by Aiden Thomas
“Miss Darling,” Detective James said in a low, serious tone. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you again: Do you remember anything that happened to you in those woods?”
A choked breath stuck in Wendy’s throat. She couldn’t remember, but whatever happened still lived in her bones. It hid tucked between her ribs and nestled in her spine, stirring on occasion. Her body remembered what her mind couldn’t.
Wendy’s chin wobbled, a sour mix of embarrassment and fear twisting in her stomach. She pressed her lips between her teeth and tasted salt. She wanted to make some smart reply, to shut them down and get them to leave her alone, but she couldn’t come up with anything clever.
It was her mother who took a step forward. “What exactly is this all about, detectives?” She raised her voice, but the hand she held against her chest trembled. Her face was pinched, almost in a grimace, like she was bracing herself for impact. Like she already knew what they were going to tell her.
Detective James spoke in a rehearsed tone. “After the police officers you spoke to reported to the main department, they noted some connections between your daughter, the location of the incident, and the dates. They pulled some dead files, and we got called in.”
Dead files. Wendy shuddered. Mrs. Darling didn’t say anything.
“Mrs. Darling.” His tone was quieter now. “The material the boy was wearing matched the evidence collected from Wendy’s clothing five years ago.”
CHAPTER 4
Thunder
Wendy felt a stirring deep inside her bones. It had first started when they found her in the woods. An uncontrollable shaking. Not the kind she would get after swimming too hard for too long, or the shiver she got from playing in the icy water at the coast. It wasn’t even the sort of terrified quiver you got in your hands or knees. This was at the very core of her body, like a small creature living deep in her chest, shaking her ribs like the bars of a cage in a wild frenzy. It was an immobilizing tremor.
It was her fault. It was all her fault. Wendy was the eldest—she was supposed to look after John and Michael. She was supposed to take care of them, and she’d failed. She was the only one to return.
Her brothers were still missing, and it was her fault. Everyone knew it—Wendy, her parents, everyone in town.
There must’ve been some way she could have brought them back with her. Why hadn’t she? And why couldn’t she just remember?
Wendy’s fingers flexed against her sides. She couldn’t let the shaking start, because she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to make it stop.
“Do you understand, Mrs. Darling?” Detective James watched Wendy’s mother, but she just stood there, fingers pressed to the base of her throat, staring at him.
Detective Rowan watched Wendy. Wendy’s shoulders shuddered.
“We think that this boy, Peter, might somehow be involved with Wendy’s disappearance,” Detective James continued.
Wendy couldn’t look at them. She focused her eyes on the ghost of a water ring on the table.
“There’s a possibility he escaped from wherever your children were taken. There’s a possibility that if he knows Wendy, maybe he knew John and Michael as well.”
Knew.
She didn’t like the sound of her brothers’ names coming from this stranger’s mouth.
“We also believe he might somehow be related to the string of disappearances in town, since they all occurred near the woods.”
The trembling in her chest started to wind its way up Wendy’s spine. She wanted to cry out, scream, run away, maybe just explode.
“Mrs. Darling?” As Detective James took a step toward her mother, the door to the study swung open.
Wendy’s father stood in the doorway, filling the frame. He had salt-and-pepper hair, but a dyed mustache. His nose was large and bulbous, and his forehead had deep-set wrinkles even when he wasn’t frowning, which, to be fair, wasn’t often. He was in the same suit he’d worn to work at the bank yesterday. The dull black material was rumpled. The pinstripe shirt underneath was wrinkled, and his tie was missing.
Mr. Darling’s face was red. His small eyes under thick brows darted back and forth between the two detectives before sweeping over to his silent wife and, finally, landing on Wendy at the table. His fingers gripped the wooden doorframe so hard it surrendered a small creak.
“Who are you?” He had a booming voice. “And what are you doing in my house?”
