Boy, 9, Missing Page 7
“And what’s to say that’s not the case?” I asked.
“I know too much about them,” she said. “I’ve been here every day for the past few weeks. It’s not possible.”
“Maybe Brian Farr and his wife took him.”
“His grandparents? Are you really going down that path after everything we know about your father? He was stalking them, Francis.”
“I’m just saying there are other options—”
“Of course there are. And I hope the Lansing Police Department is looking into every single one of them.”
“They are,” I said. “I don’t know what the Farrs have been saying, but I’ve known Keith Delroy my whole life. He wouldn’t put a child’s life in jeopardy. Ever.” I knew it was true, but why did it sound like I was trying to convince myself?
We were quiet for a few moments, so I moved on. “When will it be finished?”
“What?”
“The book. When will it be ready?”
“Oh, I’m polishing a few chapters and have a few left to write,” she said. She brushed a strand of curly hair out of her face. “This town is so weird. I grew up nearby, in Midlothian, and I felt it. Nobody wanted to talk about it. It’s like Lansing’s ugly secret. And Sam Farr has all of the wounds to show for it. His side of things deserves to be told.”
“But it doesn’t help bring Matthew Farr home.”
“Yes, but hopefully, we’ll find him. And his abductor must be shown for who he really is. I’m not going to stop until the Sam Farr story is told.”
“Is that what it’s called?” I asked incredulously. “The Sam Farr Story?”
“Well, I’m still working on a title…”
“The title is the most important part, right?”
She shook her head. “You can laugh at me as much as you want to, Mr. Scroll. But I abide by the ethics of our profession, and that’s to expose the truth.” She shrugged and turned to get in her car. “Whatever that truth turns out to be.”
Chapter Nine
The Sam Farr Story (new title? needs a better hook)
By: Kira L. Jones (use K. L. Jones in credits?)
DRAFT v.3—Not to be shared without express permission of author, K. L. Jones
On the afternoon of December 30, 1992, Sam Farr was getting ready to go to a party. The ten-year-old stood on the worn carpet of his bedroom in front of his full-length mirror, his arms out to his sides.
He didn’t want to sweat.
Sweating meant pit stains.
He’d been saving this shirt—a pale-green T-shirt with a picture of a frog wearing shorts—for the past three weeks. It was a cool shirt, and it had been neatly folded in his dresser since he got it, because he wanted it to be crisp and new for the party, not already worn and faded by their centuries-old washing machine in the basement.
But just his luck, he’d ruin it with pit stains.
Sam put his arms down and took a deep breath. He would just have to calm down. He couldn’t keep his arms lifted from his body all night—if he did that, Lucas would think he was even weirder than he already did.
Sam dragged his thumb across each of his knuckles, one at a time, moving from his index finger to his pinkie and back again. He was so excited that he was having trouble keeping still, which was bad for his whole sweat problem.
He was really hopeful about tonight. Lucas was one of the boys at school who wasn’t so bad, at least not all the time. Sure, he teased him a little bit, but it was only when the other boys were around. When Lucas was by himself, he was actually sort of nice. He’d even picked up Sam’s sketchbook when he’d dropped it as they were coming out of church one morning.
“Thanks,” Sam had said, shocked. “I didn’t even realize I’d dropped it.”
“You’re welcome,” Lucas had responded. “I know it’s hard.”
“What’s…hard?”
“Just like, keeping up with stuff.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess so. Well, thanks.”
Sam took a step closer to the mirror and peered at his hair. It wasn’t that bad. He’d asked his mother for something else, something that made his head look less long and also less wide, but this is what he’d ended up with. When he pushed it really hard to the right side, it lay in a way that didn’t look so goofy.
Sam heard a sound behind him, and he turned to see his mother walking into the room.
Elizabeth Farr was smiling as she always did, and she breezed over to him, running her hand quickly through the hair he’d just put in place.
“Tonight’s going to be fun, right?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling too big and resisting the urge to straighten his hair again.
He didn’t want her to know how nervous he was. It would make her sad if she knew he was worried about being bullied. He knew his mother thought he was one of the more popular boys at school, and Sam wanted it to stay that way.
Once, she’d said something about him not inviting any other kids over, because if he invited one, he’d have to invite “them all,” and of course their home couldn’t hold that many people. Sam had actually started laughing, giggling almost hysterically at his mother, and she’d just frowned, sweetly, as she always did.
“What’s so funny?” she’d asked.
“Nothing, Mom,” he’d said.
He did have a friend, sort of. Gerry Brandon Lee. But the kids made fun of Gerry way worse than they did Sam because Gerry had a bit of a limp and spent most of his time lost in his thoughts. Sam talked to Gerry if he had to, like when he needed a teammate for a school project and there was nobody else around.
Sam looked at his mother, who clasped her hands in front of her.
“It’s going to be great. And I made your favorite—chocolate pie.”
