Autumn glanced over her shoulder to check her blind spot and changed lanes. “She dropped by my boutique Thursday afternoon. That was the last time I saw her. The Millers called me the next day. She never came home that night.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Bill and Emily were keeping a really close eye on her.”
“Look, I know you have problems with your foster parents, but they love Holly,” Autumn said. “They’re really broken up about this.”
“You’d think they would’ve noticed she was gone before the next morning then.”
“Go easy on them, Bee.”
The red embroidered accents on my armrest were coming undone. I picked at the threads, ignoring the way my stomach heaved at the sight of the next traffic sign. The big white letters burned themselves into my retinas: Belle Dame, fifteen miles. My fingers found my collarbone beneath the billowing flannel. I traced the outline of it, concentrating on a noticeable dip in its structure.
“Does it still hurt?” Autumn asked.
I pinned my hands to my side. “No.”
“You know, for someone who already survived one fatal car wreck, you think you’d be more inclined to wear your seatbelt.”
I took the hint and buckled up. To me, it didn’t matter if you wore the belt or not. My parents were both securely fastened, and it hadn’t saved them. Cars weren’t inherently dangerous. It was the people who drove them that decided if you lived or died.
“What did the cops say?” I asked. “About Holly.”
“They’re useless,” Autumn replied. “They completed a report—physical description, personal history, and all that crap—but they can’t do much else. Holly’s almost eighteen. She barely qualifies as a minor anymore.”
“Does that matter? She’s gone!”
Autumn swerved around a semi-truck. I gripped the Oh Shit bar tighter.
“They jumped through all the hoops,” she went on. “The Missing Persons Center has been notified. Bill and Emily are trying to get an AMBER alert put out, but apparently there’s some kind of criteria for it? Law enforcement has to prove that she’s at risk of injury or death, but so far there’s nothing that would—Bee?”
I’d folded over, tucking my head between my knees and pulling deep, steady breaths in through my nose. The AC blew cold air on the back of my neck, chilling a fresh coat of sweat.
“Jesus, are you okay?” She tried to push my long, tangled hair back to see my face, but the cramped bucket seat and the proximity of the glove compartment made it a challenge. The car jerked.
“Hands on the wheel!”
She jumped, grabbing the steering wheel at exactly ten and two. “Okay, okay! My hands are on the wheel. My eyes are on the road.”
At risk of injury or death. The words made my stomach churn. The news was full of stories about young women who had disappeared. Most of them didn’t make it home alive, and my mind conjured treacherous images of Holly’s potential situation, painting horrific scenarios without my consent. I closed my eyes, focusing on the thrum of the engine, the vibration of the wheels against the pavement, and an inane pop/country hybrid artist crooning over the radio. My stomach settled, and my breathing evened out.
I lifted my head a smidge. Autumn’s gaze flickered toward me, her honey-colored eyes melting with worry. She shifted her position, and her shirt settled against her midriff. From this angle, the slight swell of her belly was so obvious that I was shocked I hadn’t noticed it before. I sat up.
“Are you—?”
“Pregnant? Yeah.”
“But how? Who?”
“I think the ‘how’ is pretty obvious.” She pinched the fabric of her shirt and pulled it forward so that it obscured the curve of her figure once more. “As for who, you don’t know him.”
“The guy on the phone?”
“Yeah. His name’s Christian.”
I not-so-subtly checked out her left hand. She held it up for me to see.
“There’s no ring,” she said. “It wasn’t planned. We’re just going with the flow for now.”
“Right. You and some guy named Christian are going with the flow.” I stared at her torso. “Oh, God, I hope you stopped drinking.”
“Of course I did. Stop staring at me.” She waved her hand in front of my unblinking eyes. “And he’s not ‘some guy.’ We’ve been together for three years.”
“Three years?” I studied her from head to toe. She might’ve looked like an older version of the girl that I used to know, but this was so not Autumn Parker from Belle Dame High, class of oh-seven. “The last time I talked to you, you’d just broken up with that Jackson guy after six months. If I recall, you said, and I quote, ‘Long-term relationships are for suckers.’”
