I think about how to respond. I don’t want to tell him about Dear Birdie. How because of the volume of followers, big advertising money started to flow in, more than I thought possible. When I moved it to the Chronicle, they paid me very well and continue to do so, because it’s one of their most popular columns and podcasts. That I’ve saved and invested, made more money from the money I’ve earned. That the house is worth far more than I paid for it. I am not wealthy, but I have done very well.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say easily. “Family money. I’ve been lucky.”
Partially, that’s true, too. There was a sum, a small inheritance from my mother’s side of the family that paid for school, expenses, gave me a solid financial head start. Like everything in my life, what I tell Bailey is partially true. Layers of truth and lies, mingling like colored sand, creating shades and hues. All of it true. None of it true.
“It’s none of my business, of course,” he says. “Curiosity is an occupational hazard, I guess.”
“You’re right,” I say. “It’s none of your business who I am or where my money comes from. It has nothing to do with Mia Thorpe, your client’s daughter. The girl you’re trying to find.”
He makes an annoying clicking noise. “But the answer to that lies with a man you both dated.”
“Maybe,” I concede. “But I did a little digging into Mia Thorpe.”
He sighs. “Goddamn Google. Everyone’s a PI these days.”
“It seems to me like she’s disappeared before.”
Now, it’s his turn to go quiet.
“I scrolled through her Facebook page, the comments from her friends begging her to get in touch, to come home, saying how worried they all are.”
“Yeah?”
“So there was a comment from a woman who said something like, ‘Please don’t put us through this again. This time, let someone know where you are.’ So, did she? Disappear before?”
“She did.”
“And where was she?”
“I told you last night. She’d checked herself into rehab, a posh place out west. But that was for six weeks and her father knew she was there. This is very different.”
“Addicts disappear,” I say. “That’s a common behavior pattern.”
“And you know this because…”
“Because everybody knows this.”
He clears his throat. There’s a lot of background noise. It sounds like he’s driving, too. “Not because you’re used to giving people advice?”
Shit.
“Don’t worry, Dear Birdie. Your secret is safe with me.”
An electric wave of alarm. He just outed me as Dear Birdie. They don’t call private investigators dicks for nothing.
I summon my grown-up voice. “You know what, Detective Kirk. Back off.”
“Wait—”
I end the call, hands shaking. He’s the first one to dig through my layers and find the truth. It seems to have taken him approximately twenty-four hours. Of course, as a PI he has access to resources that the average person doesn’t. But still. I press my foot to the gas, adrenaline pumping. I feel naked, exposed, and a little angry. When the phone rings again, I don’t answer it.
The city falls away, disappearing from my rearview mirror, as do all the selves I am when I’m there.
twenty
Then
“Come here, little bird.”
My father’s voice was just a croak, emitting from the dark of their bedroom. I paused in the hallway outside his door. The echoes of the fight he and my mother had the night before still seemed to bounce off the walls.
“It’s okay. Come say good morning to your old man.”
I moved to the doorway and stood there. The room smelled faintly, not unpleasantly, of sleep and cigarettes.
“Closer.”
I walked into the room over the creaking hardwood floor and stood beside the bed. The blinds were pulled, but sunlight streamed in from the edges, casting the room in a buttery yellow. He was shirtless, thickly muscled, tattoos on his arms. His sandy hair was a wild tousle.
He reached for his pack of cigarettes, then looked at me and put it back. “I shouldn’t smoke.”
“It’s bad for you,” I ventured.
A rare smile. “You’re right.”
He rubbed at the crown of his head. “Where’s your mom?”
“She’s working.”
She worked in town, just to bring some money in, at the local grocery. Every time I saw her leave in the rattling pickup, I worried that she wouldn’t come back. But she always did, smuggling contraband to us, things from our life before—Cheetos and Snickers bars, Oreos, and Goldfish crackers.