“Well, that still leaves five percent,” Jill replied.
Ssshhhhk, ssshhhhk, ssshhhhk. In my mother’s room, paper kept ripping.
Clearing his throat, Parker rubbed his hand over the light brown stubble on his face. “Just a couple more things,” he said, shifting his gaze toward me. “Is it okay if I ask you some questions, Sylvie, before we go?”
I looked to my aunt.
“Go ahead, Sylvie,” she said. “It’s okay.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
Parker looked down at his notepad and clicked the top of his pen. “Your aunt reported that you saw your sister drive off with Ben Emory at about ten thirty the night before last. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And how did she seem just before she left? Was she angry, for example? Sad? Excited to see her boyfriend?”
I imagined what the expression on her face must have been as she looked at me through the window Friday night, her breath making ghosts on the glass as she called my name. She must have looked angry, annoyed. She must have looked ready to kill me.
“I don’t know,” I told Parker. “I guess she was . . . neutral.”
He made a note on his pad. “Okay. Now, you also mentioned that she snuck out a lot to see him. Why is that?”
Everyone stared at me, the two detectives standing closest, my aunt and cousin on opposite ends of the room. So much seemed to hang on what I had to say, but how could a fourteen-year-old girl be expected to know what needed knowing?
“She’s not allowed to date,” I said. “Neither of us are. But I’m—I wouldn’t date yet anyway.”
“So your mother had no idea that your sister has been seeing Mr. Emory?”
“Well,” I started, “she didn’t know she was still seeing him.”
“Go on,” Parker prompted.
“My mom came home from the diner one night—she’s a waitress; I don’t know if that matters—and she found Persephone with Ben. They were just watching TV, I think, but it was the first time she’d ever brought a guy home, and my mom got upset. Persephone had broken the rule.”
From there, after Ben had slinked out the front door, the two of them erupted at each other, Mom yelling at Persephone for her “blatant disrespect” and Persephone screaming right back about Mom “treating us like babies.” At one point, Persephone knocked over a lamp with her wild gesticulations, and they both stared at it on the floor for a moment. Then Persephone tore off its flimsy shade and threw it across the room, where it whizzed by Mom’s face and toppled some picture frames.
“Since then,” I told Detective Parker, “Persephone’s always just snuck out to see him.”
“How well do you know him?” Falley jumped in.
“I barely know him at all. He graduated last year, so I’ve never even gone to the same school as him.”
“And Persephone’s a senior this year, correct?” Parker asked.
“Yes,” Jill and I said in unison.
Falley took a step toward me. “The reason I asked, Sylvie,” she said, “is because when we first got here, you seemed pretty sure that Ben had something to do with your sister being missing. Why is that?”
“I—what?”
“Has he ever hurt your sister before, or done anything that would put her at risk?”
“I . . .” I looked around the room. Four sets of eyes were latched onto me. “Like I said, I don’t really know him.”
“That wasn’t the question,” Parker said.
Why was I being interrogated? And where was the hot, bald light I’d seen on TV shows, the one that would shine on my face and sweat out all my secrets? At least then I wouldn’t have a choice if I betrayed Persephone. As it was, though, the living room was cool and gray. The faces of the detectives remained serious, but kind enough.
Aunt Jill came to put her arm around my shoulder protectively. I leaned into her, grateful for the save, but then she whispered in my ear, “It’s okay, Sylvie. Just tell the detectives whatever you know.”
We’re sisters, Sylvie, Persephone would always say. And that’s sacred. So I know your promise to keep this a secret isn’t just words. It means something to you. Just like you mean something to me, and just like I hope—I really, really hope—I mean something to you.
Of course you do, I’d say.
Then prove it.
“I don’t know if he ever hurt her.” I looked at Falley and Parker, at Aunt Jill. I even looked at Missy, who sat with her chin resting on the palm of her hand. They were all listening to me, somehow sure that I had the right answers. “He just has to know where she is. She was with him that night.”
Ssshhhhk, ssshhhhk, ssshhhhk.
Falley glanced back toward the hallway, listening to the muted sounds of my mother’s rage. She looked at her partner before speaking.
“Sylvie,” she began, “when your mother’s acted like this in the past, did she—”
“My mother’s never acted like this,” I interrupted. “She’s never had a daughter who’s been missing before.”
Silence spread through the room like a gas. Even the sound of paper paused, and I imagined it was because Mom had heard me defend her. I could almost feel the soft approval of her fingers stroking my cheek.
The detectives shared a glance, Falley tilting her head at Parker, her eyes asking a question I couldn’t read. Then Parker nodded, closing his notebook and clicking his pen one more time.
“Thank you,” Parker said. “You have our information. Please feel free to call us anytime.”
He slipped his notepad into his pocket and headed toward the front door. Falley stayed behind a moment to put her hand on my shoulder. “You’re being really brave,” she said gently. “We’ll find your sister. Don’t worry.”
Aunt Jill walked toward the entryway to see them out, and I sank into the couch cushions, which were still blanketed with Jill’s makeshift bed.
“This is crazy,” Missy said, the expression on her face one of slow understanding, as if she was just beginning to comprehend how serious the situation was.
Down the hall, behind my mother’s door, the sound of shredding paper started up again.
2
That afternoon, we posted more than fifty flyers. Persephone’s face smirked at us beneath a black, bulky “MISSING” as we worked our way through the center of town and neighboring streets. By the time we stapled the final sign to a telephone pole outside the post office, our fingers felt raw, even through our gloves.
When we got home, Jill pushed mugs of hot chocolate into our hands and encouraged us to “thaw out” in front of the TV. Missy put on a rerun of The Real World, which I watched without seeing, but at six o’clock on the dot, I changed it to the local news in case they mentioned Persephone.
As it turned out, my sister’s disappearance was the lead story.
“The town of Spring Hill is in search of a missing high school student today,” the anchor said. “Persephone O’Leary, eighteen, was last seen leaving her house on Friday night with her boyfriend, Ben Emory, the son of Spring Hill mayor and prominent land developer William Emory. Since then, police have been questioning neighbors and residents, including O’Leary’s boyfriend, who, police say, dropped her off on Weston Road around eleven p.m. on Friday night.”