Autumn braked hard. I yelped, bracing myself against the dashboard. A sea of red taillights stretched across the interstate.
“Sorry,” Autumn said. “It always backs up here. And by the way, the last time you talked to me, I was in college. That was five years ago, Bee. I grew up. I learned how to sustain a healthy relationship.”
I had no reply. She was right. I escaped from my small-town home as soon as possible and never looked back. It hurt too much. It was easier to be a stranger in a foreign country than a familiar face in Belle Dame. Life was simpler when no one knew your name, but as soon as people started tagging your personality, your quirks, and your characteristics, they laid down expectations too. And the last thing I wanted was for anyone to expect anything from me.
Silence stole over the car as the traffic jerked along. I turned up the volume on the radio, surfing through Autumn’s preset stations. Every one was some kind of local country station, rife with banjo strings and twangy vowels. The South immersed itself in a watered-down version of the world, where a cold beer and a lawn chair could whisk all of your problems away like an otter down the creek. If only it were that simple. Several songs later, the ramp for Belle Dame appeared a mile ahead. Autumn rode up the shoulder, bypassing the line of cars waiting to exit, and we left the interstate to a blaring chorus of honking horns.
Belle Dame was not Thailand. It was corn fields and hay bales and cows crossing the road when you were running late. It was wispy clouds and a low skyline of farm houses, stables, and chicken coops. It was dry dust in your nostrils and mud on your boots, and if you really wanted to settle into the local color, it was whiskey in your cup. It wasn’t a bad place to live. If you were satisfied with the quiet hum of rural landscape and didn’t mind the lackadaisical Wi-Fi, then Belle Dame was quite relaxing.
I rolled down the window. The breeze washed in with the scent of sweet corn, and my hair billowed out in wild waves. Autumn slipped a hair tie off of her wrist and offered it to me. I held it between my teeth, gathered up my lengthy, pinkish-blonde locks, and secured them in an untidy bun. Wispy strands escaped from the knot, but at least the hot weight had lifted from my neck.
“Jesus,” Autumn said.
“What?”
“For a second there, I was fifteen again.” On the empty two-lane road, Autumn’s focus turned lazy. We floated around a bend, the tires riding along the double yellow line. “You look exactly the same. It’s like we’re on our way to a game or something.”
I reached for my shoulder again, massaging the perpetually tight tendons. “If that’s the case, our trip won’t be complete without a visit to Harry’s.”
“It burned down.”
“No way.”
Autumn nodded. “Yup. The best barbeque place in town is no more. Don’t worry though. Harry invested in a food truck.”
“Oh, thank God.”
I smiled, settling into the old flow of mine and Autumn’s stagnant friendship. It was a comfort to know that the bare roots of our personalities remained. We hadn’t altered so much that we no longer had anything in common. I owed Autumn more than I could give her. She had every right to be brusque with me. She could’ve told me to catch a cab from the airport to Belle Dame. Instead, she showed up. She always showed up, even when I di
dn’t.
As we drove closer to the town center, Belle Dame looked less Children of the Corn and more Southern Comfort. There was Harry’s new food truck, complete with a cylindrical smoker large enough to hide several bodies in. A little farther along was The Pit, a bar and grille that hosted the high school athletes’ after-game rituals, win or lose. The Pit’s reputation—and its menu—surpassed its unfortunate moniker. I recalled several nights with the never-ending wing basket, as well as a tipsy teenaged adventure during which Autumn and I sat at the bar and took a single sip out of every beer waiting to be served as soon as the bartender looked away.
“There’s my shop.” Autumn pointed to a pretty storefront with the name Oak and Autumn printed in cursive on the windows. The door was open, welcoming shoppers. A rack of sweaters and long-sleeved shirts rested on the sidewalk with a sign taped above it. I recognized Autumn’s handwriting: Winter Fashions - Fifty Percent Off!
