Dear Diary,
After hours of fruitless searching, I went back to the penthouse to see if they had heard anything.
"Good news!" said Mrs. Corinthos. She sounded almost cheerful and my heart leapt.
"Michael! He came home! Where is he?"
"What? No!" she smirked. "I found my camcorder. Turns out what's-his-name had left it under the table. I thought you'd want to know the good news that I won't be docking your pay after all." She handed the camcorder to me and turned to her husband. "What do we pay her for, anyway? She's from Colombia, right? Why don't we give her coffee beans instead of money? She'll never know the difference!"
Mr. Corinthos replied to the effect that it would be a good way to get rid of those tainted beans. Or he might have said something about raisin cream, or maybe that he was wearing Satan's jeans.
Normally I would have reminded them that I was standing right there and could hear them. But I had no interest in deciphering her shrieking or his mumbling, because I had just pressed play on the camcorder.
First I saw my poor son talking to the camera. "Hi Mumble Daddy, my name is Michael. I live in your house. Scary Lady Daddy says I have to tell you I love you. You're the best daddy -- better than Stare Daddy, Drunk Daddy, and way better than Scary Daddy. Well actually, Lupita Daddy is better than you, even though she peed on my shoes. Please don't hurt me."
Next I heard Mrs. Corinthos in the background. "I have to go to the home decorating store, and since what's-her-name isn't back yet, I guess I have to take you with me."
"Yay!" said Michael. "Are we going to paint my mommy's room?"
"You bet," she said. "There's way too much light in there. Painting the walls darker brown will take care of that. Hey, put down that camcorder! If you break it, I'll take it out of your allowance!"
The next thing on the tape was Mr. Corinthos, droning on about sending someone's boat to the bottom of the harbor. Make him pay, burn him, yadda yadda. I've heard it before, but never before on tape. It occurred to me that this tape would be of interest to the police, but before I could act on the thought Mr. Corinthos took the camcorder from me.
"There," he said, "the tape's erased. And I'm sure," he looked at me ominously, "that your kid won't say anything about it. If he knows what's good for him. I'm just saying."
The realization dawned on me that Michael had seen the tape, seen Mr. Corinthos in all his thuggish glory. That must be why he ran away.
"You stupid conejo!" I hissed at Mrs. Corinthos. She shrugged and snapped her chewing gum. "Huh?"
I almost wish I had repeated myself in English, but instead I said a silent prayer to Our Lady of Slatterns, took a deep breath, and "I said, have you seen Michael's play dough? It's his favorite toy."
"Oh, that?" she sneered. "I threw it out. Sonny Corinthos is my husband, and I won't have some brat soiling our expensive furniture! Speaking of which," she draped herself over Mr. Corinthos, "isn't it time we headed upstairs?"
Mr. Corinthos mumbled something unintelligible.
"You're right," purred Mrs. Corinthos, "with that kid gone, we can do it right here."
Aie! It would make me ill, except that I've been too upset about my son's disappearance to eat. I left them to it, and hurried out to continue looking.