Zoe opened the door of the house, a difficult maneuver now that Jonah was sleeping in her arms. She found the Post-it on the fridge where her mother kept all the contact information for the police, and—holding it between her teeth—struggled up the staircase with her brother.
Jonah’s bed was small and shaped like a ladybug. When Zoe finally lowered him onto it, he rolled onto his side without waking, and began drooling onto the pillow.
She sat on the floor by Jonah’s bed with her phone, and e-mailed the picture of Stan’s license plate to the police, along with a message that read: “This truck belongs to the man who killed Bert + Betty Wallace. With the poker from their fireplace. His name is Stan something. His truck is still at their house. He’s maybe 45 + about 6 feet tall. Skinny. Buzz cut. Messed-up eyebrow. You’re welcome.”
Once she’d sent the e-mail, she scrolled through the clump of texts that had finally broken through. There were some from Dallas (who was “full-on stoked” from “rocking out” in the blizzard), Val (who had missed it entirely because she was napping), and her mother (who was just generally frantic). Part of Zoe felt abandoned by her mom, but she couldn’t help but smile as she read her stream of messages: Roads horrific. Can’t even get out of grocery store. So sorry, Zo … Still horrific. Still sorry … Don’t let J eat cereal before bed. Try gluten-free waffle … ARGH. Radio says snowplows aren’t even going out tonight. No way to get up mountain … Still in grocery store! Will live in grocery store forever, eating chemicals and pesticides, like real American … Are U OK? … U know what? If J wants cereal, he can have it … OMG Rufus just rescued me in his big-ass van, like a knight. NO, he’s NOT in love with me—I heard that! I’m going to crash on his couch … Tell me you’re OK? … Can’t sleep. Worrying about you. Did J want cereal?
Zoe sat pondering what to text back.
We’re OK, she wrote finally. More later. I gave Jonah some Pringles dipped in cake frosting. Is that cool? Rufus is OBSESSED with you. Go 2 sleep, now! XO.
Zoe went on Snapchat and Instagram for a while, hoping that life might start to seem normal again. It didn’t. How could it, after Stan and X and the hole in the ice?
She crossed the hall to her room and stood, tired and unsteady, in the doorway. On the wall at the foot of her bed there was a photo of her and her dad from one of their caving trips. They were wearing matching one-piece flight suits, which they’d bought at the Army Navy in Whitefish for 17 dollars a piece. Zoe had a battery-powered headlamp. Her father, being a dork, used an old-fashioned carbide lamp that looked like a miniature blowtorch. In the photo, he had a wide, geeky smile and some pretty crazy bed head. Her dad had always had bed head—he used to call it “hair salad.”
Zoe heard Stan’s voice spreading like dye in her brain: “You barely knew who he was. And then he died in some goddamn cave? And nobody even bothered to go get his body? What the hell kind of people are you?”
The words raced around her mind, like birds chasing one another.
Was it her fault that she hadn’t known her father better? He was never around! Zoe’d had no choice but to rely more and more on her mom. Her mother had dropped out of medical school and worked multiple jobs to support the family while Zoe’s dad came and went. She’d thrown everything she had into being a mom—and she raised the kids to be resilient and strong. When Zoe was a baby, her mother dressed her in onesies that said Hero and Protagonist. Her father’s love might have been like a candle or a lantern, but her mom’s was better: it never went out.
Zoe was too tired to think anymore, even if it was only 9:30. She stripped off her clothes for bed. Her whole body felt dirty and sore. Her legs were stubbly, her breath was horrendous, her shoulders were tender from where her bra straps had dug into her skin. She should have showered, brushed her teeth, something. But she couldn’t do even one more thing today. She fell headlong into bed, like someone who’d been shot.
Her mother finally made it home in the middle of the night. Zoe heard the front door whoosh open in her sleep. She felt relief wash through her, and immediately had a dream in which she was a child again, laying her head on her mother’s lap. She wanted to talk to her mom, but couldn’t pull herself out of sleep. When she awoke again, hours later, it was because she heard voices—men’s voices—rising up through the floor.
She tried to shut them out. She refused to open her eyes. She tried to grab on to the dream she’d been having but couldn’t quite catch its tail.
There was music downstairs now, but it was weirdly out of place—Buddhist chanting set to keyboards, acoustic guitars, and finger cymbals. That meant her mom was trying to calm everybody down. Or she was trying to annoy them so much that they’d leave.