She pulled back. “No, Tom,” she said, her voice gentle but firm.
“Why?”
She stood up and pulled her robe tighter around her. “We can’t.”
“We’re married,” I said. “We’re here. Our child is here.”
“Our energy needs to be on helping her,” she said. She fussed with her hair. “That’s why I came in here. I want to go to church today. It’s been a while.”
“So go then,” I said, leaning back.
“I want Caitlin to go with me.”
“No.”
She ran her tongue over her teeth. “I could take her with me. It would be good for her to get out of here, to see some other people again.”
“No.” I shook my head. “Not there.”
“You can say no to this now, as I figured you would. But at some point, she has to leave the house. She’s going to have to go to school and have friends and have a life. We can’t keep her here at home forever.”
“We should start small and get her to speak again.”
“She speaks to me.”
“About what?”
“Little things, Tom. Little things. Is the bed comfortable, or do her clothes fit? It’s a start.”
Abby left the room on that note, so I got out of bed and looked in on Caitlin. The blinds were drawn, making the room gloomy, so it took me a moment to see that Caitlin’s eyes were open. She was lying on her back, the covers pulled up to her chin. She was looking at me but not saying anything. “Mom’s going to church,” I said. “Looks like it’s just you and me, kiddo.”
She rolled over, turning her back to me.
Once Abby was gone, I made toast and coffee in the kitchen, then ate a bowl of cereal. I went outside and brought in the Sunday paper and found a story on Caitlin’s return in the local news section. The reporter had called for a week straight, and we’d stuck to the script of no comments and making requests for privacy, but someone with the police must have spilled the beans, because the story mentioned all the sightings of Caitlin with the man in the sketch. Ryan was quoted—at the end of the article—and simply said the investigation was continuing and that they still considered it a case of abduction and kidnapping.
I heard stirrings upstairs. Footsteps in the hall, the toilet flushing. Caitlin didn’t seem eager to shower on a regular basis. Most parents of teenagers saw their water bills shoot up. Abby reminded Caitlin to shower every few days. But I heard the water running upstairs, which I took as a good sign.
I resisted the urge to go check. I poured another cup of coffee and started the crossword puzzle, listening with one ear for the water to stop. I waited as long as I could and was about to throw my pencil down and check when it did stop. I breathed a sigh of relief. I heard more footsteps above me and managed to drink my coffee in a little bit of peace. That lasted a few minutes, until the cup was empty; then I couldn’t wait and decided to go upstairs and check in on her.
She wasn’t in the bathroom—the door was wide open, the mirror still steamed over from her shower. And then, with some alarm, I saw she wasn’t in the master bedroom. The windows were all still closed.
“Caitlin?” Calling out for someone who wasn’t speaking to me anymore seemed odd, but at least she’d know I was looking. I checked Caitlin’s bedroom. Nothing. “Caitlin?” I stuck my head in the guest room door. She was there, sitting on the bed. At first, I didn’t know what she was doing. Then I saw the phone—my cell phone—in her hand. She was entering a number. “What are you doing?” I asked.
She slammed it shut and tossed it onto the bed.
“Who are you calling?”
I grabbed the phone and opened it, but whatever number she’d been entering was gone. I checked the called numbers. The last one was a call I’d made, so she hadn’t actually placed it, meaning there was no record of the number.
If only I’d waited . . .
“Were you calling that man?” I asked.
She started to stand up. I held my hand out, a silent request that she stay seated and listen to me. She didn’t like it. She stared at me through slitted eyes.
“You don’t get to make calls or do anything else until you talk to us. And I mean for real. Not just bullshit.” I jabbed at the air with my index finger, but my hand shook. “Who was it?”
Her glare slowly turned into a smile. A smirk, really. I saw some of Buster in her. It made me even angrier.
“Stop it,” I said.
“Someday I hope you do find out where I was and everything that happened to me,” she said. Her voice sounded deeper, huskier. She sounded more like a woman, more like Abby. “I can tell the truth will hurt you more than not knowing.”
I slapped her across the cheek.
She looked shocked more than hurt. She raised her hand to her cheek, her mouth wide open.
“Fuck you, asshole.”
She was up and past me, storming out of the room. I thought about reaching out for her again, or following her, but I couldn’t find the will to do it. I let her go.