It’s the darkness and shadows, the way they hide the pain you don’t want others to see, and the way they shield you from the truths you don’t want to know.
Like the way Mrs. Bentley’s fists clench every time her gaze finds mine.
I need to leave. Right now. But Mom’s fingers dig into my arm, her elbow jabbing where my skin is still raw from the tattoo that will always remind me of Willa.
Mom doesn’t speak, but in my head, I hear every syllable of my name. The way her tongue slides over every consonant of “Caroline” with a practiced ease that doesn’t sound like the reproach it is.
It’s a language only the two of us understand.
I planned this vigil. We’re in the front row. You are not leaving.
Never make a scene. That’s one of Mom’s unbreakable rules.
St. Francis is a family — that’s what all the brochures say.
The trouble with families is they know your weak points. Mom makes sure we never show ours.
Dad rubs my back, but it’s a false comfort and my skin prickles with the need to shrug him off.
His arm falls when Mom glares at him.
A gust of spring wind draws rhythmic clangs from the flagpole, and the crowd surrounding me stirs, like they’re grateful to focus on anything other than Mrs. Bentley.
Her sobs are replaced by the soft notes of whatever song my mom picked for Aubrey Patel-Brennan to sing. Apparently, no vigil is complete without entertainment.
It’s impossible to ignore Aubrey’s voice, but I’m doing my best. By the time it fades into the clouds, the field is filled with tears and sniffles.
In an hour, all the cars will leave the grounds and all the students will be back at class. Restoring normalcy, they call it. Giving kids the comfort of routine. Besides, it’s not like she went missing from campus. She was on a home visit and told her mom she was going shopping. She was only twenty miles from St. Francis, only six miles from home. They still haven’t found her car.
That all adds up to St. Francis being officially free from responsibility. But not from response, especially when news of Madison’s disappearance sent shocks through the community and the police launched searches right away.
Rumors of a temporary St. Francis shutdown followed close behind. So even as tears fell to tile floors and stares remained vacant, there were phone calls to Headmaster Havens.
It’s a terrible thing that’s happened to that poor girl, but …
We pay a lot of money to attend this institution.
My son shouldn’t be denied his education.
My daughter has scouts scheduled to watch her next game.
The resident-assistance council, the yearbook club, the party-planning committees, they’ve all set up shrines to Madison in their offices. Their members still stumble through campus with red-rimmed eyes, but in every one of them, someone has offered to step into Madison’s place. Just in case.
They never say the rest. Just in case she never comes back.
Headmaster Havens finally escorts Mrs. Bentley off the stage, the dome of his bald head catching in the glow of the sun, and then she’s gone, disappearing into the car Mom has waiting to escort her back to Olivet Hall, where trays of salmon tartare and chocolate truffles await. Like maybe hors d’oeuvres are the trick to bringing Madison back safely. She’ll just follow the fucking trail of smoked trout blinis straight from Grandmother’s house in the woods.
Detective Brisbane steps toward the mic, his scuffed shoes thudding against the stage.
I’ve watched those shoes clip against St. Francis’s marble floors every day since Madison disappeared, each echo a reminder that the world outside the manicured campus grounds can infiltrate ours.
But the other set, the ones that belong to Detective Harper, remind me of far more. Fake smiles and false assurances.
Detective Harper is a liar. That score to settle goes back nearly three years.
And if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s this: if things are ever going to be right again, it’s not Detective Harper who’s going to get them there.
I wrench my arm from Mom’s grip and step back, making it impossible for her to recapture me without making it obvious.
I mumble, “I forgot to take my vitamin,” and her jaw snaps shut, a flush coloring her face.
I walk away, and when a voice whispers my name, I move faster.
I’m nearly to the edge of the crowd when Jake Monaghan catches up to me and whispers, “Hey, wait up,” even though we’re standing in the same square foot of space.
I glance back to my parents and find Mr. Monaghan sandwiched between them, arms draped around their shoulders, like they’re old friends and not just acquaintances who exchange pleasantries at St. Francis fundraisers. Mom’s practically beaming — the delight of garnering attention from one of the school’s most influential parents more than she can smother — and my anger toward her rivals my gratitude for him.
The screen behind Brisbane and Harper pauses on a shot of me and Madison, our faces pressed together, her blond hair tangling with mine — we’re always the most extreme versions of ourselves when in contrast. But our smiles matched, because neither of us knew then what we know now.
I remember that picture.
Madison took it at the beginning of our fall outreach soccer camp for disadvantaged youth. She came with me in her official capacity as head yearbook photographer, and, as official co-captain of St. Francis Prep’s soccer team, I made sure she got on-field access.
I know why my mom chose that picture, and it’s got nothing to do with Madison.
It’s because of me. Because it’s been years since I’ve smiled like that in my mom’s presence.
I want to tell her that smile wasn’t just for the kids we taught that day. I want to shatter all my mother’s delusions and tell her the other reason was because, after years of waiting and wondering, that was the morning I saw Willa again.
But I’m too close to ruin everything now — only months away from graduation and leaving this version of my life behind forever. I’ve spent years giving each of my parents the part of me they can accept. All the rest is mine. And when I’m finally free of them both, I won’t have to pretend for anyone.
A collective gasp rises from the field as the whine of a drone slices the sky — some desperate reporter trying to fill a five o’clock news segment. Then another drone joins the fray — from the team Mom hired — and they twist and tangle until they both whiz out of sight.
The crowd murmurs, uncomfortable coughs a clear indication that no one knows the protocol for a drone-crashed vigil. Even Mr. McCormack looks confused, and he’s never confused about anything. He’s the most decent and competent teacher St. Francis has.