“That’s bad reporting,” I said to Missy. “Saying ‘police say’ makes it sound like it’s a fact that Ben dropped her off. But it’s not a fact—it’s Ben’s story. And why didn’t anyone talk to us about this?”
Missy shrugged. “Maybe they tried,” she said, “while we were out. Maybe your mom didn’t answer.”
The thought of that chilled me, despite the steam rising from my mug. Could Mom have locked herself away so thoroughly that not even the ringing phone or doorbell could reach her? After we had gotten home, she finally let Aunt Jill into her bedroom, and although I couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other, it made me feel better to remember that they were in that room together.
On the TV, the news anchor continued to speak over a video of people dressed in heavy coats and scarves, trudging in thick boots through the snowy woods by Emory Bridge.
“A modest search party is already underway for O’Leary, and people in town appear confident that they will locate the missing girl soon.”
Missy and I looked at each other, the surprise in her eyes reflecting my own.
“Search party?” I said. “What search party?”
The footage switched to a close-up of a middle-aged woman in a knitted purple hat. Her nose was red and her breath danced in front of her lips as she spoke. I recognized her as Persephone’s third-grade teacher, Mrs. McDonald.
“I organized all this myself,” Mrs. McDonald said, almost proudly, to the microphone in her face. “I live near Weston Road, so of course I saw the police cars this afternoon, and as soon as I found out what was going on, I sprang into action. Called some friends together, alerted the press, and now here we are. We’re a small group, and we’ve only just started, but we’ll keep searching even after dark.” She held up a flashlight and smiled to the camera. “We won’t stop until we find her. She’s one of Spring Hill’s own, and that really means something.”
Did it, though?
Spring Hill, Connecticut, was a town of about twenty-five thousand people, a good majority of whom lived in the big brick houses on the hilly northern side of Emory Bridge. People in neighboring towns came to Spring Hill for its frozen yogurt shops and its apple and berry orchards, and at Christmastime, they did their shopping at Spring Hill Commons. Then they drove around to look at the twinkling white lights on all the Ionic columns and wraparound porches, and when they returned home, they reevaluated their monthly budgets, trying to find some extra savings for a new swimming pool or a kitchen remodel, anything that would make them feel more like the residents of Spring Hill.
But we—Persephone, my mother, and I—had never been a part of that Spring Hill. We lived on the swampier southern side of Emory Bridge. We got our clothes at thrift stores in Hanover, wore out the edges of our library cards, and got free hot lunches at school. My mother had inherited our ranch from my grandparents, whom we had lived with, Persephone and I sleeping in the same bedroom as Mom, until they died in a car accident when I was three. From then on, I grew up with the narrowed eyes of the upper-crust Spring Hill residents on my back. “There goes Annie O’Leary’s girl. Ugh, that woman. Always took handouts from her parents, still looking for handouts to this day. Our taxes even buy her kids’ lunches at school. Meanwhile, Barry’s working his fingers to the bone to make partner . . .”
So it surprised me that Mrs. McDonald was now claiming Persephone as “one of Spring Hill’s own.” I remembered her writing a letter home to Mom one time, urging her to “consider buying Persephone some new clothes that adhere to the current trends, so as not to alienate her from her peers and cause damaging social consequences.” Mom had hung the letter on the refrigerator, right next to my splotchy kindergarten drawings, as a reminder, she said, of the people we never wanted to be. Now, I imagined her seeing Mrs. McDonald’s face on the news and scoffing, “Attention-seeking snake.”
“Do you know that lady?” Missy asked me.
“Not really,” I said.
“She seems kind of excited.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. Then I added one of Mom’s phrases: “This freaking town.”
I clicked the power button on the remote, and for a few minutes, Missy and I sat in silence. In that time, the front door never opened. Persephone never walked inside, stamping the snow off her shoes, asking what had happened to the coatrack and table. Still, I listened for her grunt of annoyance as she noticed there was no longer a place to put her red winter jacket. I listened for it so hard that I didn’t even register that Aunt Jill had walked into the room until she put her hand on my head and spoke.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
I looked up at her from my place on the floor, my fingers picking at the shaggy beige carpet. Her face was creased with an exhaustion I’d only ever seen on my mother the mornings after her Dark Days.
“I want to see Mom,” I said. I started to push myself up off the floor, but Jill’s fingertips on my shoulder stopped me.
“Not tonight,” she said. “Your mother’s finally sleeping. She wants to be alone.”
But my sister was missing.
“She won’t mind,” I said. “It’s just me.”
I needed Mom’s fingers on my forehead, planting and picking flowers as if my face were fertile, open land. I needed her to pull me into her, wrap her arms around me, and rock me like a child. I needed the lavender smell of her skin, the steady rhythm of her breathing. How would I fall asleep in a sisterless house for one more night without it?
“I’m sorry,” Jill said, shaking her head. “Not tonight.”
So Missy spent another night in Persephone’s bed. So Jill spent another night on the couch. So I kept myself awake remembering Ben’s face, how the danger lurked there in the scar that ran like a tendril of hair from the tip of his left eyebrow to the middle of his cheek. I’d only seen him a handful of times, his face pressed against our bedroom window on nights when Persephone was still applying her eyeliner in the bathroom, but I had him memorized. He had disheveled brown hair, which he sometimes pulled back into a short ponytail. Dark circles lingered under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept for days, and his mouth was always cocked at a half grin. When I finally fell asleep that night, it was to images of Ben, his fingernails—long and sharp in the dream—tapping on the windowpane until the glass shattered.
Somehow, I didn’t wake up until the sun was high in the sky the next morning, and even then, I only opened my eyes because Missy was shaking me. “Sylvie,” she said, “the police are here.”
I threw off my blankets and jumped to my feet. Sure enough, from our bedroom window I could see a cop car in the driveway, the same two detectives fidgeting with their belts and stepping through snow to get to our front door. I had made it into the hallway before they even rang the bell.
Mom was in the entryway. Jill was in the entryway. Missy was dressed. It was as if they’d all been expecting this visit.
“Good morning,” Jill said as Detective Falley and Detective Parker stepped into the house. She was trying to sound cheerful—or, at the very least, normal—but her voice trembled. “Can we get you anything? There’s still some coffee in the pot.”