Lost Girls by Andrew Pyper Page B

something else, a white space between sagging rims and irritated lidsonto which time has projected itself. Not the face of a handsome man, but there’s a neatness to the mouth and wide brow that suggests he probably pulls off a pleasant appearance in photos taken from at least ten feet away. This, I would guess, is the minimum distance required to diminish the dark grief smeared around his eyes.
    “You want to know if I did it,” he says abruptly, the big nostrils opening wide to release a long gust whistling up from his lungs.
    “Glad you brought that up. I should let you know right off that all communications between you and me are privileged, and as such are not admissible in court. That’s on the technical side. On the practical side, I don’t need to know if you did it. And as for my wanting to know, if I had to express a preference, I don’t think I do. In my experience such things rarely make a difference.”
    “Such things?”
    “The truth, as it were.”
    “So you don’t care if I’m the one or not?”
    “Mr. Tripp, a good part of what you pay me for is to remain single-minded. Caring would cost considerably more.”
    For a moment he holds himself as though caught by an unexpected flashbulb explosion—eyes peeled back, breath held—and absorbs the words that hang between us.
    “Maybe I’m the one who needs to know,” he says finally.
    “Well, unless your two former students show up with some additional information, I would have thought that you’re the only one who does.”
    That’s when the tears start. A series of transparent globes coursing over his skin with such speed that in a single moment they begin to drip steadily from his chin onto the table’s surface. What’s most strange about this performance is that he doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t wipe his face with his sleeve or turn his head away.
    “Well, that’s fine. You don’t really know,” I start, slapping at my jacket pockets to find that I’ve forgotten to pack my Kleenex. “That’s O.K. In fact, that may be good. We can get on without that information, so let’s not worry about it for the moment.”
    “Not worry about it. No.”
    He smiles at me briefly. But maybe not, the parting and closing of his lips so swift that it may have only been an exhalation of air, although that job appeared to be ably performed by his nose alone. What’s more certain is that the tears, so sudden and gushing a moment before, are now gone, leaving only two dishwater stains down his cheeks.
    “Can we go on now, Mr. Tripp? Thom?”
    He inhales.
    “You were the girls’ teacher, yes?”
    “I taught English.”
    “For how long?”
    “A year. They were very bright.”
    “Oh?”
    “Not the best grades in the class, but pretty close. They were interested .”
    “In what?”
    “Books, poetry. Stories. Good Lord, they were even interested in what I had to say!” He laughs at this obviously old and tested joke with a determined effort.
    “And they would come to see you after class for extra help?”
    “They didn’t need my help. They were just interested .”
    “But on the day they disappeared—did they come after class to speak with you then?”
    “Which day?”
    “The day in question , Mr. Tripp.”
    “Which day of the week? ”
    I gage his seriousness in this, but his face is unchanging, so I check the file.
    “It appears it was a Thursday.”
    “Then yes, because the Literary Club met on Thursdays. That was when we’d talk.”
    “So on that Thursday, after you got together to talk, did you go for a drive?”
    “Drive…”
    “To the lake. Did you take the girls to Lake St. Christopher?”
    He lifts his eyes away from mine and up to the ceiling, blinks into the anemic fluorescent light as though in brief prayer. The stubble on his exposed neck like a clearcut of timber viewed from the air. But when he brings his eyes back there’s a narrowed concentration, the effort of memory.
    “Do you want to know something funny? I wanted