“We didn’t get a single card or phone call from any of Derek’s friends,” Mr. Chaney said. “Not one. Or even from the parent of a friend. My wife noticed that first.”
“Of course, it’s early. Kids tend to take a little prodding. They assume they have all the time...”
Her words faded, and Rafe quickly inserted, “It’s early yet.”
“We received a few from our neighbors, and even from Derek’s past teachers,” Mr. Chaney said, “but, they were so generic—‘Sorry for your loss. Please know you’re in our prayers.’ Nothing personal.”
Rafe almost said that it had only been a couple of days and that they’d be receiving cards for months yet. Instead, he asked, “Why does this surprise you?”
“Used to be, he was surrounded by friends, kids who laughed, kids who would talk to us. I’m so mad at myself. We could sense something was going on.”
“How well do you know the friends he has now?” Rafe continued examining the portraits.
“For the last two years, not well at all.” The Chaneys looked at each other. Two people, one emotion: regret.
Mr. Chaney went first. “We mentioned this to the officer who came to notify us about finding Der—” His voice cracked. “About finding Derek’s body.”
Mrs. Chaney joined in. “We didn’t like any of Derek’s current friends. He’s been in and out of trouble lately, serious trouble, with them. They weren’t the kind to knock on the door and be respectful. They honked and Derek ran. The few times one of his friends came in, well, let’s just say his new friends didn’t bother to curb their language, hide their cigarettes, or even clean up after themselves.”
Rafe definitely wanted to show them photos of the four kids Janie had picked out. Tommy especially.
“We talked to him, gave him a curfew,” Mr. Chaney said. “We did what we could. We monitored his computer, found nothing. Whenever we could get our hands on his phone, we went through his text messages. There weren’t many. Two years ago, he kept everything. The last three months, it was obvious that he erased his messages as soon as he read them.”
Savvy kid, Rafe thought.
“But he’s almost nineteen, legal age. Outside of kicking him out, what could we do?” Mrs. Chaney sounded more like she was talking to herself than to them.
“Jimmy, our oldest boy,” Mr. Chaney said, taking over, “was worried too. He came home from his job in California at least once a month so we could do something as a family over the weekend. We’d hoped things were changing. Last year, for a while, it was like we had the old Derek back. Then, at the beginning of fall semester, it all went wrong again. He started staying out all night, missing school, taking money without permission.”
The Chaneys were doing what most parents did in this type of situation—not so much trying to convince Rafe that they were caring parents, but trying to assure themselves.
“Derek had so much potential,” Janie said. “His art was riveting, daring. I could see the artist he could be. If there’d only been more time.”
Mrs. Chaney nodded, her eyes filling with tears.
“Would Jimmy possibly know who Derek was hanging around with?” Rafe pressed.
“We asked him. He gave us two or three names, but they were kids Derek had hung around with before leaving high school.” Mrs. Chaney shot her husband a guarded look. Rafe waited.