Page 22 of We Are All Guilty Here

Emmy heard the sharp snap of his teeth as his mouth closed. He looked at Emmy, then her father. Instinctively, she knew he was hiding something.

She asked, “Where are Madison and Cheyenne?”

“What?” he asked. “How would I know?”

“You know they’re missing.”

“Yeah, but—”

“You’ve been reading that Facebook page all night.”

“That’s not—”

“What am I going to find when I search your room?”

Jack opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it closed again. His gaze went toward the door. Carl was standing behind Gerald. “Dad, I’m a minor. They’re not allowed to talk to me without your permission.”

Carl asked, “Do you know why they’re here?”

Jack shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Son, you obviously knew the girls were missing.” Carl sounded appalled. “Why didn’t you wake me up? Madison has been my patient since she was a baby. Hannah and Paul must be terrified. You didn’t think I’d want to help look for her?”

Jack’s head tilted down. The motion had a practiced feel. “Sorry, Dad.”

Emmy looked at Gerald. He was taking in the room. The posters. The state of disarray. The vitriolic posts on the Facebook page. He didn’t have to step close to read what was being said. His cataract surgery had given him sharper vision than she’d ever had.

Gerald turned back to Carl. “You mind letting Emmy talk to your boy alone?”

Carl shook his head, but said, “Yes, of course she can. Let’s go back to the living room. I’ve got some scotch, or—”

Emmy blocked out the rest of the conversation as the two men walked away. She kept her focus on Jack, asking, “What am I going to find in your room?”

“Nothing.”

“So if I look under your bed …”

“Shit,” he hissed. “Okay, fine.”

Jack got on his knees and reached between the mattress and box spring. He tossed an object onto the wrinkled sheets. She saw a black plastic flashlight, except the part that was supposed to have the light was silicone, and the silicone was formed into the shape of a labia. As if that wasn’t awful enough, the words POCKET PUSSY were etched onto the side.

“Are you happy?” Jack demanded.

Emmy was not happy. “Put that thing on the floor and sit in the chair with both hands where I can see them.”

Jack grunted, but he complied. “There’s nothing else. I promise.”

Emmy knew what a guilty eleven-year-old boy looked like. She guessed at sixteen, they weren’t that much better at feigning innocence. She took a pair of gloves out of her pocket, but she wasn’t going to search blind. She tilted up the twin mattress onto its side. She didn’t recognize half the kinky shit Jack had hidden under there, but the kid was definitely at the height of his sexual awakening. There wasn’t enough money in the world that would compel her to take a black light to this room.

She checked on Jack. He was rocking back and forth in the chair, furious, impotent, ashamed. Emmy was reminded of a line she’d read from a study of school shooters—

They seek to reaffirm their masculinity by attacking students and teachers who they perceive to be thriving within the social entity that they feel has diminished their masculinity.

Emmy let the mattress drop back into place. She checked the bedside table and dresser drawers. Nothing. She searched the shelves in the closet. Nothing. The dirty clothes basket was full. She kicked it onto its side. Nothing.

She kept Jack in her line of sight while she flipped through the paperbacks on the desk.The Last of the Mohicans,A Room with a View,Beloved. The spines were cracked. Post-it flagsstuck out from the pages. She assumed he was knocking out his summer reading assignment for AP English. She used the toe of her shoe to push over his backpack. More books, includingThe Complete Storiesof Flannery O’Connor. His desk drawer was filled with index cards and pens. Nothing alarming or unexpected was in the room if you left out the veritable Red Light District under the mattress.

Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “I told you there wasn’t anything else.”

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