The Missing Ones

by Edwin Hill

  “No way!” Kate said.

  “Four years old?” asked the woman behind the counter.

  “Is it that obvious?” Hester asked.

  “I have one of my own,” the woman said, pushing one of her dark braids over her shoulder. “He’s in the kitchen. He’s into insects and peeing on trees these days. Luckily there’s plenty of both around here. And he only eats bologna. Won’t even do mac and cheese.”

  “She’ll eat hot dogs.”

  “I’m right here!” Kate said.

  “I know you are,” Hester said, ruffling the girl’s hair. “Can I get a hot dog around here?”

  “Up the road by the water. Try The Dock.”

  It still surprised Hester how easy it was to bond with other parents, how much commonality she found in their experiences and challenges. She spent so much time feeling alone, but usually as soon as she opened her mouth, she learned that nothing Kate did was even original. “I’ll take two doughnuts, a blueberry turnover, and a pumpkin whoopie pie. You can’t come to Maine and not have a whoopie pie.”

  “You gonna share any of that?” the woman asked as she put the baked goods in a white paper bag.

  “We’ll see,” Hester said, taking out her phone. “Are you Lydia? The deputy told me you knew my sister-in-law.”

  “Rory?”

  “Yeah, I think that was his name. Tall guy.”

  “That’s Rory. How’s he doing?”

  “Fine, I guess. He said he was up late, but then so was I.”

  “It was a rough night, in a lot of ways,” Lydia said, glancing at Daphne’s photo on the phone. “What do you want with Annie?”

  “Have you seen her today?”

  “Barely anyone’s been around today. I only opened to take my mind off things.”

  “You mean the missing boy?” Hester asked. “Rory told me that he came home this morning.”

  “That was the good news.”

  “Was there bad news?”

  “You mind chatting in the back?” Lydia asked.

  Hester followed Lydia around a counter to a tiny kitchen with racks to hold trays, a wall-mounted oven, a Hobart mixer, and a stainless-steel refrigerator. A boy with dark curly hair sat on a stool playing on an iPad. “This is Oliver,” Lydia said, kissing the boy’s cheek and then dumping a block of butter into the Hobart. “Coffee?”

  “Why not?” Hester said.

  “Help yourself.”

  Hester found a paper cup and filled it, then added cream and seven sugars. In the kitchen, Kate eyed Oliver warily, as if she’d forgotten how to play with other children. “What’s on the iPad?” Hester asked.

  “Angry Birds,” Oliver said.

  “Could you show Kate how to play?”

  The boy scowled but agreed, and soon the two of them were leaning in over the screen, laughing, while Lydia stood at the Hobart, her forehead resting on the machine as she watched the blade spin.

  “What was the bad news last night?” Hester asked.

  “A friend died,” Lydia said, as she scooped powdered sugar from a white plastic bin and added it to the creamed butter. “From an overdose, I guess. At least that’s what they’re saying.” She stopped midscoop, as if hearing her own words for the first time. “He was Rory’s brother, Pete.”

  “But Rory’s at work.”

  “If I know Rory, he’ll stay busy. Keep his mind off things.” Lydia paused.

  Hester didn’t know what to say and mumbled something about being sorry, but Lydia rescued her from the awkwardness. “Could I see that photo again?” she asked, taking the phone from Hester. “I barely recognize Annie here,” she said a moment later. “She’s so . . . happy. Healthy too.” She handed the phone back. “She never mentioned you. She didn’t say much about a family at all. Just a . . .” Lydia glanced at Kate and Oliver and stopped herself. “Something about a child that went missing.”

  “I haven’t seen her for a year. Family stuff. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Not really. Less than two hundred people live on this island year-round, and most of them I’ve known my whole life. When we fight, we fight, and everyone knows it, and everyone takes a side. Strangers stick out, till we let them in.”

  “Does Annie stick out?”

  “Anyone from off island does.”

  Lydia pulled a sheet of whoopie pies from the oven, each a perfect dome of chocolate cake. “Look, one broke,” she said, testing a piece. “Damn, that’s good,” she said.

