So she filled up her house with these clues—that was how she thought of them. She was convinced that with Bixby and Sophie as her guides, she would follow the various finds to the answer of what had happened. She had to.
She placed the dictionary page on top of the pile of her most recent finds. She hung her jacket on one of the coat hooks next to the door. Sophie’s purple parka hung there by its hood, and her flowered rubber rain boots stood in the plastic boot tray below it. Jesse walked into the kitchen to get something to eat. She let her hand slide along the doorjamb of the pantry. The pencil markings climbing the wood indicated her daughter’s height with the corresponding year next to it. There were marks for Jesse’s and Cooper’s heights as well. Proof she once had a family.
She took a small bowl from the cupboard. Sophie’s favorite, it was white with blue polka dots around the outside. She lingered over it for a moment, rubbing her thumb around the rim. Her child’s presence filled the house. Every dish, spoon, and plate she’d ever touched. Every chair she’d sat in. Every light switch she’d flicked on or off.
“How about some Cheerios, Soph?” Jesse poured cereal, but no milk, into the bowl and took it out to the back screened-in porch that overlooked a creek. She sat in her favorite rocker and ate the Cheerios by hand, one round oat piece at a time, the way Sophie used to every morning. Looking down at the two yellow Adirondack chairs on the lawn near the water, Jesse drifted to a memory.
“Sophie, I’m talking to you.” Jesse would often have to call her a million times to come in for lunch. “Sophie.” She could see the back of her daughter, not budging. “Sophie!”
“Mom, don’t yell. You’ll scare her away.” She was, of course, peering through her binoculars.
“Who?”
“Field sparrow.”
Just then, as if on cue, a bird with a white belly, pink bill, and reddish cap landed on the lip of the birdbath in the yard, pulling Jesse back to the present. The field sparrow sang a plaintive song. “Cheep, cheep, cheep, cheep, trriiilll.” The series of clear whistled notes ended with a lovely long trill. Sophie had taught Jesse how to really watch and listen.
Numerous bird feeders hung from trees around the yard, all of them empty and swinging eerily in the wind. Glass hummingbird feeders, caged squirrel-proof ones, plastic tube feeders, ceramic domed ones, and suet socks. Sophie had kept them filled religiously. And back then, the yard had looked and sounded like a wonderful bird sanctuary. Absolutely magical. So alive with bird song, colorful feathers, and flashes of movement. Sophie would not have been happy with the sad state of her forsaken feeders.
In the days right after she’d disappeared, Canaan had been transformed into a freakshow, with police, FBI, television trucks, and news crews all bustling about. Jesse and Cooper’s home had been turned into missing person central. Police scoured their house for clues. Tables were set up in the dining room, with laptops and call-in phone lines for people to report possible sightings. Maps noting locations to be searched were tacked on a large bulletin board. Friends canvassed neighborhoods, distributing flyers. Neighbors brought in pans of lasagna. Jesse had wandered the house in a daze. She had seen things like that in movies and on the news, but even in her tranquilized state back then, she’d understood it was real. It was her life. But with each passing month, as hope dwindled, fewer people came. The phone rang less. The lasagna deliveries stopped.
Six whole years later, the “case,” as the FBI called her missing daughter, had gone “cold.” Sophie had become one of those missing children who had fallen into a black abyss, never to be seen or heard from again. The commotion in town had died down. Morning gossip over coffee at Earl’s Café had finally reverted to benign topics: talk of the new roof for the town hall or a potluck fundraiser for the church.
Jesse stood up and walked back inside the house. She grabbed a bottle of red wine and carried it upstairs, running her hand along the smooth maple banister her child had touched each day. She opened the door to Sophie’s room and poked her head in, just in case. Then she closed the door and continued to her own bedroom. On her nightstand was a framed photo of Sophie standing on the wooden seat of the rope swing in the back yard, wearing a two-piece bathing suit, her binoculars hanging around her neck. The letter S on one lens cap and an A on the other were visible. She’d used blue gaffer tape to mark her initials. It was taken a week before That Day. Caught in mid-swing, Sophie held on to the rope handles, and her long brown hair flew behind her. She wasn’t smiling. She rarely did in photos, and her head was tilted to the left. She was a nice-looking girl. Not one most people would call “pretty.” There was a haunting quality about her. Wistful. Introspective. She had Cooper’s eyes and his straight nose as well as Jesse’s dark hair—when it had been dark—and pale skin. The splash of freckles came from who knew where.