Sam had been smelling the pie all morning, but he smiled again, just as she expected him to. “You did?”
“Yup. And I had some extra filling, so I made a small one so you’ll have some here when we get home. In case the Scrolls eat it all up.”
Sam forced a smile and then turned back to look at himself. He tried not to grimace as he saw the small, circular stains forming under his arms.
“You look great,” his mother said, catching his eye in the mirror. “I love that shirt. Okay, we’ll be ready to go in ten minutes.”
Sam nodded, and she walked out of the room. Then he walked quickly over to his closet and pulled out a shiny silver briefcase.
He’d gotten the case from his great-uncle, and the minute he’d seen it, he’d known it was perfect. He carried it over to his bed and set it down, running his fingers along the smooth top.
His mother had said he could take them with him, and he’d still been debating if he should.
He wanted to show them off, sure, but there were going to be a lot of people around.
A lot of people meant accidents.
People simply weren’t careful with things that weren’t their own.
But he was going to have to chance it. It would be his first time taking them outside of the house, and though he was nervous, he couldn’t deny how excited he felt to show them off.
Sam took one final look at himself in the mirror and then turned and walked out of his bedroom, shutting his light off as he exited.
He walked purposefully down the stairs, the silver case in his hand, careful not to let it bump against the stairs or the railing.
When he got to the bottom, he turned into the living room, where his father was sitting on the couch, pulling on a pair of his shiniest shoes.
Brian Farr would never admit it, but he was nervous too. Sam could tell. They all were, even his mother, who’d been smiling ear to ear all morning as she baked her chocolate pie. It wasn’t every day they got invited to parties.
Sam had seen only the outside of it, and he’d been blown away by all of the levels and trees and windows. It was a beautiful home, and Sam couldn’t wait to see the inside.
Neither could his mother, it seemed. She had been talking about it all week, about how Kate Scroll had invited her, about what she would make and what she should wear.
But Brian Farr hadn’t seemed nearly as eager. He frowned as Sam entered the room.
“Are you sure you want to bring that?” he asked, gesturing to the briefcase “Why don’t you just play some games with the other kids? Kate said Lucas might invite another friend over too.”
“Mom said I could bring it,” Sam said defensively, grasping the case with both hands and pulling it closer to his body.
“I’m not saying you can’t. I’m just asking if…” He sighed as he pulled on his other shoe. “Not a lot of kids will understand it, that’s all. Kate told me Lucas is really into soccer these days. That might be fun, right?”
“Not really,” Sam said. Brian Farr opened his mouth to say something else, then he shook his head and closed it. Sam shifted uncomfortably, still holding the case against his knees, unsure of how else to respond. He watched as his father’s expression changed, and finally, Brian Farr stood up and walked over to his son, ruffling his hair.
They always went for the hair.
“Hey, I was just making a suggestion,” his father said, and Sam could see the disappointment on his face. “If you want to bring it, that’s perfectly fine. You’re just as great as Lucas and his friends, and if he doesn’t see that, well, he’s not worth your time. Right?”
Sam nodded and reached up to fix his hair back the way he liked it. His dad was always saying things like that, and Sam wished he wouldn’t. It wasn’t the kind of thing you said to a popular kid, and he knew Lucas’s father never had to say anything like that to him.
No, parents said that only when their kid was a real loser. Sam turned away and walked toward the window.
He knew his dad got along with the Scrolls well enough—he occasionally watched a game with Mr. Scroll or met up with Mrs. Scroll for coffee—but Brian Farr seemed mostly annoyed by tonight’s party.
“They’re just regular people,” Sam had overheard his father say to his mother when she’d first told him about the dinner party invitation. “You don’t have to go buy something new. You have plenty of nice dresses.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to look nice,” Elizabeth had said.
Sam and his father waited silently in the living room. Before they could speak, Elizabeth Farr breezed around the corner, and just like that, it was time to go.
Sam turned and watched as his father’s expression changed quickly. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You ready to go, honey?” he asked too cheerfully, but Sam could tell that his mother didn’t notice. She smiled back happily as she balanced both the pie and her purse in her hands.
“Yep, how about my boys?”
“We sure are,” Brian answered for both of them, and he gave Sam a meaningful look.
Sam smiled slightly and nodded, his fingers curving around the handle of the metal case.
Now or never.
They piled into the car, and Sam sat in the backseat, buckling his seat belt. He picked his briefcase up off the seat beside him and placed it on his lap. He let his mind wander to his presentation tonight.
He’d kept messing up in practice, but he wasn’t too worried.
He’d get it right.
He’d never performed in front of a group of people before. Only his parents, and his grandmother once. They all loved it. But then again, that’s what parents and grandmothers do.
He didn’t know what the Scrolls were going to think. Especially Lucas. But he was going to do his best.
That’s what his mom would say.
“Just do your best, and everything will turn out great.”
