by Lisa Unger
“What?” said Elizabeth. She felt immediately defensive. “Now you’re policing my thoughts?”
Maggie released a sigh, pressed her mouth into a line. Elizabeth clutched her bag on her lap and squared her shoulders. At a certain point your child starts to think she can tell you what to do, how to be, everything you did wrong your whole life. Maggie was always on Elizabeth for being sour and judgmental. But there was no one on the face of the earth more judgmental of Elizabeth than her own daughter. The irony of this seemed lost on Maggie. She was so open and compassionate, giving and patient with everyone, even strangers-but when it came to her own mother? Maggie gave Elizabeth a hard time even when she managed to hold her tongue-which admittedly wasn’t often.
“Hey, Grandma.”
Ricky slid past her to sit on the other side of Maggie. He leaned in and offered her a light kiss on the cheek as he passed.
“Hello, baby boy.”
Maggie and Ricky immediately started talking about something to do with the computer, and Elizabeth found herself tuning out, scanning the room. Where was everyone? There were about twenty-five people, all gathered in little klatches, leaning in close, gossiping. Henry Ivy stood on the stage; he’d created a time line of events since Charlene’s disappearance. Elizabeth supposed there would be more urgency if Charlene weren’t suspected of running away. But it was a mistake to be so blasé. It was a mistake they’d all made with Sarah. Elizabeth thought it was a kind of innocence back then, a different idea about the world and how things might unfold. Now maybe it was a desensitization; so many things were wrong and violent and frightening, people just couldn’t react properly to everything.
It was Chief Crosby-he was still that to her, though it had been a dog’s age since he wore the shield-who got her thinking about her secret. She saw him sitting there in the front row, eyes trained on Henry Ivy’s time line. He leaned back, pushing his big belly forward almost with a kind of pride at its girth. His legs were spread wide, his arms folded over his chest. As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned and looked straight at her. She held his gaze, lifted a hand in greeting. He gave her a slow nod.
They were so different than they had been, both of them. They were unrecognizable from the young people they had been together. Elizabeth, for one, was surprised when she looked in the mirror and saw an old woman looking back at her. When did it happen? Chief Crosby was no less deteriorated, though he didn’t seem to be shrinking, as she was. He just seemed to be getting wider and rounder. But his eyes were exactly the same-small, mean, and, worst of all, knowing.
What gave her comfort when she did choose to walk that dark terrain, follow the trail of what-ifs and if-onlys, was that she wasn’t the only person in The Hollows with ugly memories and buried secrets. Not by a long shot.
She gave Chief Crosby a cool smile, and he did the same before turning back around as Henry Ivy called for order.
“Maybe people don’t think a runaway is a reason to call a town meeting,” said Henry Ivy, standing on the stage of the auditorium. He spoke softly, but there was something about him, a quiet way he had, that always commanded attention. Maggie felt the familiar rush of affection for him. She respected and trusted Henry, his motives, his caring for the young people of The Hollows. She often wondered why he’d never married, never even, as far as she knew, dated. For some reason, in their friendship, it was a question she could never bring herself to ask. She sensed that he wouldn’t want to answer.
“But when one of our children goes missing, no matter whether she has run away or is taken from us, it’s reason for concern. Many of you suspect that Charlene has left for New York City. A Facebook message has told us so. For some of you, the youngest among us, this seems like a very romantic notion. But it’s not.”
Someone coughed, and there was a murmur of activity toward the back of the room. Henry looked into the gathering-Charlene’s friends and their parents, mainly, one of Charlene’s teachers, a few people Maggie didn’t recognize.
“Is Melody here?” Henry asked.
Jones walked to the top of the center aisle. “Melody is helping some of our men look through her home for any evidence about where Charlene might be headed,” he said, purposely vague.
But even that was enough to cause a few heads to lean together, some whispering. Maggie saw Amber pull out her cell phone and start tapping on the keyboard. She turned to look at her husband. On her arrival, he’d updated her briefly about Graham, about the search at the Murray home, but he wouldn’t mention that here, knowing that the information would spread quickly, become unmanageable. Maggie herself didn’t know what to make of it. It was inconceivable that Charlene and Graham would have run off together. And, loser that he was, Graham still wasn’t the type to abscond with a minor. But Maggie had known Graham forever; he was really just a buffoon, harmless. Or so she’d always thought.
“So what I’m asking now is, Does anyone have any information on where Charlene might have gone? New York City is a big place; police there have been notified. But the chance of an officer randomly spotting her is unlikely. So what do we know about places she might have frequented, who she might know, where she might be staying? And don’t think you’re protecting her by keeping secrets. Charlene could be in very big trouble.”
He looked out at the crowd. Maggie watched Britney reluctantly rise.
She turned around to look apologetically at Ricky, then said to Henry, “She said she had a boyfriend in the city. All I know about him is that he plays guitar and his name is Steve.”
Maggie looked at Ricky, but he was staring blankly ahead. Elizabeth reached over Maggie and gave Rick a comforting pat on his thigh, but he didn’t seem to notice. That anger at Charlene started to simmer again.
“Do you know anything about him? A phone number, e-mail? Is anyone his friend on Facebook?” Henry asked.