While Detective Rowan squared her shoulders and watched Mr. Darling placidly, Detective James quickly flipped through his notebook. “Um—George Darling?” Wendy’s father did not reply. “I’m Detective James, this is Detective—”
“Detectives?” The lines in her father’s face deepened. “What’re two detectives doing in my house?” His eyes shifted to Wendy, full of accusation.
Wendy’s shoulders hunched up and she shrank lower in her chair. Already she was in trouble. This didn’t bode well.
“There was an incident last night—”
“What incident?”
Detective James started to recite the story again, but Wendy didn’t pay attention. She didn’t need to hear what she had been through last night. Instead, she watched her mother, who seemed to have come out of her trance a bit.
Mrs. Darling pulled out a chair and sat down. Without sparing Wendy a glance, she leaned forward, elbows on the table, and pressed her face into her palms.
Wendy’s body gave another shudder. Maybe they were both thinking the same thing.
That no one had hope of finding John and Michael.
The detectives didn’t mention it as a possibility. Her mom hadn’t shown any sign of relief.
Wendy looked down at her hands, remembering the blood caked under her nails.
No. No one else would expect to find them alive, but Wendy held out hope. There was something in her that knew they weren’t dead. It was a gut instinct. Wendy didn’t believe in much, but she believed in that, and she held tight to the feeling—the faith that they were out there, somewhere, even if no one else agreed.
Right now, she couldn’t stand listening any longer. She needed to get out of there. To get some fresh air and clear her head.
Wendy pushed back from the table and stood up. She made for the front door, but her father’s arm shot out, a finger pointing at her. “Where are you going?” he demanded.
Everyone was staring at her again.
She crossed her arms, trying to hide her shaking hands. “Jordan’s,” Wendy croaked.
His eyes bored into hers. “Don’t go anywhere else.” Wendy nodded and sprinted out the door.
She wanted to get away and get to Jordan. She was the only one Wendy could go to. Jordan never doubted or questioned her. She listened to what Wendy said and believed her, unlike everyone else in town.
“Wendy, you okay?”
The sudden voice made her jump. She turned to see her neighbor, Donald Davies, picking up his newspaper from his front porch in a dark red robe. He was a tall and slender man who only wore flannel shirts in various shades of red plaid when he wasn’t in a business suit. He had curly brown hair and a thick, dark beard. Mr. Davies and her dad worked at the same bank. Wendy had been babysitting his boys—ten-year-old Joel and seven-year-old Matthew—for years. He always gave her a big tip, and whenever she tried to give it back, Mr. Davies insisted she use it for her college fund.
“Mr. Davies, hi,” Wendy said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. She glanced down at the newspaper in his hand. Ashley Ford’s picture smiled at her from the front page.
“Is everything okay?” Mr. Davies repeated, stepping down from his porch. Wendy could only imagine how she looked. Probably like she had just seen a ghost. Mr. Davies looked pale and his eyes kept cutting over to the police car parked in front of their house. He squeezed the newspaper in his hands.
Wendy forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, already starting toward the Arroyos’ house again. “I’ve gotta go, though—I’m late to meet Jordan.”
Mr. Davies blinked. Wendy was usually very neighborly and would stop and chat with him if she had the time, but right now she didn’t have the energy for it.
Her mind buzzed. She needed everything to slow down so her head could catch up. Her own skin felt suffocating. She wanted out. She wanted to run away. She didn’t want to be met with more stares and whispers when she went into town. She didn’t want to pretend she was fine.
But Wendy refused to let herself cry. It had taken so long to board everything up the last time. Wendy didn’t think she could manage it again.
The six months between running off into the woods and being found were just a black void in her mind. When she was in the hospital, the doctors had tried to get her to press against it, to poke and prod and see if she could remember anything, but she couldn’t.
Of course she wanted to remember. If she could just remember what had happened, then she could find her brothers. Those lost memories held the secrets to finding them.
All that she had been left with were horrible dreams that made her wake up in the hospital screaming and left ghosts of images in their wake. Trees, Michael’s smile, John’s shoes, screams of laughter, and a pair of eyes like stars.
