Kill You Last by Todd Strasser Read Free Book Online Page B

about finding girls in malls and charging all that money and promising them modeling work?”
    Mom turned to me. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that her eyes were red, but I was.
    “I think you’ll have to ask him that yourself.”
    I took out my BlackBerry and called, but I got Dad’s voice mail. The sense of discomfort I was feeling deepened. He always answered when I called. Always. I turned to Mom. Even though it was obvious she wasn’t in the mood to talk, I had to ask: “You still believe he had nothing to do with the missing girls?”
    She gazed at me with numb, empty eyes—the expression of someone who’d been disappointed and hurt too many times.
    “I’m sorry, Mom. You don’t have to answer that.”
    She nodded and gazed out the back window again. I couldn’t help imagining those naïve, starstruck wannabes handing over the money they’d hoarded from years of babysitting, in the hope that Dad could turn them into supermodels. The dream of being on the cover of Vogue and flying around the world in private jets.
    The thought made me wince. If the story the girl told on TV was true, it made Dad worse than a scam artist. It made him a con man and a deceiver of innocent young girls. And Janet and Gabriel had to be in on it, too, didn’t they? I felt my jaw tense and a headache begin to blossom. Please don’t be true, I prayed. Dad couldn’t have done that, could he? And not just to those girls, but to Mom and me?
    My BlackBerry vibrated. I picked it up, desperately hoping it was a message from Dad.
    But it wasn’t.
    It was [email protected]: Enjoying the news? Hows it feel 2 have a father like that?

Chapter 13
    A WAVE OF wretchedness crashed through me, filling my eyes with tears as I realized what the e-mail meant. Not just a cruel, hateful taunt to me, it was a reflection of how most of Soundview was feeling that morning. Even if they hadn’t seen the interview, they would soon hear about it from friends and neighbors. By lunchtime, everyone would believe Dad was the worst kind of scoundrel.
    Mom put her hand on my arm. “What is it?”
    “My anonymous e-mailer again.” I handed her the Black-Berry and rubbed the tears away.
    The lines in Mom’s forehead deepened as she studied the message from [email protected]. “How many does this make?”
    “Three.”
    The doorbell rang. Mom’s eyes met mine, and I knew we were both assuming the same thing: the media was back, no doubt eager to see how we were reacting to this morning’s news.
    Mom started toward the hall, saying, “I’ll tell them to go away.”
    I sat alone in the kitchen, fearful of what the day would be like now that the whole world believed my father was not only a suspect in the disappearance of three girls but a con man as well. It might not have been so hard to cope with if I’d believed that he’d been falsely accused of the modeling scam, but something about it—some small part of it—felt ominously true. I truly, truly believed that he’d never hurt anyone and couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with those missing girls. But I couldn’t say the same about the scam.
    My stomach twisted and churned. How could I reconcile the loving, protective father with the loathsome criminal everyone now thought him to be?
    The kitchen door opened, and I expected to see Mom return.
    But Roman came in.
    “What are you doing here?” I asked, surprised.
    She looked somber. “Wasn’t sure you’d want to go to school today, but I figured if you did, you’d want some company.”
    My eyes instantly filled with tears of gratitude, and I hugged her. “You are the best.”
    Roman had walked over, so we got into my car. With the windows raised and the doors locked, I drove down the driveway toward the waiting crowd. The media collected in the street when we got close, but the police officer got out of his car and made them clear a path so that we could pass. Some of the photographers took shots