Center of Gravity

by Laura McNeill

  Whatever works for him. But the truth matters to me. Like the stuff about my grandpa. All of a sudden, he’s not dead? I’m still freaked out about that. Trying to tell myself it’s real. Trying to make myself believe it.

  But, hey, superheroes can come back to life. Superman did it. No one blinks at that. Captain America did too. Marvel Comics killed off his real identity, Steve Rogers, a few years back. The head honcho guys thought the fan world would take it lying down, but boy, were they wrong.

  Rogers/Captain America had been around for more than sixty years. He was an icon, a veteran in the truest sense—created to help the United States fight in World War II—using his combat and survival skills. Yes, he was a character in a comic book. But when the sniper bullet took him out, the world fought back. Captain America was reborn.

  A miracle? Maybe. I think it’s because people believed in him and wouldn’t give up.

  So what about real life? What about my grandfather? If I had known he was alive, I wouldn’t have given up.

  Right now all I know is that I am starving. Headache and stomachache starving. So much so that I can’t think. About Grandpa, about Ava or Sam. About anything but food.

  Dad’s on the phone when I finally come out of the bathroom, and as predicted, he’s onto some new crisis. He’s pacing around like a caged tiger, eyes crazy. My throat parches and I creep backward, away from him, until my hand finds the door frame of my bedroom. I duck inside the darkness and let my eyes adjust as I stay still and listen for my father.

  When he hangs up the phone, he heads for the bathroom and flicks on the light, bathing the hall in bright yellow. I blink against the glare, rubbing my eyelids while my dad opens and closes drawers, rummaging around. I can tell when he opens the vanity over the sink because the hinges creak. I hold my breath as he rattles pill bottles and pushes around boxes of medicine we keep out of Sam’s reach.

  While he’s busy searching, I tiptoe into the kitchen and ease open the bottom cabinets. Inside there’s nothing but filé powder to make gumbo and a yellow bag of shrimp boil seasoning. The cupboard next to it isn’t much better.

  Holding my arms tight to my body, I step toward the refrigerator and pull gently on the freezer door. A blast of chilled air hits my cheeks. Two long blue trays sit to one side, shiny and full of ice, but otherwise that space is bare too. When I move down to the larger door, my hope for dinner really fizzles, like someone’s punctured my favorite balloon. Other than a squeeze-jar of mustard and a box of baking soda, it’s empty.

  I check the trash. Dad’s tossed out every single thing Isabel made us for the weekend. What was he thinking?

  Panicking a little, I look in the pantry. One box of mac and cheese, which may become dinner, unless my dad decides to at least get takeout. I swear the guys at Red Dragon Chinese Restaurant know our weekend order by heart: sweet and sour shrimp, three egg rolls, and pineapple fried rice.

  Dad’s gruff voice sounds behind me. “Gotta go out for a while, Jack.”

  I jump up and whirl around, chest heaving.

  His eyes run over me, scanning my rumpled T-shirt, jeans, and bare feet. I wait for him to criticize something about my clothes or my hair, but he brushes past me, reaching over my head.

  When I glance up, he’s already found what he’s looking for, a silver flask among a few tall bottles of liquor. Stuff I’m never, ever supposed to touch.

  Keeping his back to me, Dad slides the container inside his jacket pocket. “Watch your brother,” he says, his voice gravelly, turning around to face me. “He’s asleep.”

  I wrench my eyes away from the bulge in his jacket pocket and focus on his face, the pulse thudding in my veins. “Yes, sir,” I reply quietly.

  Dad opens up the closet door, pulls down a tan canvas suitcase. “Put anything you might want or need in there.”

  I don’t move.

  “Jack, get it done,” he snaps. “I have to take care of some things. For the trip.” He pulls at his shirt and straightens his collar. “We leave when I get back. Whether you’re packed or not.”

  I nod and my robot self clicks on. I inch toward my bedroom. I don’t want to wake up Sam. But I need clothes, shoes, and stuff. God, I hate my dad right now.

  “Good. Be back soon.”