CHAPTER 5
The Arroyos
The garage door at the Arroyos’ house was open, revealing shelves of tools and car parts. There were two cars in the garage. One belonged to Jordan—a beat-up sedan with a rusting hood that fit in well with the greasy car parts surrounding it. And then there was Mr. Arroyo’s sleek, silver crown and glory next to it. Any time Wendy had problems with her truck, Jordan and her dad were the ones to help her out. She would need to enlist their services for her dented hood and scratched windshield, but right now, there were more earthshaking matters at hand.
Wendy half ran up to the porch and rang the doorbell. A large knot lodged in her throat.
Jordan opened the door. She stood, shoeless, in a pair of gray sweatpants. One arm stretched above her head, scratching her back and pulling up the hem of her beat-up Red Cross shirt. While Wendy always got up early—both every day during the summer and on the weekends during the school year—Jordan had the sleep habits of a very lazy house cat. Jordan had a piece of toast sticking out of her mouth, a sleepy smile playing on her lips. Her brown hair was a pile of springy ringlets framing her heart-shaped face.
“Hey, you—” Jordan cut herself off, brows furrowing as soon as she got a proper look at Wendy.
Wendy rocked forward onto the balls of her feet, wringing her hands.
Jordan’s arm fell to her side. “What’s wrong?” she demanded through a mouthful of toast.
Wendy opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She felt her lower lip wobble.
In one fluid motion, Jordan pulled her inside. They quickly started down the hall, passing the kitchen on the way. Jordan tossed the rest of her toast onto the counter and Wendy heard Mr. Arroyo say, “¡Ay, Jordan! ¿Qué haces?” She caught a glimpse of Jordan’s dad, frowning as he picked up the piece of soggy toast and threw it in the trash.
“My bad!” Jordan maneuvered herself to block Wendy from her father’s view. “Wendy just got here. We’ll be in my room,” she said casually.
“Oh, okay, fine— Hi, Wendy,” Mr. Arroyo said distractedly as he wiped up the melted butter with a dish towel.
Jordan ushered Wendy down the hallway before she could attempt a reply. It was lined with pictures of Jordan and her dad at varying ages, all smiling and doing things like fishing, camping, or going to soccer games. There were even a couple of Mrs. Arroyo from when Jordan was a baby, before she passed away.
Wendy’s house didn’t have any family photos like that. The walls were mostly bare, except for a few Monet prints her mother had bought ages ago. Time had faded the vibrant colors to mostly pale shades of blue.
Wendy stepped into Jordan’s room and Jordan shut the door behind them. The four walls were covered in black, red, and purple—a complete eyesore. There were pennants and posters of the Portland Thorns—Jordan’s beloved soccer team—covering the walls, all clad in crimson and black. Jordan’s medals hung on the wall from purple ribbons. The rest of her room was an absolute mess, as always. There was a heap of clothes in the corner and every surface was littered with a combination of magazines, trophies, and actual garbage.
But Jordan’s room also had a window that cast the best light and a watery blue comforter. She had pictures of herself and her friends taped all over her headboard. Several included Wendy. Most were of her grimacing while Jordan, arm hooked around her, beamed widely at the camera.
Wendy sat down on the edge of the bed. Jordan tugged out her desk chair, pushed off the pile of shoes, and sat in front of her. “What happened?” Jordan asked, leaning forward and placing a hand on her upper arm.
Wendy could feel panic starting to reach its way up her throat again. She licked her lips and took a deep breath before telling Jordan everything that had happened the night before.
Jordan sat and listened intently, the corners of her mouth pulled down in a frown. Her eyebrows flickered upward now and then, but she never cut Wendy off to ask questions.
When she started to tell Jordan about that morning, words failed her.
“And the detectives said … they said maybe he had been with us—wherever we were—so he might know something?” Wendy rubbed her arms, trying to fight off the goosebumps. “Maybe he knows where my brothers are?”
