Hayley felt it was enough to give Amy a new start in life.”
“She explain what she meant by that?”
“No. And I didn’t ask. I don’t pry into my clients’ personal affairs.”
“Did Hayley have to undergo a medical exam to get the coverage?”
“Not at twenty-five. She filled out the usual health disclosure form; that was enough.”
“And what address did she give you?”
He consulted the file. “Her mother’s, but she asked the policy not be sent there, which is why she picked it up.”
“This type of policy—is there a double indemnity clause, in case of accidental death or murder?”
The right corner of Smith’s mouth twitched. “Yes. Of course. Unless she was killed by the beneficiary . . . Not that Amy would’ve done such a thing. The girl’s a little wayward, but not bad.”
“How d’you know?”
“My avocation is volunteering as a life-skills coach. Helping kids who are at risk. My friend Dana Ivins, who runs the organization, had several sessions with her. She—Dana—thought Amy had great potential.”
“This organization is called . . . ?”
“Friends Helping Friends. The name is designed to let troubled teens know we coaches don’t consider ourselves superior, but just people who’ve undergone and overcome the same obstacles they’re facing.”
“Sounds like a good program.”
Bud Smith’s smile was a shade melancholy. “We try. That’s all we can do—try.”
Friends Helping Friends operated out of a dilapidated cottage on an unpaved side street at the west end of town, across the highway from the point where Zelda’s was situated. A sign on the door said COME RIGHT IN , so I did. A short hallway opened in front of me. To my left was a parlor full of shabby but comfortable-looking furnishings; in the room to my right, a thin woman with short gray hair and round glasses that gave her face an owlish look sat at a desk. She saw me and smiled.
“What can I do for you?”
I introduced myself. “I’m interested in speaking with one of your coaches, Dana Ivins.”
“You are in luck.” She got up and extended her hand across the desk to me. “I’m Dana.”
“Bud Smith told me you’ve been working with a girl named Amy Perez.”
She frowned. “Sit down, please. I’m afraid Bud shouldn’t have revealed that. Part of our success is that we keep our clients’ names confidential.”
“Would you explain to me how the organization works?”
“Well, the name describes it. We pair young people who are at risk with coaches who have had similar problems earlier in life. They can meet here in our parlor if the clients’ homes aren’t a supportive environment—which in most cases they’re not—or if they aren’t comfortable being seen with their coaches in public. Or they can pick another meeting place—so long as it isn’t the coach’s home; that’s inviting trouble from parents who resent our intrusion. We listen to the clients’ stories and tell them ours and what we’ve learned from them. It’s strictly a volunteer program with very little overhead, and what there is is funded by donations from local businesses. This is my house, so we don’t have to pay for offices.”
“Are you licensed therapists?”
“No, just amateurs who’ve learned from our past mistakes.”
So they couldn’t legally claim therapist-client confidentiality.
“Ms. McCone,” Dana Ivins said, “what is your interest in Amy Perez?”
I told her the same story I’d told Bud Smith, explaining my relationship to the Perez family.
“I see.” She pushed away from her desk and swiveled slightly to her left, toward the front window that overlooked the street. “Are you sure Amy is missing?”
I wasn’t. Right at this moment she could be with Ramon and Sara, but some instinct made me doubt that. I’d formed a tentative connection with the young woman the first time I looked into her eyes in the Food Mart parking lot, and it had been strengthened by the fear and
“She explain what she meant by that?”
“No. And I didn’t ask. I don’t pry into my clients’ personal affairs.”
“Did Hayley have to undergo a medical exam to get the coverage?”
“Not at twenty-five. She filled out the usual health disclosure form; that was enough.”
“And what address did she give you?”
He consulted the file. “Her mother’s, but she asked the policy not be sent there, which is why she picked it up.”
“This type of policy—is there a double indemnity clause, in case of accidental death or murder?”
The right corner of Smith’s mouth twitched. “Yes. Of course. Unless she was killed by the beneficiary . . . Not that Amy would’ve done such a thing. The girl’s a little wayward, but not bad.”
“How d’you know?”
“My avocation is volunteering as a life-skills coach. Helping kids who are at risk. My friend Dana Ivins, who runs the organization, had several sessions with her. She—Dana—thought Amy had great potential.”
“This organization is called . . . ?”
“Friends Helping Friends. The name is designed to let troubled teens know we coaches don’t consider ourselves superior, but just people who’ve undergone and overcome the same obstacles they’re facing.”
“Sounds like a good program.”
Bud Smith’s smile was a shade melancholy. “We try. That’s all we can do—try.”
Friends Helping Friends operated out of a dilapidated cottage on an unpaved side street at the west end of town, across the highway from the point where Zelda’s was situated. A sign on the door said COME RIGHT IN , so I did. A short hallway opened in front of me. To my left was a parlor full of shabby but comfortable-looking furnishings; in the room to my right, a thin woman with short gray hair and round glasses that gave her face an owlish look sat at a desk. She saw me and smiled.
“What can I do for you?”
I introduced myself. “I’m interested in speaking with one of your coaches, Dana Ivins.”
“You are in luck.” She got up and extended her hand across the desk to me. “I’m Dana.”
“Bud Smith told me you’ve been working with a girl named Amy Perez.”
She frowned. “Sit down, please. I’m afraid Bud shouldn’t have revealed that. Part of our success is that we keep our clients’ names confidential.”
“Would you explain to me how the organization works?”
“Well, the name describes it. We pair young people who are at risk with coaches who have had similar problems earlier in life. They can meet here in our parlor if the clients’ homes aren’t a supportive environment—which in most cases they’re not—or if they aren’t comfortable being seen with their coaches in public. Or they can pick another meeting place—so long as it isn’t the coach’s home; that’s inviting trouble from parents who resent our intrusion. We listen to the clients’ stories and tell them ours and what we’ve learned from them. It’s strictly a volunteer program with very little overhead, and what there is is funded by donations from local businesses. This is my house, so we don’t have to pay for offices.”
“Are you licensed therapists?”
“No, just amateurs who’ve learned from our past mistakes.”
So they couldn’t legally claim therapist-client confidentiality.
“Ms. McCone,” Dana Ivins said, “what is your interest in Amy Perez?”
I told her the same story I’d told Bud Smith, explaining my relationship to the Perez family.
“I see.” She pushed away from her desk and swiveled slightly to her left, toward the front window that overlooked the street. “Are you sure Amy is missing?”
I wasn’t. Right at this moment she could be with Ramon and Sara, but some instinct made me doubt that. I’d formed a tentative connection with the young woman the first time I looked into her eyes in the Food Mart parking lot, and it had been strengthened by the fear and
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