Dad continued. “I think Jerome wanted a show of strength in front of the agent. You know how those big-city folks can stare down their nose at us.”
I smiled knowingly, skipping over the mention of the BCA agent and what big-city folks thought of us—the latter a favorite topic of Dad’s—to hit on the central point. “I bet Sheriff Nillson didn’t call this Godo ‘a real bad guy.’ I’m not a baby, Dad. You can tell me what’s really happening.”
His glance traveled to Junie, her face bent over the orange tea cake, his meaning clear. She might not be a baby, but she was young, not even （quite） a teenager.
“We can talk later,” I said, a little burst of warmth in my chest. Sometimes, after Junie fell asleep, Dad’d run through his day with me over a glass of brandy, like he just couldn’t keep it in anymore. He’d make me promise not to tell anybody because all the stuff was confidential. I loved that he trusted me that much, but honestly, his stories all sounded the same. People hurting other people, stealing from them, cheating or beating them, and my dad swooping in to sort it all out.
“Not tonight, I’m afraid.” His eyes grew shaded again. “I have to return to the office. That guy I was telling you about, Godo. I need to make sure I have all my ducks in a row to draw up charges if he shows his face in Saint Cloud.”
I nodded, feeling surprisingly sad.
“Don’t look like that, Heather. My work is important.” He picked up his fork. “Say, do you know an Elizabeth McCain? She would have been a high school senior this past year. She’s a waitress over at the Northside.”
My stomach clenched in worry. It must have been the Beth that Brenda had referred to on the phone, the one whose disappearance I had blown off. “I know who she is. Why?”
He used his fork to slice off a delicate triangle of meat, just like a gentleman. “She’s apparently been missing. Gone for nearly three days.”
This got Junie’s full attention. “Did someone kidnap her?”
Dad frowned while he chewed, an accordion of wrinkles developing above his brows. When he swallowed, he said, “Not likely, Bug. Probably hitchhiking somewhere. Kids that age get a wild hair and just take off. She’s all set to move to California for college in a few weeks. I’m sure she’ll show up by then.”
I nodded to myself, feeling the comfort of satisfaction. I’d guessed right when I’d told Brenda not to worry about the girl. I’d been wrong about my beans and franks not being as bad as they sounded, though. I pushed the hot dog pieces around my tray. “What time will you be home?”
I wanted to know whether to bother him about the game of TV tag. We didn’t have a curfew in the summer. Dad said he trusted me and Junie, and it was up to us to continue to earn that trust. That meant I didn’t do stupid stuff. Tunnel time didn’t count as stupid—it was part of Pantown’s fabric—so if he wasn’t even going to be home, he didn’t need to know about it.
“After you hit the hay,” he said. He dug back into his congealed food, his eyes brighter than usual. There must have been a lot more to this Godo case than he was letting on. I’d ask him more when Junie wasn’t around.
A knock on the door made us all jump. Visitors during dinner were rare in Pantown, where most of us ate meals at the same time. I pushed my chair back, but Dad held up a hand. “I’ll get it.”
He set his napkin on the table and strode to the door. His shoulders tightened when he opened it. “Gulliver!” he said, his voice deeper than usual.
Junie was leaning so far back trying to get a peek at the new arrival that she about tipped over. I slammed her chair’s front legs back on the floor. “Don’t snoop,” I said under my breath.
She scowled. “But we don’t know a Gulliver.”
She was right. In fact, this might have been the first time a stranger who wasn’t a salesperson had shown up at our door. Ever. I wasn’t sure of my duty in this situation, with Mom laid up in bed leaving me as the woman of the house. I stood and walked toward the couch and stopped, nervous. I still couldn’t see the man at the door. He was talking to Dad in a low and urgent voice, but then their conversation abruptly halted. Dad stepped aside.
“Gulliver, these are my girls. Heather and June.”
The man leaned into the room and nodded once, a quick and tight motion. He was the palest person I’d ever seen, so white he was almost translucent, his skin dusted with cinnamon-colored freckles that matched the color of his eyes, his close-cropped hair, and his mustache. Irish was my first thought—so different from the healthy cream and blue of the Pantown Swedes or the earth-colored eyes and hair of the Germans.