Page 74 of Tar City
I lean back in my chair, making it creak. “Funny word for it.”
His eyes dart up to meet mine.
“Do you remember the night the knotted-hair girl disappeared?” I ask casually.
He twists in his chair, his hand automatically reaching for his coffee mug before he remembers it’s empty. “Why are you asking about that?” he bites out.
“Essay I’m writing. Comparative mythology, urban legends… Thought it’d be interesting to see how real events get twisted into ghost stories. Figured you might want to help. You always said I had a thing for writing. Might even get me into college.”
“Well, I’m sorry but I don’t know anything about that… girl.”
“Of course you do,” I reply.
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” he says, a little too fast.
“Everyone knows about her.”
He clears his throat. “There was no official disappearance. Only rumors. Teenagers exaggerating. She probably ran away.”
“Right,” I say, drawing the word out. “Rumors.”
I lean forward, planting my elbows on my knees. “You were on duty that night,” I continue. “Chaperoning. Monitoring the halls.”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant?—”
“Thing is,” I interrupt, “the way I heard it, you were the last one who saw her.”
He stiffens like a board. “I didn’t see anything,” he snaps. “And I won’t be questioned like this in my own?—”
I smile. “You know what a message to my grandfather can do, right?” I say, my voice dropping to a serious level. “So let me ask again. What did you see?”
His hands fold on the desk. “I’ve already told you,” he says, his voice trembling slightly. “There was nothing unusual about that night.”
I nod, all easy and agreeable. “Right,” I say. “Just a dance.”
He relaxes a fraction. Poor bastard.
“Bad punch,” I add, my voice light, almost friendly. “Embarrassing spill. Happens.”
His eyes flick up before he can stop them, a flash of pure panic.
I smile again. “You remember the punch. That’s good.”
“I—of course I do,” he says, his spine ramrod straight again.
“Behind the table,” I continue, painting the picture. “Ladle in hand. Some kid’s mom in a sequined sweater that should be illegal.”
He’s out of words.
“They filmed everything that night,” I say. “Kids bring cameras to everything. You know that.”
“That doesn’t mean?—”
“I’m not implying anything. We have everything on tape. I just figured I’d give you a chance to explain before I write my take on it.”
His voice cracks, a pathetic little sound. “All I saw was that she ran out crying, okay? Then I—” He hesitates, his gaze darting to the door. “I got distracted by the… punch. I went to clean myself up and that’s when I heard them.”
“Them?” I ask, not moving an inch.