Britney shook her head. “No one knows him. No one’s met him. Honestly, we all thought she was making him up.”
“Who were those Facebook friends of yours, the ones you and Charlene had in common?” Maggie whispered to her son.
“Who?” he asked. Just like Elizabeth, stalling with obtuse questions.
“The older ones from New York, Rick,” she said, failing to mask her annoyance. “You know who I’m talking about.”
He shrugged. “They’re just people we met. The guy who owns the studio, Markus, said he’d help us record our demo tape. We met him at a club.”
“Does he know you’re only seventeen?”
Another defensive shrug, the gesture of choice among teenage males. “I don’t know.”
“Have you been in touch with them since she disappeared?”
“What do you think?” he snapped. Then, more gently, “Of course. No one’s seen her.”
“And these were not the people she claimed to know, the ones who could get her into the music business?”
“No. I told you. I never met those people. Or the other guy she was supposedly seeing.”
“You know about him?”
“We had an open relationship.”
“Oh. Great. That’s great.”
Maggie noticed Henry was looking at them, raised her hand in apology.
“Do you have anything to share, Rick? You were closest to Charlene,” Henry said.
Ricky stood up. “I don’t believe Charlene left that message on Facebook, the one about being ‘large and in charge.’ She would never use language like that; it’s not her voice or her tone. I think she was making things up about who she knew in New York, her supposed other boyfriend.”
“So where do you think she is, Rick?” asked Henry. Everyone had turned to look at Maggie’s son. He stood strong with head and gaze straight at Henry. He was tall and proud, so like Jones, composed, not allowing himself to be overcome with the emotion she knew brewed within him. I’m not a child, he’d said to her the other night. He was right.
“I don’t know. I’ve talked to the people we both knew in New York, and no
one’s seen her. She hasn’t been in touch with anyone, including me, since early yesterday evening, and I think that’s suspicious. Because if there’s one thing Charlene needs, it’s an audience.”
“But that’s assuming the Facebook message didn’t in fact come from Charlene. If she did send it, then she’s being true to form,” said Henry. “Someone would need her log-in and password to send it from her account.”
“Lots of people know that. I do. Her friends might.”
“I think it sounds just like her.” Britney was standing now, looking at Ricky. “She’s doing what she always does, making a show.”
Ricky shook his head. “You don’t understand her.”
“No, Rick,” said Britney softly. “It’s you who doesn’t understand. She uses people. She used you; she’ll use whoever she went to be with in New York.”
The air went electric with an awkward tension. Maggie heard someone laugh, but when she looked around, she couldn’t see who it was.
“I thought you were her friend,” said Ricky. He looked more sad than angry. Maggie heard a little catch in his voice.
“I am her friend,” said Britney. She started to tear up, dug her hands into the front pocket of her pink Hollows High sweatshirt. “I see her for who she is and care about her anyway.”
Denise stood up and put a bolstering arm around her daughter. Maggie resisted the urge to do the same for Ricky; he wouldn’t want that. Didn’t need it.
Ricky looked away from Britney and back at Henry.
“I think something bad happened last night. Something more than a fight with her mother. Charlene fought with her mother constantly; they never got along. It wouldn’t be a reason for her to run away, not like this.”
“Like what?” Henry said. “What do you think might have happened?”
“I don’t know,” Ricky said, seeming deflated. Maggie turned around to look at Jones, hoping he would step forward to support their son. But he was gone from where he’d stood by the door. She knew that he had a job to do, that something important had called him away. But she felt angry and disappointed anyway.
“I may have seen her. The missing girl.”
“May have?”
“It was dark. I’d had some wine.”
“Where and when was this?”
“Last night around eleven thirty. I was at my-,” he said, stumbling over the word. “At my girlfriend’s house on Persimmon Way. Well, she’s not really my girlfriend. We just started seeing each other. But, um, anyway… she was asleep and I went to the kitchen to get some water, went out on the veranda to drink it.”
“It was cold last night.”
“Yes, it was.”
“So why go out to the veranda?”
Charlie cleared his throat. “You know, just to get some air.”
“And?”
“I saw her-this girl with pink and black hair-standing on the sidewalk, talking to someone in an old car.”
“What kind of car?”
Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not good with things like that. It was green, big. Like a muscle car, but I couldn’t tell you the make or model.”
“Okay.”
“Then she got in and the car pulled away.”
“She got in of her own free will?”
“It appeared that way. She didn’t seem afraid or upset. Maybe a little sad. But she opened the door and climbed inside. I never saw the driver. I mean, he-or she-never got out of the car.”
The detective was writing things down on his pad. Charlie felt an uncomfortable dryness in his throat, a slight shake to his hand. He felt guilty, edgy, as though he’d done something wrong and was trying to hide it. He always felt that way when cops were around, like they were looking at him, seeing a secret guilt he couldn’t acknowledge himself. Maybe it was because of Lily.
Now, at the police station, with Wanda sitting in the waiting area reading a paperback novel, he could feel a sheen of sweat on his brow. He wanted to wipe it away, but he didn’t want to call attention to the fact that he was sweating in the first place. He kept talking.
