Meredith looked at the photo. It was a selfie: Lisa and a smiling man, maybe in his midtwenties. He had blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard.
“It was taken last month,” Detective Waller said. “Date stamp of September twenty-ninth.”
“Did you ask Becca?” Meredith said.
“We did,” Detective Thorn said. “And several others. Like I said, nobody recognized him. Is he familiar to you at all?”
“Did they tell you they take selfies all the time? Literally all the time. Lisa and her friends? I’d see them at the mall taking selfies with strangers.”
“So you don’t recognize him?”
“I didn’t see the man who took her,” she said. “I couldn’t see him. He was wearing a mask.”
“Okay,” Detective Waller said. “Okay. So you said.”
So you said. Maybe she hadn’t meant it to come out like that, but there it was on the porch between them. What did they think, that she had lied about the mask? That she had seen the man’s face? That she knew him?
“He was wearing a mask,” she said again. “I know he was. Didn’t the sandwich farmer say that, too?”
“Who?”
“The Deli Barn guy. Whatever his name is.”
What was his name? Had she ever known? She had forgotten about him, nearly. It was as if he’d been in the back room, unconscious, all this time. She thought of what Evan had said: “Bump on the head. Just enough to—”
“We have his statement,” Detective Thorn said.
“He’s been very useful,” added Detective Waller.
Why were they being so cagey? Across the street, Mrs. Reed walked out her front door, saw the police car, and went back inside.
“You haven’t gotten any unusual texts lately, have you?” Detective Waller asked.
“What do you mean?” Meredith asked.
“What time will your parents be home?” Detective Thorn asked.
“Soon,” she said, though this was not true. Evan would be here soon. But she felt if she said her parents would be here soon then the detectives were more likely to leave. Something had happened. They knew something. And now she was acting all weird—snotty, guilty even. She imagined the mental notes they were taking. Agitated. Defensive.
“We’ll check back with you in a couple days,” Detective Thorn said. “But I’d like for you to let us know if you see or hear anything unusual.”
She went into the house and locked the door. She slid off her backpack and stood with her back pressed against the door. They were still out there, on the porch. They weren’t talking but she could tell they were still there. What were they doing? What were they waiting for?
?
Evan didn’t get home until her parents had been home for over an hour. He rolled in, sweaty and swaggery, and stood at the kitchen counter eating his banana, even though the three of them were sitting at the kitchen table clearly eating dinner.
“We started without you,” her father said.
“We didn’t know where you were,” her mother said. “It’s almost seven o’clock.”
“I was with some of the guys,” Evan said.
“What guys?” her mother asked tightly, like the answer might be mobsters or heroin addicts.
“The guys,” Evan said. “My friends. Do I stink too bad? Do you want me to shower or can I sit and eat? Mer, do I stink?”
“No,” she said, without bothering to take a whiff. More people at the table meant less attention on her. That was simple arithmetic.
Evan filled a plate at the stove and sat down at the table.
“How is everyone?” he asked.
“Your mother wants to know if you’re going to play baseball this spring,” her father asked.
Her mother made a scoffing sound, with a little furious yelp at the end. “Really?” she said. “That’s how you’re going to ask that question?”
“It’s true, isn’t it?” her father said. “That’s the question. Is that or is that not the question?”
“What your father meant to say,” she said, “is that he and I would like to know if you’re thinking about playing baseball.”
“I’m not thinking about playing baseball,” Evan said. “I am playing baseball.”
“Evan,” her mother said. “The doctor . . . ”
“The doctor, yes. I know what the doctor said. But the doctor isn’t in my head. The doctor doesn’t see what I see. Every injury is different. He said that, right? I’m not making that up. Every injury is unique. He said that, didn’t he, Dad?”
“He did,” her father said. When her mother scowled he turned to her and shrugged. “He did. He said it. The man said that.”
“Right,” Evan said. “So here’s the thing. I didn’t think I’d be able to see the ball well enough to play. But my brain knows where the ball is. The ball moves in a straight line. The ball is always the same size and shape. My brain gets it because the ball hasn’t changed. My brain doesn’t get a balloon. You could throw a balloon to me twenty times and I’d be lucky to catch it twice. But a pitch follows a line. And my brain knows the line because it’s seen the same line a million times. I can catch. And I can hit. And I can run. That’s all I need to be able to do. I’m not saying I’m gonna be in the Hall of Fame. I’m saying maybe I can play with my team for one more season.”
“You can hardly pour a glass of milk,” her mother said.
“You haven’t been paying attention,” he said. “I can pour a glass of milk. And I can hit a fastball. I hit one today at the cages. I hit a hundred of ’em, actually.”
“Really?” her father asked. “How fast?”
“The eighty cage. I was a little rusty because I’m out of shape. But, Dad, other than that, it’s just the same. I know the line of the ball. My brain knows where the ball is, even if my eye doesn’t.”
“That’s incredible,” her father said. “I can’t even—”
“I know, right? It is incredible. But it’s true.” He looked at her mother. He was right on the edge of a smile, a real smile. Meredith could see it coming. “Mom, I swear, it’s true.”
Her mother set down her fork. “What about pop-ups?” she asked.
“Jesus, Claire . . . ”
“What?” she said. “Don’t Jesus me. It’s a reasonable question.”
“Some things are harder than others,” Evan said. The expression that was almost a smile faded. “Some things are going to take longer to get right. No question. But . . . yeah, okay, of course. Some things are harder than others.”
“I’m very proud of you for getting back out there,” her father said. He put his hand on Evan’s forearm. “Whatever happens. I’m very proud of you.”
“Honey, Evan, I’m proud of you, too,” her mother blurted out. “I’m not saying I’m not proud. I’m only saying—”
“She’s only saying what about pop-ups,” Meredith said. “What about pop-ups? What about pop-ups? What about pop-ups?”
They all stared at her in silence. Part of her wanted to keep saying it. She felt like she could say it forever, say it until they had to take her to a hospital, say it until they had to give her the Thorazine again, say it until Lisa came home.