Hidden_As Ash Park Novel by Meghan O'Flynn

Author:Meghan O'Flynn [O'Flynn, Meghan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, Crime, Mystery & Detective, General, Noir, suspense
ISBN: 9780997465198
Google: v68_DwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Pygmalion Publishing
Published: 2017-05-17T14:28:37+00:00

26

Lisa Walsh’s former middle school was sandwiched between a dilapidated library and a brand-spanking-new liquor store. A dichotomy, as Morrison would say. Also a testament to where the people of the city put their cash.

Petrosky and Morrison entered through a creaky double door and stopped before the metal detector, where a pudgy rent-a-cop with a smashed pancake face and a Tom Selleck mustache looked up from his spot behind a folding table laminated to look like wood.

“The principal’s office?” Morrison asked.

Petrosky showed his badge. The guy waved them through with barely a glance and went back to his crossword.

“Third hall on the left, all the way down.”

Petrosky and Morrison exchanged a look. “Don’t you have to watch carefully to make sure no one shifty gets in here?” Petrosky said.

“You’re the cops,” the guard muttered at his page. “Can’t get more careful than that.”

The yellow halls echoed with their footsteps and the occasional metallic clang of a locker somewhere in the vicinity. From behind closed doors, voices rose and fell in waves, students and teachers doing the school thing. When they passed the bathroom, Petrosky caught the slightest tang of nicotine on the air, and he inhaled deeply—then rested his finger on the pack of cigs in his pocket and pulled out a piece of gum. Not the fucking same. It was like drinking lemonade instead of vodka; gave you something to do with your mouth, but you might as well have been sucking ass for all the pleasure you got out of it.

The scent of cigarettes gave way to a faint dust-bunny smell as they entered the main office. The place was clean, though, with flattened green carpet and a plywood counter as high as Petrosky’s rib cage. To their left was a lone door with a gold plaque that read “Principal E.G. Cummings.” Well beyond the counter in the back corner of the room, a woman wearing a bright orange turban raised her head. The tag on her desk said “Mrs. Nwosu.” She stood.

“I’m Detective Petrosky, and this is Detective Morrison. We’re investigating the kidnapping of a former student—”

Her hands fluttered to her face. “Oh, you’re here about that poor girl on the television.” Her voice was husky and deep like a lounge singer’s, with a melodic accent that might have been South African though he could barely identify regional accents in America let alone in other countries. But he always knew Boston—an entire city pronouncing every goddamn vowel wrong pissed him off. Though that was still better than calling everyone “dude” like they did in surfer country.

“I remember when that happened, sir. Terrible, terrible thing.” She stepped around her desk and approached the counter.

Petrosky waited for Morrison to get his notebook ready. “Were you here when Lisa Walsh disappeared, ma’am?”

“I was.”

“What do you recall about the days before she went missing?” The tiniest bit of information could turn into a lead. Was there something she hadn’t told the police before, anything she hadn’t thought pertinent?

“Not much. The police came then, too, asked us questions, but they said she ran away.

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