Dedication
To my daughters, Evangeline and Josephine, who will always be my greatest inspiration.
And to my brother, Andrew, who was always meant to live amongst the stars.
The Edges Of Things:
An Unnamed Girl By An Unnamed Lake
Everything started with the body at the edge of the lake. I know that now.
But back then, all I knew was the rush and gurgle of water where the stream fed into the lake, the gentle sway of yellow irises as the wind lifted their downturned petals. And the way the body’s legs bobbed in time with the lap of water against the shore, like part of the girl’s spirit was still trying to run from whatever had brought her there.
Left her there.
Hastily pulled half onto the shore.
Eyes closed. Mouth open. Full lips a watercolor blend of pink roses and the sky before a storm.
I knew what dead bodies looked like — even then. I’d been the one to find Edna Drake’s body when she collapsed from a heart attack on the way to her mailbox when I was seven. By twelve, I’d seen two of Mom’s boyfriends OD.
But this girl wasn’t like the others.
I inched closer, careful to avoid the soggy spots where I might leave a footprint, and my shadow fell over the girl’s face, shielding her from the blaring sun. Her dark hair fanned in a halo around her pale skin, mingling with the grass.
I didn’t know her. Hadn’t seen her around the estates.
The estates. I choked back a snicker, and tears followed right behind. Leaning in, but not too close, I whispered, “Sorry. I’m sorry. That was wrong. Defense mechanism. Sometimes I laugh when things are terrible, like —”
Like a beautiful girl with a necklace of bruises.
I sucked in a shuddering breath. “Really though, who was the first idiot to tack ‘Estates’ on to the name of every trailer park?”
My knees hit the ground before I realized I was moving, cold mud coating my jeans and seeping through the fibers. I whispered, “Who did this to you?”
I wasn’t expecting an answer, but it felt right to ask. Like maybe some part of her would have the chance to scream out a name in a final shout of justice from her spot in the heavens. Instead there was only the creak of a heavy branch on a twisted tree.
Her thin arm lay outstretched, her inner elbow marked with faded scars.
I scooted toward her legs and yanked the sleeves of my shirt down to cover my hands, then I pulled her all the way onto the shore.
She was still then. No more running.
No more running. No more wanting. No more pain.
Just a beautiful girl lying on the shore in a forever dream.
I could’ve called the cops, but I’d seen the shows. How they’d stick her in a drawer after they cut her up. Gather their evidence even though no one would look too hard for a girl no one wanted to find.
For some people, life begins too far behind the starting line to have any hope of crossing the finish.
I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer — and an apology. Then I left her there to dream.
At the time, I saw the peacefulness of death. A quiet slip into blissful stillness. A relief.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I know that now too.
Chapter One
Sometimes I try to convince myself Madison isn’t really missing.
I decide she was brave enough to do what I couldn’t and left everything behind.
But the delusion never lasts long, because I know she wouldn’t leave.
I know she never wanted to leave.
She loved everything about her life.
She’s never been the girl who wanted to escape. And she isn’t the girl with all the secrets.
I am.
But it’s Madison’s mom on stage, positioned against a backdrop of fog-drenched hills and clustered trees, the sun blanching what color she has left in her face. She looks paler every hour, and it’s been thirty-six.
She tugs her coat tighter against the rain-scented burst of wind as she says, for the third time, that someone must know something.
Mr. Bentley isn’t up there with her. He’s not even on campus.
He answered the phone when Mom called the Bentleys’ house the night Madison disappeared. She suggested this vigil. A showing of support, she said.
His response carried through the phone and spilled into the hallway, because Mr. Bentley knew vigils wouldn’t bring Madison home.
They’re nothing but a way for all the parents and students on this lawn to hide their fear behind the illusion of action. And to hide their guilt over how grateful they are it’s Madison and not them. Not their family.
Mom called back the next morning, when she knew Mr. Bentley would be gone. And now I’m standing at a vigil in broad daylight, holding a flameless candle so there’s no threat of melted wax on the new football field turf, and plotting to get my mother off campus before she has a chance to talk to anyone.
Projected pictures of my missing best friend flash behind Mrs. Bentley as she says, for the fourth time, that someone must know something.
Every time the words strike the air they feel less like a statement and more like a plea.
I hold my breath, begging for someone to announce they know exactly where Madison is. That she’s not missing at all. Because there are moments when I can’t stop my thoughts from sliding into the horrors of where she could be. Places where she isn’t fine. And futures where she doesn’t come back.
Mrs. Bentley is alone up there, bookended by cops and faculty but no one who actually cares, and pressure builds behind my eyes, caging the tears I’ve forgotten how to let fall.
Madison would know what to do if she were here. She’s the daughter Mom wanted but definitely did not get. The one who felt at ease in any room, who always knew the right thing to say and the right people to talk to during the outings, the fundraisers, the brunches and the dinner parties. When conversations turned to grades and accomplishments, futures and prospects, Madison always knew to turn it to me:
Caroline’s in the running for valedictorian, you know.
Her team won last year’s National Speech and Debate Tournament.
Caroline’s already been recruited by Ivy League soccer teams.
We made up for each other’s weaknesses.
Not today though. Today I’m alone, wishing, just for a moment, that it were Madison’s feet frozen to the million-dollar turf that looks like grass but isn’t. Her hand strangling this ridiculous flameless candle whose light no one can even see because there’s a reason candlelight vigils are held at night.