Page 21 of The Missing Half

At the end of my shift nine hours later, I’m walking by Brad’s open office door when I hear my name. I turn to see him sitting behind his desk.

“Hey,” he says. “You have a minute?”

I step into his office. “What’s up?”

“You mind closing the door?”

I close it and then sit in one of the chairs facing his desk. Like Funland itself, Brad’s office is a relic of the past. The faux-wood-paneled walls and the rough gray carpet are fading to a monochromatic beige. His desk is a mess of papers, and boxes of files line the floorboards. A grinning decal of Rocky the raccoon, our Funland mascot, peels from the wall over Brad’s head. Rocky’s dressed in the same colors as my uniform, a red-and-yellow-striped shirt with a matching cap.

“I noticed you come in for your shift earlier,” Brad begins.

“Oh. Shit. Yeah, sorry I was late. The bus took longer than usual.”

He waves a hand. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I, um, I’m sorry, Nic, but I happened to overhear you on the phone.”

“Oh.” It would’ve been when I called Wyler. It was the first thing I did when I got out of Jenna’s truck. He didn’t answer, so I left a message.

“I could be making this up—I seem to be losing my hearing in my old age—but I thought I heard you say Detective Wyler’s name.”

When Kasey went missing, my parents all but disappeared with her. My mom into her drinking and then eventually into her new family in Florida. My dad into denial, silence. In those crucial first few weeks, Brad and his wife Sandy were the scaffolds holding up my crumbling family. The two of them organized search parties and printed flyers with Kasey’s face, posting them on every telephone pole between Mishawaka and Grand Rapids. And unlike the rest of our friends and neighbors, who stopped coming by and calling around the six-month point, Brad and Sandy never did. The Andrewses are the closest thing I have to family outside my own blood.

Still, I hadn’t meant for anyone to overhear me.

“Nic?” he says. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” If he’s already heard Wyler’s name, it won’t take much for him to put the rest together. Plus, it has suddenly occurred to me that Brad could be a resource. He and Sandy were there throughout it all. Sandy was in and out of our house every day, delivering food from the meal train she’d organized. Brad spent almost every evening in the garage with my dad, drinking beer and talking about the investigation. He would’ve had more wherewithal throughout the whole thing than me or my parents. He might remember things we don’t.

Finally, I say, “I’ve been looking into Kasey’s disappearance.”

“Oh. Jesus, Nic, I don’t know what to say.” Brad studies my face. “Do you think this is—I don’t wanna sound, you know—but do you think this is the best idea, with everything you’ve got going on?”

“I’m fine,” I say. I can’t look directly at him. His expression of sympathy is too much to bear.

“Does your dad know?”

“No. And please don’t tell him. This may all amount to nothing, and, well, you know how he is.”

Since Kasey’s disappearance, my dad’s adopted a confoundingmix of sentimentality and denial. The home where she and I grew up, the one where only he now lives, has hardly changed at all over the years. He hasn’t gotten one new piece of furniture or swapped out one picture from the wall. I avoid going there because it’s like walking back in time. And yet, he can’t even say her name. I let it slip during Christmas dinner one year and his eyes blurred over. “It’s been another cold one,” he’d said, as if he hadn’t even heard.

Brad lifts his palms. “I get it. I won’t. But you know, Nic, I care about you too. Sandy and I’ve known you since you were three hours old. I worry about you. You’ve had a rough few years topped off by a rough few months. Are you sure this is the smartest thing for you to be doing right now?”

“No offense, Brad,” I say, “but I’m doing it whether you think it’s smart or not.”

He lets out a small rueful laugh. “Understood. In that case, then, is there anything I can do to help?”

I fill with a stunned sort of gratitude. If I’d known this conversation was coming, I could’ve predicted the pitying smiles and words of caution. His support is a nice surprise. “Actually, yeah. You know how the police always said whoever took Kasey would have known her?”

Brad clears his throat. After the investigation fizzled, we never did this, never dissected what happened that summer. He’s wide open compared to my dad, but even so, our tragedy is a heavy thing to hold. “I remember they said it would be someone on the outskirts of her life. He would’ve known her, but not necessarily the other way around.”

“Do you remember the police ever mentioning any names in particular?” I say. “Anyone they were looking into?”

“I don’t think so. Not that I can remember. Why do you ask?”

“I learned there was a man that summer, someone who worked nearby the record store and…” The words turn to stone in my mouth. It’s unbearable to say the rest out loud, and by the look on Brad’s face, I know I don’t have to. “Does the name Steve McLean mean anything to you?”

For a moment, he’s so still, I’m not sure he’s heard me.

“Brad?”

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