  Oliver put the iPad aside and snatched up a piece too. Kate edged to the counter and touched a piece with her index finger.

  “It’s hot,” Hester said.

  Kate gobbled it up anyway. “Damn, that’s good,” she said, taking the rest of it and splitting it with Oliver.

  “Oops,” Lydia said.

  “She knows all the swear words,” Hester said. “Courtesy of me. She can teach them to Oliver, if you like. And now she likes whoopie pies!”

  “It’s a win!” Lydia said as she slid the tray onto a rack to cool and lifted a second from the oven.

  “Rory told me you’re friends with Annie,” Hester said.

  “Rory said that? I mean, I owe her, I guess, especially after last night. I almost drowned during the search. She was brave, but friends might be a stretch.”

  “That’s not a ringing endorsement.”

  “Patented Down East honesty.” Lydia turned the Hobart off and added a jar of marshmallow Fluff to the icing. “I’m glad you’re here, because when I look at Annie, I can’t really imagine anyone liking her. It’s good to know someone cares about her.”

  “Do you like her?” Hester asked.

  “Do you?”

  “Of course I do,” Hester said quickly. She didn’t dare give herself the time to think through the answer.

  CHAPTER 13

  After leaving the bag of toys—and Sebastian—with Lydia for safekeeping, Hester and Kate made a pit stop at The Dock, where Hester ordered fried clams for herself and a hot dog for Kate, and carried them to a picnic bench. Kate gobbled hers up while Hester dunked the fat, battered clams into tartar sauce. Afterward, they headed out of town, over a bridge to Little Finisterre. Despite the damage from the storm, the island was beautiful, all granite crags and rugged coastlines and trees already turning for the season. Kate dashed along, and Hester wished she’d brought Waffles with them. When they got to the leeward side, the line of trees opened to a protected harbor with a lighthouse sitting at the end of a jetty. Hester barely caught the view, prepping herself the whole way for meeting whoever “Annie” might be and reflecting on Lydia’s question. Did she like Daphne? She knew that she loved Daphne, but she liked her too, didn’t she? And she always had, ever since college, ever since they’d met during that self-defense course. They’d roomed together after their first year, where Daphne would wake in the middle of the night, unbridled energy flowing through her, and they’d run into the dark around the shores of Lake Waban, hand in hand, the whole world theirs and theirs alone. Hester remembered cold spring air, ferns unfurling, trees budding, a moon so full it seemed like daylight. The ground, only recently thawed, had nipped at her bare feet, but she couldn’t imagine turning back. She couldn’t imagine being anywhere else in the whole world.

  “If we run fast enough,” Daphne had said. “We can free ourselves. We can leap into the wind and take flight.”

  And for a moment, Hester got caught up in Daphne’s magic.

  Later, after Kate had come along, there’d been new magic. Hester remembered lolling on the sofa in that first-floor apartment as toddler Kate made animal noises and Daphne crawled on the floor and used the moo to transform into a cow. Kate clapped her hands together in delight. Any sound, quack, bark, meow, and Daphne was up for the challenge.

  Now, lost in thought, she managed to pass by the overgrown path to Daphne’s house twice before she finally found it. It disappeared into the trees, the autumn light barely penetrating the thick tree cover.

  This was it. Her
choice.

  She could either walk into these trees and face Daphne and whatever came with her, or turn back, find a beach, absorb the sun, and leave. She could create a new path and marry Morgan. He’d say yes, of course. He’d asked plenty of times, and she’d deferred, telling him she liked things the way they were, even if she couldn’t imagine a life without him. He’d even understand her true motivations—to protect Kate—motivations they’d never talk through. She could establish her right to shelter Kate from the world.

  Or—better choice—she could establish her right to help Kate face life, and everything that came with it. Warts and all.

  “You ready?” Hester asked.

  Kate smiled in a way that started with her mouth and spread through her entire body, till she couldn’t help but dance. It was a smile Hester lived for. And right now, this time, it wasn’t for her.

  “Let’s find Mommy,” Hester said.

