“And like I said, I’m very sorry,” Danny said. “But we received a complaint—”
“A complaint?” Minna repeated.
“I didn’t do anything,” Caroline said simultaneously. But she swayed slightly, and Minna had to steady her.
Danny looked at his partner—Minna assumed the guy with the acne scars was his partner—for help. When he didn’t say anything, Danny went on, “A woman named Adrienne Cadiou got in contact with the station. Apparently she’s been having trouble with harassing phone calls. Sometimes thirty in a day. You know anything about that?”
“She’s a liar,” Caroline said quickly. Then, to Minna, “Get me a drink, Minna.”
Minna didn’t move. The name was familiar to her, but it took her a second to place it. Then she did, and she realized. “Mom,” she said and brought her hands to her forehead. There were explosions of pain behind her eyeballs. She thought of the Fourth of July when she and Danny had snuck out of Lauren Lampert’s party to make out on the wooden raft in the middle of Gedney Pond. What had happened? She opened her eyes again and the colors dissipated.
“She’s lying, Minna, I’ve never even spoken to the woman, I—”
“All the calls originated from this number,” Danny said, interrupting her. Caroline went quiet.
Christ. Her mom probably had no idea that people had caller ID. That phone calls could be tracked.
Minna felt like laughing or crying or both. “All right,” she said to Danny. “What now?”
“Well . . . ” Danny turned to his partner again, but then something began beeping and Acne Scars yanked a phone out from his waistband. “It’s Rogers,” he said, and then he turned his back to Minna and Caroline, speaking words too quietly and rapidly for Minna to make out. People were still watching them, whispering, doing a bad job of pretending not to stare. Minna wanted to scream at them to get out, to go get sauced in the dining room like normal guests.
“I’m sorry for all the trouble,” Danny said for the third time, and Minna nearly slapped him. “It looks like she wants to press charges.”
“Charges?” Caroline repeated, as though she’d never heard the word. She clawed at Minna’s arm. “The drink, Minna,” she said urgently.
“You can’t arrest her.” Minna was speaking as forcefully as she could while still whispering. “Are you crazy?”
“I’m not going to cuff her,” Danny said with a short sigh, as if Minna were the one being unreasonable. “After the service is over, maybe you or your brother can drive her into town. We can talk about what’s what when we get there.”
“We haven’t seen Trenton in hours,” Minna said, seizing on Danny’s suggestion that Trenton drive as if she could prove the absurdity of the whole complaint. “And he’s not allowed behind the wheel of a car, anyway.”
Caroline teetered again, and Minna steadied her. “Where’s Trenton?” Caroline said. It was like she had somehow delayed the effect of the alcohol she must have consumed; now it was hitting her all at once. “Did he see my speech?”
“She can’t come down to the station,” Minna said. “Look at her. And don’t say you’re sorry again.”
“Trenton! Trenton!” Caroline’s eyes were wide with panic. She was gripping Minna’s arm so tightly, Minna was sure she was leaving marks. “Minna, where did Trenton go? We’re burying Dad this afternoon. We have to bury the ashes . . . ”
Danny’s partner finished his conversation. He pivoted and flipped shut his phone. “Rogers is on his way,” he said. His voice was surprisingly high pitched and did not at all match his face.
“He’s on his way over here?” Danny said.
Caroline seized her opportunity. She lurched forward, nearly upsetting a chair; before Danny could stop her, she had barreled around him and passed into the hall.
“There’s been a development.” Acne Scars barely registered Caroline’s departure. “Vivian Wright’s cell phone went on an hour ago.”
Danny went still, like a deer listening for danger. “Someone found it?” he said.
Acne Scars shook his head. “She sent a text,” he said, “to a 516 number.” He turned to Minna. His eyes were very shiny, and his lips wet. “Registered to one Trenton Walker.”
TRENTON
Trenton still felt woozy, even after puking twice. He splashed cold water on his face, getting his shirt collar all wet in the process. He didn’t care. In the medicine cabinets he found a few miscellaneous toiletry items that Minna had skipped over or missed, among them a half-used tube of toothpaste and a travel-size bottle of mouthwash. He scrubbed his teeth and tongue with his finger, nearly puking again. Then he rinsed four times with mouthwash. The whole time, he was expecting the ghost to start badgering him—hurry up, please Trenton, you promised me—but she was, uncharacteristically, quiet.
By then, Katie had texted again. You didn’t tell me you were having a party.
Before he could write back and correct her—not a party, a memorial service—she had texted again. Where are you?
The room was still revolving a bit. Trenton eased the bathroom door open and peeked into the hall, which was crowded with people—all of them were shuffling slowly out of the living room in unison, like zombies gearing up for attack. Minna had booted up the speakers, and soft music intermingled with the sound of murmured voices and repressed laughter. Someone had farted.
Trenton had missed the whole service.
Mrs. Anderson, his first-grade English teacher, spotted him and waved. Trenton ducked quickly back into the bathroom and closed the door.
Go toward the music, Trenton texted. I’ll watch 4 u.
This is the worst party I’ve ever been 2, she texted back.
The song was an acoustic version of “Born to Run,” by Bruce Springsteen. Trenton had to admit: Minna was a genius for picking it. Trenton’s dad was a Bruce fanatic, partly, Minna said, because Richard Walker identified with his story: the everyday, working-class guy who makes it big on his own steam. Trenton remembered being five or six years old and sitting in the passenger seat of his dad’s new Mercedes, summertime, windows down, sunlight streaming so brightly through the windshield it was practically blinding, the bass reverberating so hard through the dashboard Trenton could feel it in his teeth. And Richard was singing along, and drumming with one hand on the wheel, and Trenton had felt very old, then: like his father’s best friend.