Free Banana Split by Josi S. Kilpack Page A

to me.”
     
    “Of course,” the officer said. “I hope things go well for you, Mrs. Hoffmiller. I’m sure it’s hard to think that what happened to you that day was a good thing, but at least it allowed Ms. Pouhu to be found.”
     
    It was hard to think that Sadie’s trauma was a positive thing, but what if Noelani had never been found? What if she’d just disappeared? That’s what Charlie thought had happened—that his mom had left—and he thought he might be able to find her again.
     
    Sadie caught herself before she voiced her fears that Charlie didn’t believe his mother was dead. Mentioning Charlie would open up everything that had happened with him—everything she didn’t want to talk to the police about. Heat washed through her at the near slip. “Thank you so much,” she said instead. She was suddenly eager to get off the phone in case she didn’t catch herself the next time she was tempted to talk about Charlie.
     
    “You’re welcome.”
     
    After hanging up the phone, Sadie stared at her notes, fighting the resurgence of frightening memories. She circled the note she’d made about Noelani having met with Officer Wington about a different case. She also circled “tide” and “party drop,” then she leaned back and looked at the visual of those details that stood out to her the most. Once she’d done that, she was left with the question that kept coming back to her over and over again.
     
    What are you going to do about it?
     

Chapter 10
     

     
    The discussion with Officer Wington convinced Sadie that talking with the social worker was the best choice for her to make. But she couldn’t do anything until she heard back from Pete. She tried not to think about the fact that if things ever got back to Officer Wington, he would know she’d hidden information from him. Maybe she should have told him what had happened with Charlie . . . but what if that meant Charlie lost the only home and hope he had right now? It felt like too big a risk to take, but she still reviewed what she’d learned and what she could have done differently a hundred times.
     
    She showered and changed into long khaki shorts and a light cotton T-shirt instead of a fresh muumuu because she was trying to prepare herself mentally in case she needed to meet with the social worker overseeing Charlie’s case face to face. When she looked at herself in the mirror, though, she wanted to cry. Was that really her? Sarah Diane Wright Hoffmiller? The shorts were too big and the T-shirt hung limp on her shoulders. She really needed a new bra, and her legs were downright pasty. Her hair had grown out past her shoulders, but was gray at the roots with half-a-dozen shades of grayish-yellow between that and the ends which were split and frizzy. The humidity played havoc with her natural curl, making her head one big hair ball. Nothing about the reflection staring back at her said to the world “I’ve got something to offer!”
     
    Not only did her clothes look bad, but they were uncomfortable too. She had worn muumuus almost exclusively since her first few weeks in the islands, and the stiff fabric of the shorts felt constricting. She’d thought of dressing differently as dressing up, but she looked and felt awful, so she changed into a short blue-and-white muumuu—the one she wore when she went out with the Blue Muumuus—with a little ruffle just below the knee.
     
    Before coming to Hawai’i, she’d thought muumuus the unattractive equivalent of a housedress someone would wear on the mainland—i.e., frumpsville. But here, it was different. They were bright and comfortable, and it was socially acceptable to wear them nearly everywhere. The muumuu was an improvement the moment she put it on, and she felt like her old self again . . . or was it her new self? Then she wet her hair and pulled it into a bun at the top of her head. It didn’t hide the mess of color, but it helped camouflage it somewhat and would keep the