Jesse poured herself a glass of wine then put on sweatpants and a T-shirt. She lit two white votive candles on an altar she’d made. Holding to her heart a little plastic figure of the saint she’d purchased off the internet for $14.95, she recited, “Saint Anthony, lead me to my daughter. I have faith in you. News about my daughter will come to me in a good way, for the good of all, with harm to none.” Saint Anthony was the patron saint of lost things and missing persons. She’d read about the ritual online, thanks to her mother, who was always emailing her information she claimed would help her find Sophie.
Even though she’d had absolutely no results, Jesse found the ritual oddly comforting. The Saint Anthony instructions said, “When the ritual is completed, eat something of the earth,” and Jesse was sure that fermented grapes in liquid form qualified as earthly. And maybe, she justified, the more she drank of the earth, the closer she would be to finding Sophie. She finished one glass and poured another.
Jesse had hermited herself away, going out only when she had to, avoiding old friends, and doing her food shopping late at the all-night Stop-n-Shop. Only an occasional delivery man came to the house anymore. So when Jesse heard loud knocking at her front door, she assumed it must be somebody new. She had the UPS guy who brought her Winestogo.com deliveries trained to leave packages on her doorstep.
The knocking continued, so she blew out her candles and quietly snuck into the bathroom. She pulled the curtain aside and peered out the window to see a bright-yellow VW bug in her drive. From her vantage point, she could see only the sneaker-clad feet of a man standing at her front door. Red high-tops. He was yelling, “Hello? Hellooo?”
She let the curtain fall and stepped away from the window.
“I’ll only be a moment, ma’am,” the man shouted. “I just have a question for you.”
“Damn.” He had seen her at the window. He could be a pesky reporter. Once or twice a year, a tenacious one would appear, wanting to do a follow-up story. “Whatever happened to Sophie Albright? Six years later...” That kind of thing.
“Hello. Ms. Albright? I know you’re home. Just one moment of your time. Please.”
Jesse went downstairs and through the maze of boxes. This guy was persistent. If she didn’t get rid of him now, he would probably come back—or worse, he would sit and wait for her to leave the house. She tiptoed to the front door, waited, and listened.
“I’m here about a young woman. A missing girl. Please open up.”
Jesse’s heart lurched. It wasn’t Mallory, the FBI agent who had been tracking the case; she would have recognized his voice, and he always called before coming over. She hadn’t seen him in two years. Maybe they assigned a new agent to the case. Maybe there’s actual news. She sometimes wished she would get that phone call or visit from a policeman saying, “We think your daughter’s been found. You have to come identify the remains.” Wouldn’t it be better knowing? Would it?
She unlocked the door and threw it open. Standing in her doorway was a tall black man casually dressed in black jeans and a white button-down shirt with a flowered necktie. And those red high-tops.
“Why didn’t you say why you were here in
the first place?” Jesse said.
“Didn’t you hear me knocking?”
“Yes, yes.” Her hand smacked the air as if waving away his words. “What information do you have? Is she alive? Have you found her?”
The wind gusted, and his tie fluttered up so she could see the label on the backside. Zone. It figured. She opened the door wider and let the man in.
“You know about her?” He took off his cap and placed it on a table near the door that held keys and mail and a piece of folk art—a six-inch black crow made out of metal. Jesse had bought it for Sophie at a flea market. Sophie loved it and wanted to keep it in the living room so everyone could see it. “Crows are super smart,” she’d said, “and this one is good luck.”