  The door clicks shut behind him. I lock it. My stomach heaves as if it’s the Titanic breaking in half on the Atlantic. Then a thought hits me. The canisters with flour, sugar, and sometimes a forgotten treat. I haven’t checked there. Maybe Isabel left something. I almost sprint to the counter. The tops clink as I pull it up. No food. No cookies. But there’s something else. Something cold and hard. I pull it up and take it out.

  It’s a gun. And I think it might be real.

  CHAPTER 59

  LUCY

  FRIDAY, APRIL 30

  This is the time when an escape route to an alternate universe would come in handy. When you want to run but can’t, when you suspect someone is crazy, when you absolutely would rather drink a bottle of wine than deal with the cold, hard truth.

  Now I have to call her attorney. On a Friday night. With some serious concerns.

  Damn.

  I search for Graham’s card, find it stuck to some Jolly Ranchers in my drawer. Stained cherry-red on the edges, I can still make out the number. I punch it in and wait.

  Voice mail.

  “Graham, hey. This is Lucy. Please call me back ASAP. I need to talk to you about Mitchell Carson. I’m worried. It sounds like he’s planning a trip away—and they’re leaving tonight. I have no information about where they’re going or for how long.”

  Pause. I take a hit from my inhaler.

  “Also the older boy has some bruises that are consistent with abuse. His story does not, I repeat, does not match Dad’s. Someone’s covering up and I don’t like it. Dad didn’t meet me for his home visit. Not sure if that information made it down the food chain to you yet.”

  Another hit. I clear my throat.

  “As a mandatory reporter, I have to contact CPS next. Call me. Graham—”

  A rattle at the door startles me. Someone is trying to open it. Then a knock.

  Bleep. The voice mail cuts off with a sound loud enough to do hearing damage.

  More banging. Louder this time.

  “Hold your horses,” I call out. “Don’t break my window.”

  I almost stumble over my umbrella as I step into the murky hallway and yank open the office door. “It’s Friday night. What in the world could be so important?”

  A thick hand grabs my neck and squeezes.

  CHAPTER 60

  AVA

  FRIDAY, APRIL 30

  My body sags when I hang up with Will Harris. I press a hand to the counter to steady myself. My head pulsates with pain. I start walking to get some Advil when the rumble of a motorcycle engine startles me. I rush to the door and peek out. It’s Graham on his Harley. In a very wrinkled, dirty coat and tie. He pulls off his helmet and walks up the front steps.

  “Got your message,” he says. “Figured it’d be easier to just head over and talk.”

  “What happened?” I demand. “You look awful.”

  He grimaces, grabs his briefcase and a sack from Miss Beulah’s. “My very temperamental bike led to a very temperamental judge.”

  “Late for court?” I push open the door and usher him inside.

  “You guessed it.” He plops the paper bag on the counter, which smells like heaven—cinnamon, sugar, thick white icing. “I offered to be in contempt so that my client didn’t get the short end of the stick. The judge fined me a thousand dollars.”

  I gulp.

  “Next time I’ll set two alarms.” Graham pushes the bag in my direction. “Here, eat up while you tell me what’s going on.”

  I recount the visit with Jack and Sam, show him the timeline, and offer my theory about Mitchell running with the boys. “Think about it,” I say. “He took off after his mother committed suicide, and Frank said he was never the same. After Karen die
s, he leaves his job and everything—including his father—behind, basically wiping out the past.” I stop and take a breath. “So what’s to stop him from taking the boys now and disappearing?”

  “Other than it’s illegal?” Graham tips back in his chair, considering this. “Although, I don’t know if he cares.”

  “Exactly.”

  Graham drums his fingers on the table. “We can’t go accusing someone of just thinking about kidnapping their own children.”

  “I know.” I frown and cross my arms. “So while I was waiting for you to call me back, I got in touch with Will Harris. Told him what I was thinking about Mitchell disappearing. I asked him if he remembered anything else about Karen—anything weird that happened right before she died.”

  “And?”

  “She was in his office the morning of the accident. Harris said Mitchell called and demanded Karen come home. He thinks Mitchell threatened to hurt Jack if she didn’t come back right away. So she did.”

  Graham springs to his feet, starts pacing, but stops abruptly to rub his knee. “Damn. Why didn’t Harris go to the cops?”

  “I guess he didn’t know for sure about the threat. Mitchell would have denied it anyway. What could the police do? Karen was already gone.”

