“Nursing school,” Wendy corrected her. Jordan had been trying to talk her into medical school for the last two years, but Wendy wanted to be a nurse. She wanted to help people, but the idea of being a doctor and saving people’s lives was way more than she could handle.
Jordan ignored the rebuttal. “The point is, we can do whatever we want. We get to start over. We just need to get through the next few months.” She squeezed Wendy’s arms tight. “Okay?”
College. She kept reminding herself that it was the beacon, the light at the end of the tunnel. She just needed to get through it—get through this—and she could be free of everything. But what about now?
“None of this stuff happening is going to change that,” Jordan reassured her, as if reading Wendy’s mind.
“People like me don’t get to live normal lives, Jordan.” It was a mantra that repeated itself in Wendy’s mind all the time, cycling over and over again. But this was the first time she had actually said it out loud. She knew she was generalizing and not being fair, but this town made her feel like there was something wrong with her. And, whatever it was, it was contagious.
Wendy looked away from Jordan as pity threatened to overtake her best friend’s features. Jordan was usually so good at hiding it.
“Everything is going to be okay.” She was so sure of herself.
Wendy shrugged. She didn’t believe it, but this was the best she had felt since careening her truck off the road last night.
“Are you hungry? There’s some cold, half-eaten toast I would be willing to share with you,” Jordan offered with fake sincerity.
Wendy rolled her eyes, trying to laugh even though she felt weighed down. Smiling just took too much energy. “You’re disgusting,” she said, shoving Jordan’s shoulder.
Jordan laughed and affectionately tugged a lock of Wendy’s hair. “The sky’s the limit for you, Wendy, okay?”
“Right.”
CHAPTER 6
Dreams
They managed to kill most of the day at Jordan’s house. Jordan was good at filling empty spaces and providing distractions. They talked about college and summer plans. When Wendy got quiet and stuck in her own head, Jordan coaxed her back. They’d even made muffins with fresh marionberries from Jordan’s backyard. Later, Jordan gave Wendy a ride to the hospital after texting her dad for permission, since Wendy needed to pick up her truck.
Now home, Wendy slipped her sandals off by the door. The threadbare brown carpet was a disappointing contrast to the plush beige one at Jordan’s house.
Her father sat at the dining table, his back to her. The news was on the television in the living room. A reporter was speaking off to the side, but the volume was too low for her to make out.
Ashley Ford’s and Benjamin Lane’s faces were front and center. Wendy got nauseated looking at their smiling pictures. She vividly remembered the school photos they’d used for her and her brothers when they went missing. Wendy was in a white blouse with blue flowers. John had on a white collared shirt, his hair perfectly swept to the side, his glasses making his eyes look huge. Michael, on the other hand, was a rumpled mess. His shirt was untucked and he’d missed a button.
Even after she had been found, they continued to run her picture along with John’s and Michael’s, explaining the details, what they did and didn’t know. At thirteen she hadn’t been able to handle seeing her brothers like that. After the first couple of times she had broken down in uncontrollable tears, her parents banned news from the television. Sometimes, though, her mother wouldn’t hear her come downstairs and Wendy caught a glimpse of the news before she quickly changed the channel.
Wendy tore her eyes from the screen.
She turned to her father and inwardly sighed. She really didn’t want to get yelled at, or lectured, or whatever else the hard set of his shoulders foretold. Well, the sooner she got it over with, the sooner she could go to her room. She steeled herself and walked up to his side.
Mr. Darling sat clutching a mug. It had a faded blue logo of his bank on the side, and it was half full of black coffee.
“Where’s Mom?” Wendy ventured.
“Gone to bed.” He didn’t look up, but Wendy nodded anyway. Wendy imagined her mom especially needed sleep after last night and this morning.
She, herself, could have used about five years’ worth of good nights’ sleep.
“Do you know that boy?” Her father’s sharp eyes locked onto her. The question jolted Wendy, but of course she had seen it coming.
“No.”
“You just found him on the road?” One of his thick eyebrows lifted.
“I just found him on the road,” she echoed through a sigh.
“Hmm.” Her father made a gruff sound as he took a swig from his mug. When Wendy had been younger, he had made his coffee so sweet with hazelnut creamer that she and her brothers fought over who’d get a sip.
Wendy shifted her weight between her feet.
“If you see him again—” He raised his hand, pointing a finger at her. He was very good at making her feel small, even when he was sitting down. “You call the police and tell me immediately, do you understand?” His voice reverberated against the walls.
Wendy nodded. “Okay.”
He dropped his hand. “Day after tomorrow I’m going into work late so I can take you down to talk to those detectives,” he told her.
She knew better than to argue and that she didn’t have a choice, anyway, so Wendy nodded again.
Mr. Darling pushed himself up from his chair, and went into his study. The door closed, and a moment later, Wendy heard the light clinking of glass.
Wendy dragged herself upstairs, dreading what tomorrow would bring.
At the top of the landing, she came face-to-face with the door to her old room.
There was nothing new about it. She walked by it every day, but now something made her stop. She didn’t know what she was waiting for, yet her eyes were fixed on the doorknob. She extended a hand and rested her fingertips lightly on the cold, aged brass.
She wondered if her brothers’ bunk bed was still pressed up against the right wall. John’s bunk on the bottom was always properly made—it was the second thing he did every morning, after putting on his glasses. Wendy remembered how his hair stuck up in the back, his eyes barely open as he crawled along his bed, tucking in the corners.
Michael, on the other hand, always left his bed unmade, which irritated John to no end. He always slept with his socks on, just in case one of his feet slipped out from under his comforter at night. Everyone knew an uncovered limb was just asking to be chomped off by a monster.
That fear had actually been Wendy’s fault—the premise of a story she had told her brothers one night before bed. The fact that Michael always woke up with one sock missing only seemed to perpetuate the story. It got so bad, in fact, that even in the summer, when heat hung thick in the room and Wendy and John slept on top of their sheets in little more than their underclothes, Michael still huddled under his comforter, socks safely in place.
Wendy wasn’t sure how long she had stood there when a small noise broke her from her trance. She withdrew her hand and tripped back a step. She hadn’t noticed she’d been perched on the balls of her feet like a bird ready to take flight. Wendy pressed both hands to her chest, feeling it rise and fall with a deep, steadying breath.