  They stepped into the shadows. Under the thicket of evergreens, the temperature dropped by at least ten degrees and sent a chill down Hester’s back. They turned a corner, and the Victorian rose up in front of them, though when Hester had heard that Daphne lived in “an old Victorian,” she’d imagined towers and turrets and painted trim, not a near ruin. This house must have been a majestic summer escape once, with panoramic views of the Atlantic, before nature and decay began to take over. A giant beech tree grew on each side of the structure, and rhododendrons, long unpruned, threatened to swallow it whole.

  “Scary,” Kate said.

  Hester couldn’t have agreed more. This wasn’t a place where anyone should live. “We’ll be here for only a few minutes.”

  She pushed her way through the rhododendrons and edged around the perimeter of the wraparound porch. She imagined a swing and rocking chairs, long skirts and croquet mallets. This was a house from another era, when whole families took the train from Boston or New York to spend the summer lounging (and sweating) by the sea. She pictured dinners with bright red lobsters, corn, and blueberry pie; long card games; and reading by lamplight.

  She pressed her face to the grungy glass of one of the few remaining windows. A large, sticky-looking table bore remnants of a partly eaten meal. She tapped on the glass. When no one answered, she retraced her steps to the front door, where she rapped on the heavy oak. The door swung open on its own to a thick stench of rot, mildew, garbage, and the unmistakable odor of unwashed bodies, a foulness that seemed as desperate to escape the house as Hester was to escape it. Beneath it all, she smelled something skunky and assuredly illicit. “Daphne?” she shouted. “It’s me. Hester. I got your text.”

  When no one answered, she shouted Daphne’s name again. “Can you stand the smell?”

  Kate shrugged and said, “Sure.”

  Inside, children’s toys littered the floor in the front room. So did trash. “Stay very close to me,” she said to Kate. They edged along the wall like rodents. In the kitchen, a ceramic bowl covered in flies sat in the middle of a table. The room reeked of rotten tuna fish and spoiled mayonnaise. Hester opened the back door and tossed the bowl into the trees.

  They retraced their steps to the foyer and took a mahogany staircase to the second floor. A long hallway with many doors led down the length of the house. This was a house designed to pack in as many guests as possible. Hester opened each door and found varying degrees of discord from room to room. Behind the fourth door, she found a mattress and clothing belonging to a woman and a child. The very last door led to a tiny room with a single window at the far end. Someone had dragged together a wall of bureaus, and when Hester pushed her way through, she found a single mattress lined with yellowing sheets and an old sweater she recognized as belonging to Daphne. She touched the pilled knitting. Daphne, her friend, her sister, lived here, in this house, in this room, on this mattress, wearing this sweater.

  Daphne’s life had come to this.

  “Is Mommy here?” Kate asked.

  “I bet she’ll show up.”

  “When?”

  “Soon, I hope.”

  Hester glanced at her phone. It was almost two o’clock. She could stand the smell in the house for another ninety minutes, till they needed to leave to catch the ferry. Morgan had left three more texts and a voice mail since she’d last checked. He probably hadn’t panicked yet and wouldn’t till later tonight when he got home from work and neither Hester nor Kate was there. Hester could call him from the road, tell him that she’d gone for a ride and kept on driving. That would work if Daphne didn’t appear but not if Hester came home with Daphne sitting in the passenger’s seat. Then she’d have to tell him the truth.

  Kate jumped on the mattress, and Hester distracted herself by searching the bureaus. The first was empty. In the second, she found a few pieces of clothing, stretched and discolored from hand washing; an ancient, half-eaten granola bar; and a menu from Lydia’s bakery. In another drawer, she found a black knapsack and more clothing, enough to tell her that Daphne hadn’t left.

  A noise echoed down the hallway. Hester put a finger to her lips and left the knapsack leaning against a wall. “Stay here,” she whispered to Kate.

  Kate nodded, but as soon as Hester had crept into the hallway, the girl said, “Where are you going?” in anything but an inside voice.

  “Back in one minute,” Hester whispered. “Count to sixty, okay, so that I can hear you and know where you are.”

  They’d worked on counting all month instead of going to school, and the girl’s tiny voice rang out as Hester edged along the wall. “One, two, three . . .”