There was silence. Jordan sat back and let out a puff of air. Wendy tried to steady her breathing, but that just made it even more difficult.
“How old is he?” Jordan asked.
“I don’t know. He looked about my height, younger than us, though … Maybe a freshman?” Wendy pressed her thumbnail into her palm as she watched Jordan nod. It occurred to Wendy that if this boy was around her and her brothers’ ages when they went missing, maybe that could provide some kind of connection.
“And you don’t recognize him?”
Again, the question made her heart beat faster. She couldn’t tell Jordan she thought he could be Peter Pan. Jordan, who had been the only one at school to really believe her when she said she couldn’t remember what had happened to her and her brothers, had never pressed or doubted her, but even her best friend would never believe something like this. No, Wendy couldn’t do that, not when it was just so entirely impossible.
Wendy shook her head.
“And they haven’t found him?” Jordan asked, running a hand through her curls.
“Not that I know of … But I—I don’t—”
“You don’t want them to?” she guessed.
“No!” Wendy shook her head. “It’s not that. If he does know, then of course I want the police to know so they can find my brothers.” She was having a hard time meeting Jordan’s watchful gaze. “This is the first time in five years we’ve had any new information, any hope of finding them,” she went on. “But, it’s—it’s still…”
“Terrifying,” Jordan finished quietly.
Wendy nodded.
Jordan stared past Wendy, frowning at the opposite wall.
Jordan had been there before, during, and after the disappearance. When Wendy was finally allowed to go back home, Jordan was the only person from school who stopped by to see her. She acted like nothing had happened, and, while they refused to go into the backyard for several years, they did play board games and put puzzles together in the living room.
Sometimes Mr. Arroyo even let them play catch in the house, as long as it was with a Nerf ball that couldn’t cause too much damage.
A couple of times, when Wendy was in the hospital, Mr. Arroyo and Jordan had tried to visit her, but the doctors always explained the “delicate” state she was in and that she shouldn’t see anyone who might trigger emotional distress.
Ever since, Wendy had felt overwhelming gratitude to Jordan and her dad. She felt so lucky to have them and indebted for her friendship. But it also meant she was very scared of losing it.
“I can’t go through it all over again,” she blurted out.
Jordan squeezed her arm. “You won’t.”
“What if—?”
“You can’t think about that, Wendy.”
“But—”
“It won’t happen.” Her voice was firm. Not the ground-shaking tone of her father’s, but the solidness of stone. Her hands steadied Wendy. “No one is going to take you anywhere. Everything is going to be okay. Nothing is—”
“Different?” Wendy asked, angry but having nothing to take it out on. “How can things not change after this? How am I supposed to move on? I just—” Wendy clenched her hands into fists. “I just want to run away. I want to get out of here!”
“I know.” Jordan stayed calm. “Off to Neverland, right?” she teased gently.
An exasperated laugh shot out of Wendy. Jordan had no idea.
“The good news is you get to run away—both of us do,” Jordan went on, slapping her thighs. “To college! It’s not a magical island in the stars, but there is gross dorm food, Olympic-sized pools, and lots of hot college guys.” Jordan smiled, but Wendy could only manage a small tip of her lips. “We’ll get to decorate our dorm rooms, stay up way too late, and drink heaps of coffee as we get ready for med school—”
“Nursing school,” Wendy corrected her. Jordan had been trying to talk her into medical school for the last two years, but Wendy wanted to be a nurse. She wanted to help people, but the idea of being a doctor and saving people’s lives was way more than she could handle.
Jordan ignored the rebuttal. “The point is, we can do whatever we want. We get to start over. We just need to get through the next few months.” She squeezed Wendy’s arms tight. “Okay?”
College. She kept reminding herself that it was the beacon, the light at the end of the tunnel. She just needed to get through it—get through this—and she could be free of everything. But what about now?
“None of this stuff happening is going to change that,” Jordan reassured her, as if reading Wendy’s mind.