“Who’s Oak?”
“No one. We sell handmade furniture, and it sounded cute.”
“Oh.”
We trundled along, passing the cafe and bakery, the secondhand bookstore, and the butcher’s. It was early. Kids were in school, parents were at work, and the little businesses were sleepy. I yawned and rubbed my drooping eyelids, but the sight of a huge modern building in the middle of what used to be a horse ranch jolted me awake more effectively than a shot of espresso.
“That’s the new high school,” Autumn explained as I turned around in my seat to get a better look. The structure, with its angled overhang and stylish atrium, was a far cry from the one-story cinderblock penitentiary that Autumn and I had attended. The school colors—red, black, and gold—had been incorporated in the construction of the building, weaved seamlessly into accent pieces. A sign at the entrance to the parking lot displayed the mascot logo, a large wolf with bared teeth, with Belle Dame High School: Home of the Wolfpack printed in red and black letters beside it. Underneath, the changeable letter board was arranged to read: Girls’ Varsity Fastpitch Game - Wednesday 6pm.
My stomach dipped as I remembered why I had returned to Belle Dame. The game was in two days, and I had a sinking feeling that Holly wouldn’t be suiting up to play in it.
“What happened to the old school?” I asked Autumn.
“It’s still there,” she replied as we left the new one in the rear view mirror. “I guess it was full of mold or something. Plus, it was overcrowded. A subdivision went up a few years ago, and a ton of new families moved in. The school was due for an update.”
“A subdivision. In Belle Dame?”
“The future is now, Bee. Where should I drop you?”
“At Bill and Emily’s, I guess.”
Her quick glance was like a laser beam, scanning my expression for hints of a disturbance. “You sure? Maybe you should take a nap before you jump into this. When was the last time you slept?”
“I slept on the plane.”
“I meant the last time you slept horizontally.”
“Autumn, just drop me off.”
“Suit yourself.”
We passed the cookie-cutter subdivision and rode up into the old neighborhood of my childhood. Here, the houses were far enough apart to allow the residents to keep chickens or goats, but not so far that you couldn’t walk to your neighbor’s house if you were short a cup of sugar. Bill and Emily lived on the far side, and the dusty road let straight to their driveway, but when Autumn turned off the main stretch to take the long way around, I knew why. She didn’t want to drive me past my parents’ house.
Before long, the sports car idled outside the low wooden fence that sectioned off Bill and Emily’s property. The house waited for me at the end of the long dirt driveway. I retrieved my backpack from the back seat, squeezed Autumn’s hand in thanks, and popped open the door.
“Bee, wait,” Autumn said, taking hold of my shirt. “You know, you can just stay with me. It would be a lot less hassle.”
I leaned over the passenger seat to plant a kiss on Autumn’s cheek. “Thanks, but I’m good. I’ll call you, okay?”
I shut the door before she could reply, but not before I caught sight of her scrunched brow. She waited as I started up the driveway, so I turned around and waved her away. Through the window, I saw her shake her head, but she put the car in drive and sped off.
Like everything else in Belle Dame, Bill and Emily’s house was pretty much the same. At some point, it had gotten a fresh coat of paint, and a few of the warped boards in the front porch had been replaced with new ones, but the essentials remained familiar. Fresh herbs grew in pots on the window sills. Dirty shoes and muddy boots were piled in a plastic bin. A crooked welcome sign hung from a tack beside the front door. With a lump in my throat, I bypassed the gaudy brass knocker and rapped my knuckles against the door itself.
Chapter Four - Reminiscence
No one answered. Relief and disappointment shared the space between the front porch and the inside of the house. Of course no one was home. It was nine o’clock in the morning. Bill and Emily would be at work, and their brood of foster kids at school. Between eight am and three pm was the interim during which everyone did what society deemed you were supposed to do. While everyone else took their assigned seats at school or work, the rest of the world waited in limbo. Without a category, I went unassigned to traditional tasks. It wasn’t usually a problem. In other countries, I found ways to make myself useful, picking up odd jobs here and there to earn a quick buck and hunting down ways to feed my adrenaline addiction. In Belle Dame, there was nothing for me to do but wander around town.
