He could see the housekeeper’s panic, her eyes darting around the foyer in search of Mr Grolsch, afraid to comply without his approval. Goodman flashed his badge and repeated the instruction, his tone making it plain this was not a request. Reluctantly she escorted him upstairs and nodded towards the relevant door, then scuttled away as fast as she could.
The room Goodman walked into was a large, brightly decorated boy’s bedroom. He felt a pang of real sadness. There was so much warmth here, so much innocence and hope, traces of the happy child Brandon Grolsch must once have been, before drugs robbed him of his future. The desk chair shaped like a football. The Lamborghini posters on the walls. The trophies, for swimming and karate, wedged between books about NFL heroes and space exploration. The giant ‘B’ cushion, propped up against the Pottery Barn teen bed.
Where did it all go wrong?
A noise behind him made Goodman turn. Brandon’s mother, her eyes still puffy from crying, hovered anxiously in the doorway.
‘Did Brandon have a computer? Or a phone?’ Goodman asked.
She nodded. ‘Both. Once. But he sold ’em, long before he left. You know how it is, when kids have problems.’
Goodman nodded. He knew how it was.
Frances Grolsch gazed vacantly around her son’s room.
‘Maybe he got another phone … I guess he must have.’
‘Mrs Grolsch, your husband believes that Brandon is dead. He said you received a letter—’
‘We don’t know!’ Frances insisted, twisting her fingers round and round in her lap, like someone trying to wring the last drops of water from a dishcloth. ‘That letter wasn’t signed, or anything. Maybe it was a mistake.’
‘But there was a letter?’
She nodded miserably.
‘That Mrs Baden passed on to you?’
Another nod. Then, more lucid than before: ‘He could be dead, Detective. I know that. I’m not stupid. He used to call me two, three, four times a week, no matter what state he was in. Then last summer the calls stopped, just like that.’ Her eyes welled up with tears. ‘Until it’s beyond doubt, until I know for one hundred per cent sure, I can’t give up hope entirely. You understand, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ Goodman assured her. ‘Which is why it’s so important we find out what happened to Brandon, Mrs Grolsch. We need to know, for our investigation. And you need to know too, one way or the other. Right?’
She nodded vigorously.
‘Were there any other adults he might have turned to, after he left home? When he stopped calling you. A teacher at school? A counselor? A doctor, even?’
Frances Grolsch sighed heavily. ‘Brandon didn’t like teachers. He had a lot of therapists, but I don’t know if he’d’ve reached out to any of them.’
A thought suddenly occurred to Goodman.
‘Did he ever see a therapist named Dr Nicola Roberts?’
Frances furrowed her brow and thought for a moment. Then, closing her eyes, as if the effort was too much for her, she shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. Don’t think so. I don’t remember that name.’ Looking up at Goodman, she suddenly asked, ‘What is your investigation anyway? Is Brandon in trouble, Detective?’
Goodman stared back at this broken, lonely woman, with her bullying husband, rattling around this opulent prison of a house. I suspect Brandon’s been in trouble for a very, very long time, he thought.
‘We don’t know anything for sure yet, ma’am,’ he said aloud, pulling out his card and pressing it into her clammy hand. ‘But if you remember anything – anything at all that you think might help – please call me.’
‘Mmm hmmm,’ said Frances Grolsch, looking dazed.
Goodman headed out to his car. It had been quite the elucidating visit. Clearly he and Johnson needed to speak to Mr and Mrs Willie Baden, and the sooner the better. But driving away, it was the toxic atmosphere in the Grolsch household that haunted him more than anything, sending shivers running down his spine.
Poor Brandon.
Families like that were how monsters were made.
No amount of money could compensate for a life that loveless and bleak.
Passing the neighboring home with the birthday balloons outside, he found himself saying a silent prayer for nine-year-old Ryan.