“We don’t know what they’ve been through,” she said, now feeling bad about pretty much attacking Lucas. “What Max is still going through.”
“Neither do they!” he nearly screamed. “And us, on the other hand, we’ve had to slog through this for years.”
“I have to find Max,” she said as she turned to go, almost to remind herself why she’d come. It had been a slog, yes. Depressed parents. Obsessed parents. Drunk parents. Absent parents. Anger. Grief. Miserable vigils and limbo. But to suggest they’d had it harder?
“It’s not promising to be a story with a happy ending, Ave.”
“I know,” she said. “I just need to know. So we can all move on one way or another. Do you trust him?”
He looked off toward the house, then back at her. “I don’t know. I can’t think. I mean, this day. My dad . . .”
“Of course,” she said. “Ryan, I’m so, so sorry.”
She went to hug him again and he let her, and she tried really hard to have the moment just be about that—about him, his dad—but she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t hold it in. When she pulled out of the hug, she said, “What if they’re lying?”
Confusion flashed across his features.
“What if they remember everything?” Her voice sounded sinister even to her. “What if they’re hiding something?” Then, “I have to do something.”
“You need to leave it to the police,” Ryan said.
She stared at him for a second—he just didn’t get it—then took off down the path. “Yeah, because that worked so well the first time.”
At home, she went to the back door and then changed her mind.
Going around to the front of the house, she walked up to a news van and knocked on its side, then knocked on the other one, then stood on the front porch steps as newsies set aside their Starbucks and applied lipstick and fired up their cameras and microphones. The camera lights were bright even under full sun.
Go-time.
“I’m Max Godard’s sister, Avery.” Her voice cracked a bit, but she cleared her throat and went on. “And I want to say that we’re really happy that Lucas and Kristen and Sarah and Adam and Scarlett are back home.”
She could see in their eyes how excited they were, these people who’d been sitting around for hours, waiting for something—anything—to happen.
“But we miss Max as much today as we have since that first day and every day in between. And, well, I think they might know something. The others. I think they’re hiding something.” She took a breath and licked her lips, the last of her lip gloss gone—who even cared?—and thought for a second about Lucas, the bewildered look in his eyes, the curve of his shoulders. He was so . . . lovely . . . and yet.
“One of them remembers riding a carousel,” she said slowly, clearly. “There must be more they remember. Things that could help us find Max. And our family fully expects answers, and justice. Thank you. That’s all.”
She turned to go inside as they shouted questions. “Who remembers the carousel?” “Which of them have you spoken to?”
The front door was, luckily, unlocked, so she walked in, then closed it behind her and leaned against it.
Oh god. What had she done?
No, it was good. Someone had to say it, so why not her?
She pushed to standing and went upstairs and changed into her swimsuit, then went out to the pool lanai and dove in. Surfacing, she pushed back into a float and looked up at the clouds—one of them the shape of a cow’s head, another long and sharp-looking, like a knife.
Scarlett
“I knew they’d find something.”
The smoke from her mother’s cigarette seemed intent on blowing Scarlett’s way instead of out her mother’s open window.
“I just knew it.”
Scarlett sat in the passenger seat with her hands resting on her belly. The smoke was surrounding . . .
. . . suffocating . . .
. . . like it was trying to strangle her from the
The doctor had said they couldn’t tell what it was.
That the shape was obviously wrong for it to be a coin, that the detail wasn’t sharp enough.
That she’d have to keep an eye out for when it passed.
“Steve’s never gonna believe it.”
Of course he wouldn’t.
Scarlett couldn’t believe it, and it was inside her.
And all she could do was . . .
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock . . .
. . . wait?
It seemed cruel.
Desperate to think about something—anything—else on their way to the outlets, desperate to get her mind off a foreign body working its way through her system, Scarlett said, “How’d you meet him? Steve?”
“Oh, he came into the bar one night. Then again the next night. And so on and so on . . .”
“What bar?”
“Thar she blows.” Her mother pointed out Scarlett’s window. They were on a small on-ramp to a bridge beside the Lamppost Hotel.
“It ain’t . . .”
Isn’t.
“. . . the most glamorous job, but I’ve been there long enough I get to pick my own shifts and everybody pretty much leaves me alone. Haven’t taken a drink myself since the day you went missing, but happy to hand ’em out.”
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