It was going to be an awesome night.
Chapter Ten
Sunday, 12:30 p.m.
When I arrived home on Sunday afternoon, Amy was in her room with the door closed. I knocked on it gently.
“Yeah?”
She looked up as I opened the door and stepped inside. “Hey, so I was thinking we could leave soon. For the mini-golf place.”
I could see the excuse coming even before she opened her mouth. “You know, I’m still feeling a little tired from my trip, and with school tomorrow and everything—”
“Oh, come on, it will only take an hour or so. And then I thought we could grab something to eat. You used to love mini golf.”
“I did,” she said as she stood up, pulling her hair up into a ponytail. “I mean, I do. Just maybe next week or something?” She walked over to her mirror and leaned forward as she finished wrapping her hair. She turned back when I didn’t say anything, and finally, she sighed. “Okay…what if we just do lunch?”
She was throwing me a bone, and I resisted the urge to pump my fist in the air—it was better than nothing. “Yeah, sure, that’s fine,” I said. “We’ll go down to Vinny’s. And we’ll do golf next week. Or whenever we can fit it in. Let me know when you’re ready. It’s just a couple of blocks away.”
“Okay,” she said with a forced smile, but I didn’t care. I’d scored a lunch.
Twenty minutes later, we were seated across from each other in Vinny’s, a twenty-four-hour diner that smelled of coffee, french fries, and recycled cooking grease. We both held the menus in front of our faces like shields, unprepared to just dive right in.
I lowered mine first.
“So tell me, honestly: I know you haven’t seen much, but what do you think of Lansing?”
Amy put her menu down and stared at me for a moment before looking down at the table.
“It’s cool,” she said. “Not bad.”
“You can handle a couple of years, right?” I asked with a small smile, and she forced one back.
“Yeah, of course.”
“I emailed you all the info about your first day of school. You got it, right?”
“Yep, I’m all set.”
The waitress appeared with water, and I took a deep breath, grateful for the break. We both ordered burgers with fries, and I made a mental note that Amy still ate meat.
“So you’ve been practicing your Italian, huh?” I asked as I unwrapped my straw and stuck it in my water.
I looked up when she didn’t respond and found her staring off at something behind my head.
“Amy?”
I turned slightly to see what she was looking at. I drew in a deep breath when I saw what had her attention.
The small, mounted television above the counter was muted, but the image on the screen made my heart leap into my throat. It was a still shot of Sam and Miranda Farr, taken from the interview I’d seen yesterday while I was at the police station. Beneath their picture was a simple hashtag: #WheresMattFarr
“It’s so tragic,” Amy finally said, her eyes still on the screen.
I cleared my throat. “What’s that?” I asked, and she finally looked at me.
“Matthew Farr? You know, the kid of that guy from the trial…back in the nineties?” She spread her hands wide. “The one who’s all over TV?”
I blinked. “Of course. Wow. I didn’t know you knew about that.”
“Are you kidding? It’s the only thing on the news. You were living around here back then, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, clearing my throat. “That was a terrible case.”
She stared at me intently, expecting me to tell her more, and my throat was suddenly impossibly dry. I took a drink of water and stared at the ice cubes as they knocked into one another when I placed the glass back on the table. I looked up, and she was still watching me, wait
ing for me to say something, and I searched for a response.
Actually, honey, I know a lot about that case.
The boy who died? That was my little brother.
Yep.
Your uncle.
And the man now accused of kidnapping Matthew Farr—you know, Alex Scroll? Well, funny story: my name was once Scroll too.
And that guy, Alex, he’s your grandfather.
Yep.
The dead one.
Amy kept staring at me, and I knew there was no way I could tell her now. Not like this.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, no, I was here, but I was pretty young. But it was a…big deal.”
As soon as the lie came out of my mouth, I regretted it.
Now it wasn’t just that I hadn’t told her yet; I’d lied, and she would never forgive me if she found out.
She frowned but leaned back as the waitress approached with our heaping plates. I snuck a glance back at the television and saw that the news station had moved on.
• • •
We walked home in silence. Amy thanked me for lunch and headed up the stairs as soon as we reached the building.
“I’ll be back in a little bit,” I said to her back as she let herself inside. I got in my car and pulled out my GPS. I typed in the location for the cabin I’d found in my father’s address book.
5337 Crystal Lake Drive, Swatchport, Illinois.
The voice on the GPS sounded confident, and I followed her directions to merge onto I-57, heading south, away from Chicago.
As I drove, I thumbed through the address book until I reached the entry for the prosecutor in Sam Farr’s trial. I’d heard he’d since left to start his own private practice somewhere on the east side of Lansing. I didn’t know if he and my father still kept in touch, but it was worth a try. Grabbing my phone, I keyed in the number listed with his name.
“This is Raymond Banks. Sorry I can’t take your call right now, but leave a message.”