“I heard about the disappearance late today at a client’s house. I didn’t know about it before then.”
“A client?”
“I work for a pest removal company.”
Charlie waited for some show of disgust, but the detective just nodded his head. The guy was slightly overweight, slightly balding. But there was something virile and intimidating about him, something in the set of his brow, in his cool, level gaze. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to reveal muscular forearms covered with dark hair. The leather shoulder holster made him look beefy and strong. Charlie felt small and boyish in comparison, weak somehow.
“I’m not sure it was her, actually. But my girlfriend thought I should say something, just in case.”
The detective was still writing. What was he writing? Charlie knew he hadn’t said enough for all that writing. He looked around the room; it wasn’t how he envisioned a police station. He thought there would be big oak desks facing each other, some kind of chalkboard with a list of open cases, old rotary phones, a cell for holding criminals, flickering fluorescents. But it looked like the inside of any modern office building, with cubicles, fax machine, watercooler. The detective’s desk was faux wood and metal; a brand-new computer gleamed on its surface. Even so, he was writing on a notepad balanced on his crossed leg. A southpaw, pushing his hooked hand awkwardly across the page. His broad shoulders partially obscured a riot of crayon drawings tacked to the walls: a city scene, a stick figure in hat and badge standing next to what looked like a squad car, a family of four with enormous heads lined up beside a tiny house.
Charlie felt the urge to tell the detective about Lily, but he knew that was a stupid idea. It was irrelevant, ancient history. Bringing it up would just seem weird.
“Did you see what she was wearing, Mr. Strout?”
Charlie thought about this. He shook his head. “I want to say she was dressed in black? But I can’t be sure about that. Like I said, it was dark and I was on the veranda; there’s some landscaping that kept me from seeing clearly.”
Again, the slow nod. Charlie waited for the detective to turn those hard eyes on him. But when he finally looked up from his notepad, his gaze was polite, easy. Beside him was a picture of himself, a pretty woman, and two children, all grinning wildly.
“Can you remember anything else, Mr. Strout?”
Charlie shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
The detective slid a business card across the desk. CHUCK FERRIGNO, DETECTIVE. There were several numbers-an office phone, fax, and mobile line. There was also an e-mail: [email protected].
“I’m going to ask you to think about that vehicle, Mr. Strout. Maybe you know more about cars than you think. If you can remember a make or a model, fantastic. But any other distinguishing marks-a noticeable dent, a bumper sticker. Anything like that might help, as well.”
“Okay,” said Charlie. “I’ll think on it.”
“And call anytime. Even if you remember something and you think it’s insignificant, just call or drop me an e-mail. Let me be the judge.”
“Okay.”
Charlie sat a moment before he realized the interview was over and felt a rush of disappointment as he stood. Had he expected to be offering the clue that would break the case, send the detective running for the door? Maybe. He had been watching a lot of crime shows on television.
The detective offered a hand and, maybe sensing Charlie’s hesitation, said, “Is there anything else, Mr. Strout?”
“Uh, no,” said Charlie. “I’ll think on that vehicle.”
“Great.”
Wanda was waiting for him when he pushed through the exit door. It was a quiet night in The Hollows, he guessed. She was the only one sitting in a long row of plastic chairs against the wall.
“How’d it go?” she said, rising.
“Good. He took the information.” He zipped up his jacket.
“You were right,” he told her. He was glad she was there. He felt calmer, more stable, just looking at her. “He wants me to think about the vehicle. I just don’t know much about cars.”
“I do,” said Wanda, with an excited little inhale. “My daddy worked for Ford. He was a clay modeler. He knew everything about cars. Maybe I can help?”
He held the door open for her, and they walked out into the cold. He felt like they’d been together for a hundred years, he was so comfortable, so sure of what he needed to do to make her feel good. Outside, he laced his fingers through hers, noticing her square, perfectly manicured nails, and they walked to his car.
“You don’t mind?” he said. “Talking it through with me?”
“No!” she said, squeezing his hand. “It’ll be like our own mystery to solve.”
He opened the door for her and waited until she slid inside, then closed it gently. He walked around to the driver’s seat, already thinking about what he’d seen last night.
“It was green,” he said, when he’d climbed inside. “Big, you know? A gas guzzler.”
He started the engine. He was suddenly glad he’d sprung for the new Prius a couple of months ago, that he had something nice to drive Wanda around in, not the old Volkswagen he’d beaten into the ground. The Prius wasn’t exactly a manly car. But it looked nice inside, and he thought it said something about him, that he cared about the world enough to sacrifice a little speed, a little of the cool factor he might achieve from the new Charger or maybe a Mustang. He had some money saved, had inherited quite a bit when his grandparents passed on. He could have had a sexier car. But he was glad to have something more sensible for Wanda. He thought that was what she was looking for-safe and sensible.
“Okay,” said Wanda, putting on her seat belt. “Do you remember a hood ornament?”
“Um, no. Well, maybe. Maybe there was something.”
Wanda let go a little gasp. “You know what we should do?”
“What?”
“We’ll go home and get on the computer. Look at pictures of old cars. Maybe that will help.”