He looked at Jesse. The man’s hair was cropped close to his head. His eyes were darker than his skin, which was the color of a warm teak wood. He looked young, although Jesse couldn’t guess his age. He could have been in his thirties or his fifties. The expression “Black don’t crack” popped into Jesse’s head. She’d heard Oprah say it on TV, and it had made her laugh at the time. Oprah was right, at least about this guy. He had no wrinkles or signs of stress.
He held himself with confidence as he gazed around the living room. His smile faded as he took in all the piles of junk. His eyes seemed to rest on a bouquet of dusty plastic tulips then moved on to a small black-and-white TV, its rabbit ears askew. “Is this some kind of...” He made a gesture with his hands while he searched for the word. “Recycling center or something?”
Jesse shook her head. “No, no. Never mind that. The reason you’re here. The girl. Please just tell me.”
“Right, of course. I’m sorry.” He put his hand out to shake hers, but she ignored it. “I’m Kentucky Marcus Barnes. A private investigator. I’m here about a young woman—”
“You said that. What about her? Get to the point.”
“Her name is April Johnson. She’s been missing now for three weeks. She’s from Parsippany, New Jersey, and I’ve been hired by her family to locate her. She was—”
“What?” Jesse cut him off. “April Johnson? You mean Sophie. Sophie Albright. My daughter. What’s wrong with you?”
He took a step back and held up his hands. “I think there’s some misunderstanding here.”
Jesse took a deep breath. “You mean you’re not here about Sophie? You know nothing about Sophie? Who the hell are you?” She picked up his cap, shoved it into his gut, and pushed him toward the door. “Get out.”
“Now, Miss... Ms. Albright. Wait a second, please. Please. I’m looking for a missing girl. I have reason to believe that you may have seen the very girl I’m searching for. You might be able to help. Don’t you want to help?”
Jesse felt the shooting pain in her chest that came and went and placed her hand near her heart. What kind of cruel joke is this? She had nothing left in her to give. She sighed and shook her head. “I haven’t seen anyone. I don’t see people.”
The detective pulled something out of the inside pocket of his jacket. He shoved it under Jesse’s nose. “Now hold on. This is a photo of April. She’s seventeen, and we believe that she’s in this area. We think she purchased some merchandise at the Zone store at the Countryside Mall earlier today. I understand that you were there around the time that April may have been. We’re looking for any clues. Do you remember seeing this girl at the Zone?”
The fucking Zone again. Jesse glanced at the photo. It looked like it was from a high school yearbook. The girl had long blond hair and a sweet smile. She wore a white turtleneck and pearls, giving her a pure, innocent look. Jesse must have gone to every house in Canaan and every neighboring town, showing Sophie’s photo to strangers. She had searched downtown Boston, Times Square in New York City, and every porno joint, strip club, and sleazy bar in between looking for Sophie or the person who may have snatched her. She looked at the photo again. She’d seen lots of teen girls at the mall, including the one she’d followed earlier, but none looked like the girl in this photo.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry.” And she handed the photo back to him.
“You’re sure? Take your time. Do you remember seeing anyone at the store? Anything suspicious?”
“No. Sorry.”
“All right. Well, I appreciate it. The family is worried sick. You can imagine. We’re pretty sure she was at the mall today. She’s been using a stolen credit card. It’s how we’ve been keeping tabs on her general whereabouts. We’re following any leads, no matter how farfetched. Well, anyway. Thank you. Sorry for the misunderstanding before. Goodbye.”
Jesse ushered him to the door. When he had his hand on the knob, he turned back to Jesse. “Forgive me for prying, but I can’t help but wonder about your daughter. How long has she been missing? Could your daughter have known April Johnson? I know it’s a long shot, but it does seem odd that—”
“You’re not from around here, are you? No, my daughter couldn’t have known this April.”
“But if you’re concerned if she’s even alive—”
“Are you with the FBI or the local police or what?”
“I’m a private investigator, like I said, hired by her family.”
“You’re not a reporter, are you?” What kind of detective drives a VW Bug, and a yellow one at that, and dresses in jeans and sneakers? None that she’d ever met, and she’d met plenty.
“No, no. Like I said—”
“I’m not about to hire another detective. I have no money. I don’t see the point.”