  Graham mulls this, head down. “Okay, I get it. What else?”

  “There’s no way Harris was Karen’s boyfriend. No way.”

  “Did you ask him straight out?”

  “Didn’t have to. He’s gay. Told me about his partner, Paul. How they went to the funeral together. How he and Paul adored Karen and Jack.”

  Graham is shocked. For a second. “Well, tickle me pink. I’ll be damned.”

  “There’s more. Frank called and said he’d found something. So I went to see him yesterday. We had quite the discussion.”

  “Hit me.”

  I rummage through my papers, yank out the itinerary. Hand it to Graham. “Take a look at this. I made about ten copies, just in case.”

  He scans it, rubs his jaw, then hands it back to me. “She wasn’t leaving him.”

  “Nope.” I slip the paper in my pocket for safekeeping and cross my arms. “It was a surprise. They were going on a trip. Mitchell didn’t know anything about it. Still doesn’t.”

  “All right, partner!” Graham slaps his hands together and rubs them. “Did I mention I could get you a job as a PI?”

  I grin at the praise. “Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe I’ll go to law school and give you a run for your money, counselor.”

  Across the room in Graham’s briefcase, his phone starts vibrating. He jumps up from the table but doesn’t snatch it up fast enough.

  “Dr. Bennett,” he says, swiping at the screen. He attempts to call back, but his phone won’t connect. “Come on.”

  “Maybe she’s leaving a voice mail?” I suggest.

  Thirty seconds later, Graham’s phone beeps. “She did.” Graham sticks his cell between his ear and shoulder, listening and watching me closely. His forehead wrinkles. “It’s not good. Go ahead, listen to it.”

  The message is broken up and crackly. I can only catch bits and pieces. Worried. Away. Bruises. Check on the kids. I stifle a cry. Then there’s a sound, like banging on wood or knocking. Then the voice mail ends.

  My body goes numb. “Something awful’s happened.”

  He nods and redials her number. I bite my lip and pace as he listens.

  He hangs it up. “She’s not answering.”

  “Let’s go,” I urge him.

  Graham nods, and we race for the door. He hands me my phone as we jog to the Harley. I climb on the back, jam the phone in my jeans, and strap on Graham’s helmet.

  “Ready?” he yells.

  When I squeeze his arm as a yes, he guns the engine to life. In seconds, we’re speeding downtown.

  CHAPTER 61

  LUCY

  FRIDAY, APRIL 30

  My knees buckle under the weight of my surprise. Mitchell Carson’s fingers pressing into the cords of my neck, his face outlined in the darkness. My hands jerk forward, pushing against Mitchell’s chest. It’s like pressing into the worn grooves of a boulder, solid and unyielding. I rake at his forearms, my fingernails finding his skin.

  “Dammit,” he growls, glancing down at the place I’ve scratched and torn. He shakes me, as if I’m a puppet made of cotton cloth, felt, and stitching.

  As I draw a ragged breath, I smell sweat—Mitchell’s? My own? And the distinct scent of cypress branches after a rainstorm. I force my brain there, into a forest of trees, hoping to calm my frantic pulse. Stay calm, Lucy. Stay calm.

  “Leave us alone.” Mitchell hisses into my ear. His breath, hot and wet, settles on my clammy skin. When he steps back, his fingers loosen on my neck.

  I suck in air, big gasping breaths. My throat, full of fire, fights the oxygen. My lungs scream for relief. I press my spine against the drywall, willing my weak legs to straighten and stand. Mitchell stares at me, motionless, as I meet his eyes, dark as obsidian and unyielding. His face, mask-like, reveals no emotion.

  “My medicine. I can’t breathe,” I gasp. His fingers tighten, close off my vocal cords. I can’t scream. I can’t make a sound.

  It’s then Mitchell turns and reaches for my inhaler. I watch as his fingers curl around the cylinder. His knuckles tighten, squeezing, before my medicine disappears into the depths of his pocket.

  The light fades. Darker. Darker. My arms flail and jerk. I slump over. And see Mitchell Carson smile just before I hit the floor.

