looking for. A man with vast wealth and endless resources could make a person disappear without a trace if he wanted to, though last I knew, they were both equally crazy about each other, still trucking along like he wasn’t just using her for sex and she wasn’t just using him to fill the void of never knowing her father, never knowing what it was like to have a reliable, responsible adult take care of her.
I had finally been starting to accept the fact that he might be good for her, that she needed the stability and adoration he offered, never having experienced those before.
Detective McCormack appears from around the corner, and Andrew follows my gaze in that direction.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “We just got a call into the tip line. I’m going to head back to the station, call them back, and ask a few more questions. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”
My ears perk, my focus alternating between the two of them, neither of whom seems particularly hopeful. Maybe it’s a man thing, not wanting to invest in hope.
“Of course.” Andrew crosses his cashmere-covered arms, his tone sounding more like that of a concerned father accepting responsibility for a runaway teen daughter than a spouse beside himself with grief. “Keep me posted.”
“Greer Ambrose.” I introduce myself, though I keep my hands tucked tight across my chest. “Meredith’s sister.”
Detective McCormack studies my face, and I unfairly resent that he looks like the nicest guy in America. I bet he was an Eagle Scout. I bet he can tie impossible knots and light fires with flint, and I bet he can set up a tent in three minutes flat. I bet he had a nice childhood with nice parents, and I’m sure he’s a nice guy.
But it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a friendly face to find my sister.
“Ronan,” he says, brows lifting. I’m not sure if the first-name-basis thing is an attempt to spark the beginning of some kind of interpersonal relationship or if he does this with everyone. “You have a second?”
I wish he were older, with thick white hair and a bushy mustache. I wish he had a take-no-shit attitude and overflowing cabinets of solved case files, awards plaques on his walls—something to give me hope.
But he’s just a regular guy who probably settled for the first job he was offered straight out of college and never left.
I bet he’s never known tragedy, never had the one person he loved more than anything else just ... vanish.
I follow Ronan outside, where we stand beneath a two-story portico that magnifies each shuffle of our feet and every slow, exasperated exhalation.
“When you get a chance, I need you to come down to the station for a DNA swab,” he says. “We need a family reference sample—standard procedure.”
My head pounds. “Oh, I see. So in case you find a dead body, you can compare the DNA to mine to see if it’s her.”
