There was a ticking grandfather clock in the living room. Sunlight washed in through a stained-glass window beside it, casting a confetti spray of rainbows on the wood floor. There were pictures of a happy young couple on a rickety old piano. Two china dogs sat pretty on the fireplace hearth.
On the candy-striped walls, there were portraits of children—a boy playing baseball, riding a tricycle, opening Christmas presents. There was a pretty girl on horseback, a chubby blond toddler on the beach, a young woman with a baby wrapped in pink. Family pictures, like the million pictures her parents had—except the photos at home were on phones, computers, digital picture frames. Different people, different places, but the same energy (her mommy’s favorite word)—happy, beautiful, look at us and all the little pictures of our life.
Penny followed Bobo to the upstairs landing and down a wide, carpeted hall, where he pushed open a door. Warm sunlight washed bright and yellow, spilling onto the rug. Penny blinked against the brightness as she walked inside.
It was a princess room, pink and lace with a four-poster bed and plush carpet. Tiny roses on white wallpaper. Shelves of dolls and teddy bears, rows of 4H trophies for riding horses and raising chickens—and not the small plastic ones that everyone gets. Tall, glittering towers with horse and rider on top, emblazed with First Place. Little golden horses jumped or stood regal beside the little gold rider. Ribbons in blue and green, red and white. Looking closely she saw that they were from long ago—1979, 1981. A million years ago. The room did look old-fashioned—no posters of rock stars, no computer, no iPad. Just a desk with shelves of books above—books about horses: Black Beauty, The Black Stallion, National Velvet. And lots more—who knew there were so many.
She sat on the bed, bouncing a little. It was so soft; she wanted to climb beneath the covers and sleep and sleep. On the bedside table was a picture, the young woman from the portraits downstairs. Familiar.
“Is that Momma?” she asked.
Bobo nodded, still wearing that same smile. What did he want? Why had he brought her here? The girl in the picture pressed her cheek against Momma’s. They smiled bright and happy, but didn’t it look a little strange, a little tense—like all the pictures of Mommy when she and Daddy went white water rafting (before we had kids) in New Mexico and she was actually terrified the whole time.
“She looks like you,” said Bobo. “But prettier.”
Penny knew she was pretty. His words didn’t bother her. “Who is she?” she asked.
“She’s the one they loved best,” he said. And his smile was gone, replaced with a kind of still anger that caused Penny to avert her eyes. He hadn’t meant to, but Bobo had given her something. Now she knew how to hurt him.
*
Afterwards, he made her a peanut butter sandwich, then another. He let her drink two glasses of milk. Then he brought her back to her room and locked her up again. The sun sank down, and Poppa and Momma still didn’t come back. She lay still, thinking. Thinking about the clean man, and what Poppa had told him. Thinking about the princess bedroom and all the pictures. Thinking about the other girl who had been here and wondering where she’d gone. Thinking about the pair of riding boots she saw in the closet full of pretty clothes.
Her mother always said that when you were sad or worried or angry, that you had to do something. Anything. Go for a walk. Make cookies. Draw a picture. Clean your room. Never just lie there and feel sad or mad, because those feelings become like weights, holding you down, and they only get heavier, and you only get less likely to move them. As the sky went dark and the stars started to shine, Penny decided that she was going to do something.
FOURTEEN
The Egg and Yolk was the newest restaurant in The Hollows. An overpriced, fifties-style diner—complete with red leather and chrome counter stools, a jukebox, and Leave It to Beaver, -Father Knows Best, The Andy Griffith Show, and other classic American -television shows playing in a continuous loop on wall-mounted, flat-screen televisions.
Merri knew that it was a place frequented mainly by tourists and people passing through town to see the fall foliage, or packed with weekenders for the Sunday brunch. She’d chosen it as the place to meet Jones Cooper because she thought it would be empty at three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon and so it was. The locals stayed away because it was too flashy, too expensive—too new.
She walked in and took a seat in a booth toward the back, following the directive of the sign, which encouraged her to: Sit Wherever You Like!