Free Poisonous: A Novel by Allison Brennan Page B

was that they were far more forthcoming when well fed. Maybe that was true about everyone, she thought, feeling hungry right then.
    She was about to step away when she saw an e-mail pop up from her staff with the clip from Paula Wallace’s plea last year. Another glance at her watch—Max had a little time. She clicked on the link. It was only a forty-five-second clip.
    Paula Wallace was impeccable—from her shoulder-length highlighted blond bob to her light application of makeup to her simple but expensive jewelry. She’d dressed for the camera. One week after the murder of her daughter, she was more than presentable. She could have walked into a boardroom and taken charge.
    But Paula may have felt she would be taken more seriously if she was dressed well, or she could simply be vain and concerned about what she looked like on television. Or she could be fastidious, always leaving the house put together—no running shorts or tennis shoes or hair stuck up in a ratty tail.
    The news conference had been held just before noon outside the police station. The chief of police finished speaking and handed the podium over to Paula. A man Max recognized as Bill Wallace stood in the background as Paula stepped forward.
    “Thank you, Chief Reinecke.” She took a breath, paused before looking directly into the camera lens. “I’m Paula Lake Wallace and Ivy was my daughter. As Chief Reinecke said, the police are doing everything they can to find out what happened to Ivy. But I want to ask the people of Corte Madera, as a mother who has just lost her daughter”—she paused, took a breath—“to think back to the night of July third. We are a small town. Ivy drove a white Volkswagen. Any tiny detail, even if you don’t think it’s important, may give the police the information they need to bring the person who killed my daughter to justice. You can remain anonymous. You can call the hotline at the number on the screen and the police will take every call seriously. Please.” Paula paused, looking out at the group assembled. Max couldn’t tell how many were in the audience, but Paula clearly had no fear of speaking to the press. “Bill and I need to know what happened. If Ivy was your daughter or your sister, you would want to know what happened. Just like we need to know. Thank you.” She turned, chin up, and walked back to Bill Wallace. He put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. The clip ended.
    Max understood grief better than most people—not because she had suffered any more than anyone else, but because she often surrounded herself with people who grieved. She’d seen tears, anger, resolve. So she might not be inclined to trust Ben’s impression that Paula was like Betsy Abbott … but Max sensed Paula Wallace was primarily concerned with appearances. And that was something she could work with during their interview.
    Or maybe Ben’s gut was right. He usually was.
    *   *   *
    Because he was late to school, Travis Whitman had to park his small pickup on the far edge of student parking. He didn’t like being late, not that it mattered—he was a senior; he already had three top schools looking at him to play football in college; UCLA had offered him a scholarship; and his grades didn’t suck. Still, he ran into the building and straight to the office to get a tardy slip.
    “Mr. Whitman,” the secretary said, her hand already filling out the green paper. She shook her head disapprovingly, but he saw her smile.
    “Sorry, Ms. Brewster,” he said, flashing his dimples. His dimples had gotten him out of more trouble than he could remember. He remembered Ivy telling him they were one of his prime assets, one of those compliments of hers that almost sounded like a dig. That was when they were still going out, way before they broke up, way before—he put it out of his mind and smiled Ms. Brewster’s way. “I don’t have a good excuse, I just hit the snooze button too many times.”
    “This is