Free No Such Person by Caroline B. Cooney Page B

large canvas bag sagging empty in the corner and decorative cardboard boxes lined up on the single shelf in the tiny closet, in which the police will find a small selection of designer sunglasses, caps, hair accessories, scarves and CDs.
    “This is all she owns?” the detective asks incredulously.
    “This is our summer place. Most of our stuff is in West Hartford.”
    He texts, probably asking for another search warrant for West Hartford.
    They start in one corner of the room. They move, lifting and opening everything. Perhaps they are looking for drugs.
    It’s the one thing she knows they will not find. She goes back into the living room. Her dazed parents hold out their arms and the three Allerdons stand together, loosely linked. She feels like the illustration of an atom—her thoughts like electrons racing around in their orbits, getting nowhere.
    The minute the police pick up the iPad they find in Lander’s room, they will flick to email. Miranda herself rarely uses email. It’s work to write an email. But she gets quite a few because teachers send assignments, the choral director sends rehearsal reminders, the church youth director sends field trip instructions.
    All these will be addressed to Miranda.
    The police will then flip open the iPad in Miranda’s room and see that
it’s
the one they want.
    If she’s lucky, though, they won’t start their iPad research while they’re in the house or in the driveway. It’s now ten o’clock in the evening. They must be tired. They must want to go to bed. If she’s lucky, they will drive to some headquarters and deposit the iPad there, planning to work on it in the morning. Miranda will have the night to do her own—
    Her own what?
    What is she doing? Why is she doing it? Now there will be two sisters in trouble. And it will totally look as if Miranda is covering for Lander. As if Miranda has reason to believe Lander has done bad things.
    Her desperate parents sit on the sofa and open their contact lists. They try to think of somebody to phone. They have no knowledge of criminal lawyers. And how can they possibly say to a close friend, neighbor or business acquaintance,
Our daughter has been arrested for murder and we need help
?
    Murder. The most terrible thing a person can do.
    A life is cruelly ended. A human being shot or stabbed or run over. Murder is irrevocable. There is no do-over.
    Oh, Lander,
thinks Miranda.
    The police search the bathroom, but it’s so little and stripped down that this takes hardly a minute. They glance into Miranda’s room, the kitchen, her parents’ room. They do not search. The only thing they take away is the wrong iPad.
    As the police walk to the front door, Miranda’s mother gets up, panting and brushing away hot tears. “We have to see Lander. Tell us exactly where she is. We’re driving down there.”
    The burly officer with the very deep voice shakes his head. “There’s a lot to do in a homicide. I’m not sure when you can see her. Call tomorrow morning. But tomorrow afternoon is more likely. Maybe you can coax your daughter to talk to us. She isn’t saying anything.”
    “But isn’t silence best?” asks Miranda’s father, eyes darting around, as if he hopes to find an escape route from this nightmare.
    “It might be,” agrees the officer, implying that since Lander is guilty, the less she says, the safer she is.
    Lander. A killer.
    Horror crowds up against them, sneering.
    Miranda wants the last word. “Look for Jason Firenza,” she orders them. “He did it.”
    “We haven’t found him,” admits the officer. “In fact, there doesn’t seem to be anybody by that name in Connecticut.”
    I didn’t find him either, Miranda remembers. But he’s out there. I will not let him disappear. He’s guilty. I’m finding him.
    The last officer out the door pauses. He says gently, “Reporters and TV stations like to cover homicides. Brace yourselves. This will be on the morning news, online and in the morning