  The door to one of the bedrooms was ajar, light filtering into the hallway.

  “Four, five, six . . .”

  Hester focused in on hearing Kate’s voice. A man knelt at a suitcase tossing clothes aside and ripping at the lining with a box cutter. He had gray shoulder-length hair and managed to overpower the stench of the house with his own body odor. When he heard Hester, he spun, slashing at the air with the box cutter. Hester took a step back, hands up. She calculated the distance from where she was to Kate. She listened to the girl’s voice, “Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven . . .”

  She’d seen a back staircase. An escape.

  “Checking the place out,” she said, her voice as cool as she could make it. “Heard there might be a free room.”

  It seemed to take a moment for the man to process what she’d said, but he eventually glared at her and took a step forward. She mirrored his movements, stepping into the hallway.

  “It’s cool,” he said.

  “If it’s cool, then put that thing away?”

  The man held the box cutter horizontally and ran his finger along it as though seeing it for the first time. He retracted the blade and slid the knife into his pocket. “Where’d you fly in from?” he asked. “You’re like a little fairy.”

  Hester stared him down.

  “Yeah, it’s cool. Cold, really. Frigid. Yeah, frigid, man. Are you frigid, tiny lady?”

  Hester sighed and waved a fly away from her face. “Do you live here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have to live somewhere. How long have you been here?”

  “A week, maybe? A day?”

  “I heard a boy went missing last night.”

  “Ethan! My little dude!”

  “And he’s okay now?”

  “Dude. Buddy!”

  Hester took out her phone and shoved the photo of Daphne into the man’s face. “Have you seen her?”

  The man grinned again. “Red!” he shouted. “Tuna Helper!”

  “Annie, right?” Hester said. “You know her?”

  “Do you have anything to eat?”

  Hester jabbed a finger at the photo. “When did you see her last?”

  He touched the phone gently, caressing the screen with his fingertips. “For real,” he said. “How much does this thing cost?”

  “I don’t really know. A hundred bucks maybe?”

  “She doesn’t know!” h
e said, his eyes angry. “Why would you know? You probably spent a hundred bucks on lunch today. I could use a hundred bucks.”

  “Let’s start with twenty. Tell me what you know about her and I’ll give you twenty bucks.”

  He shook his head and zipped his lips closed.

  Down the hallway, Kate hit sixty. “Aunt Hester,” she shouted. “It’s been one minute.”

  “One more,” Hester shouted back. “Count again so that I can hear you.”

  “One, two, three . . .”

  “Spill,” she said to the man. “Or you won’t get a dime.”

  His hand went to the pocket holding the box cutter, and his eyes lost the glazed-over look. He stopped smiling. “Last night, or maybe the night before. Who knows? She was here. Your friend.” He took his hand from his pocket, and Hester almost started to run, but it was empty. He held an imaginary phone to his ear. “Frankie says that one there, the one on your phone, Red, that she told the cops that Frankie dealt drugs and abandoned her kid. I bet Red took Ethan. Wanted the attention. She likes that cop, the one with the acne. Wanted to fuck him, from what I hear. And there aren’t any drugs here anyway. Only bitches. One real bitch.”

  “Ethan showed up this morning, right?” she said. “That’s what I hear.”

  “Little pisser,” the man said, though he smiled. “I asked him what happened, but he couldn’t tell me. This island is one big little place. Lots of spots to get lost and forgotten. Killed even. Half the kids on this island spend their school days out pulling traps,” The man kicked at something invisible and nearly fell backward, the smile gone. “The kid’s a retard, is my guess. Not that Frankie’ll do anything about it.”

  “Where are Ethan and Frankie?”

  “Down by the lighthouse. On the beach.” The man pointed in one direction, and then the other. He put a hand to his face and laughed, showing the gaps where his teeth had fallen out. “More lighthouses in Maine than seagulls,” he added. “Good luck finding it.” A shadow fell across the man’s face. “I need some stuff,” he said. “Or I’ll have the runs. Like, runny runs.”

  “Is that what you were looking for in the suitcase?”