I cupped my hands to the window and peered inside, making out the tower of dishes in the kitchen sink, the bulging coat closet stuffed with an amalgamation of boots and rain jackets, and the massive leather sectional in the living room covered in handmade crocheted blankets to ward off potential damage. A fat black and white cat snoozed on the mantle below the widescreen TV, which someone had forgotten to turn off. It ran an old baseball game on mute. Beyond my peripheral, a rickety staircase led to the upper bedrooms. Somewhere, there was evidence of Holly’s life here, but I didn’t have access to it.
With a sigh, I sat down on the porch steps, kicked off my threadbare sneakers, and traded them for my hiking boots. It wasn’t a far walk into town, but I’d grown fond of the supportive way the boots hugged my feet. I tied the laces of my sneakers together and swung them through the straps of my backpack.
At the end of the driveway, the road split in two directions. To the left was the way Autumn and I had come, from the outer circle that cut around the neighborhood rather than through it. In front of me was the road that led straight toward the center of town, the road that Autumn intentionally avoided on the way in. I set my course in that direction.
A trance stole over me, a trick of the humidity. The neighborhood existed in a past life, and there was a discrepancy between then and now. There was the Marks’ house, with its bold terrace and teetering chimney. Ten years ago, the front door was teal, and now it was tan, but it still had the old-school window AC units instead of upgraded central air. A few blocks down was Autumn’s old home, where she had stayed until her parents separated. I remembered holding her as she cried in her empty childhood bedroom, all of her things sorted into two stacks of cardboard boxes. The shorter pile contained her necessities—clothes and shoes—while the taller one was full of memories that wouldn’t fit in either of her parents’ new apartments. Those boxes went to the Salvation Army, but not before I’d salvaged what I could of her “unnecessary” items and hid them in my own room at home.
Aunt Ani’s small white house rested between two taller dwellings like the littlest cousin of a big family. I lingered on the sidewalk for a beat too long. The arched window to the left of the door was curtained, obscuring the view of the breakfast nook. When I was kid, Aunt Ani replaced the table with a telescope, and we camped in the stationary bench seats, eating homemade waffles, to scan the skies. On cloudy nights, we aime
d a little lower, and it wasn’t until we caught sight of the newly married couple across the street getting it on in their kitchen with the blinds open that Aunt Ani deemed our activity too intrusive.
And then there was the house on the corner lot with the wide side yard perfect for playing catch, and the gray gable roof that collected rain in inconvenient corners, and the dark-stained wooden columns that I’d once run smack into during a temper tantrum. The resulting gash above my eye needed a grand four stitches. The scar and the lesson in vigilance would never fade.
There was the porch light that Mom and Dad flipped on and off as a warning if I was getting too hot and heavy with someone after a date. There were the tacks right below the roofline where we hung our Christmas lights each year. There was the gate to the back fence with the tricky lock that snagged my homecoming dress freshman year and ripped the bodice. I ended up going to the dance in a vintage piece of my mom’s and looking better than the rest of the girls wearing designer gowns from the big mall half an hour away.
The house was rife with moments from the past. I stood slack-jawed as the wave of recollections engulfed me, riding it out with a blank stare in my traditional style of repression. Then the front door opened, and a middle-aged woman stepped out.
“Can I help you?” she called across the front yard in a polite tone that suggested she might have already dialed the non-emergency number for the police station and was waiting to press the call button.
“I—” I used to live here. “No, thank you.”
She watched as I continued on my way. When I turned the corner, I heard the door close. The hinges still squeaked. And that was that. Autumn’s subtle fuss was unnecessary. I was fine. Or I would’ve been fine if my little sister had stayed where I’d left her ten years ago.
Little Girl Lost: Book 0 Page 3