Page 50 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

Tears rolled down my cheeks. I knew I’d won. I knew my threats had scared her off. But the price of victory was more pain than I could bear.

THIRTY

The next few days were torture as I watched my father get more and more agitated. But he didn’t say a word about what was bothering him. Lizzie didn’t notice, and I, of course, didn’t ask.

Three days after my showdown with Connie, the two of us came home from school, and he was sitting in the living room with a pitiful look on his face that I couldn’t ignore.

“Dad, are you all right?” I said.

He gave me a perfunctory head nod.

“No, you’re not,” Lizzie said. “What’s the matter? Is it Grandpa?”

“Connie’s gone,” he said, choking out the words.

“Gone where?” Lizzie asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I hadn’t heard from her since we got back from the city on Sunday, so this afternoon I went over to her house. The Mustang’s not in the driveway. I have a key, so I went inside. It’s empty.”

“What do you mean empty?” I said.

“Her clothes, her things, her suitcases, her art supplies—all gone. The only things that are there are the landlord’s crap furniture and a few of my ...” He stopped himself. Why tell your teenage daughters about the clothes you have hanging in your new girlfriend’s closet? Some details are better left unsaid.

“Did she leave a note?” Lizzie asked.

He shook his head.

Lizzie pressed on. “Did you call the cops?”

“And say what? I met this woman two months ago. And now she’s gone.”

“She’s not gone,” Lizzie insisted. “She’s missing.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but I don’t think people who go missing pack up all their shit. Connie is a free spirit. It sounds like she just took off.”

“Why would she do that?” Lizzie said.

“That’s what I keep asking myself,” Dad said. “We were planning a little ski trip after Christmas.”

“Maybe somebody kidnapped her,” Lizzie said, picking up the phone. “I think we should call the cops.”

“Don’t!” I yelled. “Nobody kidnapped her. She left on her own, and she’s not coming back. Now hang up the phone and sit down.”

Dead silence. Lizzie did as she was told, and they both sat there gaping at me.

“I hate to be the one to tell you, but Connie Gilchrist was not the person she said she was.” I took a deep breath and dropped my voice. “She’s an ex-convict.”

“That’s insane,” my father said. “Where did you hear a cockamamie story like that?”

I held up my hand. “Don’t move.” I went upstairs to my room and came back with the LexisNexis report. “It’s all in here. Connie is a predator, Dad. She preys on grieving widowers and then bleeds them dry. There are three that we know of.”

I handed my father the printout. “You read it,” he said, passing it to Lizzie. “I don’t think I can.”

For the next fifteen minutes she read it out loud, word by unbelievable word. By the time she was finished, the three of us were drained.

“Where did you get that?” my father asked.

“They have this legal research database in the library. I didn’t know how to use it. Beth Webster helped me.”

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