“I’m not talking back. I’m not! I’m telling you that Ella is gone and she shouldn’t be gone and you have to find her!”
Brooklyn is red and angry now, and she bursts back into tears and runs away, saving Patricia from explaining that she was indeed still talking back, and really just digging herself deeper into that hole. With the child’s probing eyes off her, she takes a deep breath and goes through her normal morning routine, trying to reestablish her calm. She opens the curtains, takes her pills, stands on the scale to make sure nothing untoward has happened in her never-ending battle against her failing metabolism. All is well, and after fluffing her hair and tying on a robe, she tours the house, looking for any sign of her older granddaughter’s whereabouts.
Patricia is sharp-eyed, especially when it comes to things in her home being out of place, but she can’t find anything out of the ordinary. All of Ella’s things are where she left them, and she doesn’t appear to have taken anything. She’s nowhere in the house, nor outside by the pool or in the pool house, which is locked now. Patricia’s jewelry and money are still in their hiding place under the bed in an old bag. A thorough search suggests nothing was taken, and Patricia takes a moment to transfer the bag to her own closet, hidden by her floor-length furs. Her car and keys are still here, thank goodness, and the security system didn’t go off last night.
Which means the girl must’ve left before Patricia set the alarm.
But where did she go, and why? She seems to love her sister, yet she left no note? And there are no messages on Patricia’s phone—ah, but she doesn’t have Ella’s number, which means Ella might not have hers. It’s doubtful that Chelsea would use her as an emergency contact. She has Chelsea’s number, just in case, so she sends her a quick text: Is Ella with you?
Chelsea doesn’t answer.
Perhaps they’ve run away together, leaving the youngest and most troublesome child behind? Surely not. Chelsea isn’t a great mother, but she’s certainly not that cold-blooded.
But David, perhaps, is.
She texts him the same message.
Is Ella with you?
He texts back immediately: No. Is she with you?
And when she doesn’t answer: WHERE ARE THEY?
Patricia raises an eye at the phone and blocks his number.
He’s certainly the last port she would turn to in a storm.
She’s had suspicions, of course. Has noticed, over the years, how Chelsea has changed, become more withdrawn and sullen. Has seen her daughter flinch when her husband reaches past her for a glass in the kitchen cabinet. But she was never certain about exactly what was happening, never saw any bruises, and her relationship with her daughter is not the kind where they ask personal questions. She has never liked David, and she is not about to trust him now.
Brooklyn finally reappears, sad and pink and soaked with tears, rubbing her eyes. “Nana, can I have breakfast?”
Patricia points to the cabinets. “There’s cereal.”
Brooklyn looks at her as if she’s been asked to do trigonometry. “Can I have some?”
“May I have some.”
“May I have some?”
“Go ahead.”
Still with that stupid, squirming confusion.
“I don’t know how.”
Patricia’s lips purse in distaste. “You don’t know how to pour yourself a bowl of cereal?”
“No.”
“But you’re five.”
“Mommy and Ella make it for me.” A long pause. Softer, “I’m little.”
It’s like they don’t even speak the same language.
“Your mother could make cereal when she was five.”
“Can you show me?”
Well, at least that’s an attempt at trying.
Patricia sighs, realizing her day is going to be full of big sighs, especially if they can’t find Ella soon. She pulls down a box of flakes and a bowl, and Brooklyn points out that she’s too short to reach either item on her own, which Patricia concedes is true. She takes them to the table and shows Brooklyn how to pour the right amount of cereal. When the child goes to pour the milk, a little spills, and Brooklyn stares at her, waiting to see how she’ll react. Patricia’s instinct is to say something acerbic and cutting, but instead, she gives a tight smile.
“No crying over spilled milk. Just get a napkin and wipe it up.”
Brooklyn does, and when Patricia smiles at her, she smiles back. They’re getting somewhere.
Except the child then demands a cut-up banana and a spoonful of sugar in her cereal, and honestly, her granddaughter is just terribly spoiled.
When Brooklyn has finally gotten everything she demands, Patricia goes to get her own grapefruit ready for breakfast, but her phone rings.
“Thank God,” she murmurs, hoping it’s Ella, or someone with some good news. It’s a local number she doesn’t recognize, and she picks it up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Mrs. Lane?”
Not anymore, she thinks, but that’s not yet public knowledge.
“It is.”
“This is Carrie Green at the club. We have a delivery for you here?”
Patricia’s heart lifts. She was expecting several items to be dropped off for the auction, which was originally postponed for the pandemic and will now be held exclusively for club members who can prove they’ve been vaccinated. But…
“This isn’t the club number. And I don’t know you.”
Carrie chuckles. “Yes, now that everyone is getting vaccinated, the lines are busy today with lunch reservations, and I’m new. I’m using one of the cells. I apologize if I startled you. It’s for the auction.”
Patricia smiles in spite of herself. “No problem. I’ll be by shortly. Do you have room for two at lunch?”
“Let me check.” A brief pause. “We do! Right at noon. Will the judge be joining you?”
“No. My younger granddaughter.”
“Wonderful. We’ll be sure to have some crayons ready. We’re looking forward to seeing you.”
Finally, something to do.
Yes, Randall has left her. But she can get in front of it, spin the tale in her favor. He’ll be in Iceland soon, paying for whatever ice-blondes he wants. It’s unlikely he’s been by the club since he left. Chances are, no one there will be any the wiser. And if she can find something suitable for Brooklyn to wear, the child will show nicely. She’s very attractive when she’s properly styled.
It grows tiresome, Brooklyn asking where her sister is, and Patricia finally, sternly says, “There’s no point in asking me again. I don’t know any more than you. We can look for her on our way to lunch.”