“I don’t need you to hire me.” Then he stepped back. His mouth dropped open as if he just remembered something. “Oh, no.” He shook his head and held his hands up. “I just realized... Albright. Sophie Albright. I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect to be meeting...”
“Bird Mom.”
“A young salesgirl told me your name, but that’s all she said. I didn’t put it together until just now. I’m terribly sorry.”
“I’m the sorry one. I thought it was odd to lose a child. Apparently, it’s not. It happens all the time. I’m sorry about this other missing girl. You have no idea how sorry I am. But I just can’t help you. You’ll have to leave now.” She placed her hands on his chest, was surprised how solid it felt, and gave him a little shove out the door. And just that quick connection, her hands to his body for one moment even through his clothes, was startling. She closed and locked the door. Then she sank to the floor. She let her head fall into her hands.
“Mommy, Daddy, Sophie,” she whispered. She closed her eyes. Another missing girl. And that hellish Zone, swallowing up innocent girls like a sinkhole. But that man, something about him, something in his eyes. She felt stupid and mad for letting herself think just maybe...
A few moments later, Jesse heard his voice coming through the door. He was speaking softly. “Listen, Ms. Albright, if you can hear me.”
Jesse looked up, holding her breath as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.
“I’m very sorry for what you’ve gone through. I’m just going to slide a copy of that photo of April under the door, along with an article about her from the paper. My card with my number is stapled to it. You never know. Something may come to you later. Some little thought or idea. You get one of those little sparks of a memory, even just a glimmer, I want you to call me. I really would appreciate it. I’ll be in the area for a while. Even if it seems downright silly to you, it won’t be to me. You just call me anytime. Here it is. I’m sliding it under your door now.”
And two pieces of paper appeared under the door. “Okay, Ms. Albright. I’m going to go and leave you to your day. You have a good one, and thank you for your time. I’m sorry if I disturbed you or upset you. I would never mean to do that on purpose. Well, anyway, good day.”
She went upstairs to the bathroom and listened at the window. She heard him walk away, clomping on the gravel of the drive. He got into his car and drove off. Pulling back the curtain, she saw his VW turn onto the street. Jesse crawled
into the bathtub fully clothed, as she sometimes did, and opened the half-empty bottle of Sophie’s shampoo that she kept on the shelf in the corner. She brought it to her nose and inhaled, letting the sweet grape scent pull her back to bath time. She tucked her knees up to her chest and hung her head down. He couldn’t possibly know about the little sparks, those glimmers of memory, the ones that haunted her daily.
Chapter Five
Later that night, Star changed into her comfy clothes, a sleeveless T-shirt and gray sweats, and sat in bed under her Lady Gaga poster, instant messaging Ruby. After saying all there was to say about the new cute boy in school, she signed off and began scouring the internet. First, she visited Sophie’s website, which was like a fan page where people posted comments, prayers, hopeful messages, and supposed spottings. But there were always some sickos who wrote on the message board:
She deserved whatever happened to her.
I know where she is.
Come over here, and I’ll show you how she likes it.
Star quickly exited that site and went over to fbi.gov/wanted/kidnap. She typed in Sophie’s name, and the description of what had happened six years ago came up with two side-by-side photos, and whamo! She was back to that day, sitting at the dinner table, eating grilled steak and zucchini, when Cooper called her parents with the news, asking if they’d seen or heard from Sophie. The first photo was the one from Sophie’s missing persons poster that had been everywhere back then. Each store, telephone pole, and lamppost in Canaan and every town in the state had one. Sophie looked like the happiest ten-year-old around—basically nothing like the real girl, the serious one who rarely smiled for the camera. The other photo was one of those computer-generated ones showing what she might look like today, at sixteen. Somebody had given her dark lipstick and a really bad haircut a la Ophelia. Short and layered, it looked more like something out of the 1980s. The whole effect was super creepy—a smiling version of a young Sophie that Star didn’t exactly recognize next to an altered older version she couldn’t imagine being friends with. Two strangers. Star couldn’t wrap her head around it.
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