  CHAPTER 62

  JACK

  FRIDAY, APRIL 30

  What would Iron Man do? Please. He’d grab his brother, blast off into space, and leave this mess behind. His suit’s awesome like that. Bulletproof, able to shoot repulsor rays, it protects him from anything.

  Okay. So there’s the heart issue. Never stopped Iron Man for long. Genius inventor, problem solver, supersmart guy. MIT grad. Sheesh. If he can’t come up with some answers, the world’s lost. For good.

  I have to channel my inner Iron Man. There’s work to do, solutions to find. I grab a pen and paper. Research possibilities: Dad’s computer. Off-limits. House phone. Off-limits. Contacts: Ava. Dr. Bennett. The judge. Lawyers. My grandfather.

  Clues: My dad’s weird freak-out sessions. The box Ava gave me when Dr. Bennett was at our house. The box I stuffed under the bed. The gun in the kitchen. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt. Ava. Me. Especially Sam.

  Like he knows I am thinking about him, Sam sighs in his sleep, stretches his arms overhead. He exhales and rubs his cheek against the mattress. I climb out of bed, steal into the kitchen, and lift up the cover of the canister. The gun is still there. The metal glints back at me in the soft light from the hallway. Before I change my mind, and knowing my dad might ground me forever, I reach inside and pull it out. It’s heavy and solid in my hand. I squint, checking that the safety is on. Heart thumping, I replace the canister top and race back to my room. After wrapping the gun in a towel, I tuck it into my backpack and shove it under my bed.

  While my cheek is pressed to the carpeting, I see the box from Ava. I hesitate, then pull it out, sit up on my knees, and examine the writing on the card. Flowery, like a girl wrote it. The box, a little banged up, is held shut with brittle tape and a plain yellowed ribbon. It breaks open when I tug. I lift off the cover, move the tissue paper aside, and pull out what’s inside.

  A children’s book, with a drawing of a boy on the cover. He’s six or seven years old, with a red cape flying in the breeze. It’s me. The same eyes, nose, mouth. My hair is a little darker now, and I’m bigger. But it’s a picture of me. No doubt about it. Here’s the title: The Adventures of Jack Carson: Super Kid. The author and illustrator? Karen Carson.

  The book spine cracks as I open the pages. My mother’s drawings tell the story: a regular boy in a regular neighborhood with a regular life. One day he finds a red cape in an old trunk in his grandfather’s attic. Every time he puts it on, amazing things h
appen. He saves a baby from being hit in traffic, he climbs a tree to rescue a kitten, he helps the police find a bank robber.

  On the last few pages, Jack finds out the cape doesn’t have superpowers, but he can still do all kinds of good things without it. It’s the magic inside his heart that counts. When I turn the final page, a card and a photo fall out into my lap. My throat gets tight.

  Dearest Jack,

  This book is one of many surprises I planned for your birthday. It’s a little late getting back from the printer, but I hope you like it. I’ll miss you every minute and will be home as soon as I can from the book tour! Here’s a photo from last year. Look how much you’ve grown! I’m proud of you, my superhero son.

  I love you more than anything,

  Mommy

  The photo’s upside down, with names on the back. My mother’s handwriting, because it matches the card. Jack’s birthday. Jack, Frank, Mitchell, Karen. I flip it over.

  I’m wearing a red cape. Sitting on my grandfather’s lap. Beaming in the glow of candles. And I’m next to my mother, who wasn’t going to leave me, after all.

  CHAPTER 63

  GRAHAM

  FRIDAY, APRIL 30

  Dr. Bennett’s office door is cracked open and the place is trashed. Garbage overturned, files knocked to the ground. The hallway’s dark, so I can’t see well. I grab for Ava’s hand, fumble for the light switch and flick it on. Ava gasps. The light glares harsh on a crumpled body. Dr. Bennett’s lying on her side. She’s alabaster white, the color of drying plaster. Her cell phone is within inches of her outstretched hand. I crouch down and check her pulse. My fingertips catch a faint beat. Ava drops to her knees and holds her other hand.

  I punch 9–1–1.

  “What’s your emergency?” the operator answers.

  The woman records the address, sketchy details, and my name in the Mobile County EMS system. I grab the wrinkled pharmacy bag on the desk, turn it upside down, and shake out the empty Albuterol box.