by Lisa Unger
If there’s a fire, get out of the house. Don’t stop to get any of your toys.
Never talk to strangers. If someone ever tries to take you, fight with everything you have. Scream as loud as you can. (He’d never told her what to do if the man was too strong and there was no one to hear her screaming.)
She knew there was a river; she’d seen one on the way when Poppa first brought her here. She told herself that she’d find her way back to it by going downhill, and then she’d follow it like her daddy said. But now that she was really about to do it, she couldn’t remember how far it was, or exactly how to get there, or what she might encounter on her way. She was shaking, from cold, from fear.
Outside the moon was full again, just a sliver less than full, and high like a platter. She could see it through a wide gap in the planks that comprised the walls of her room.
“When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie,” her daddy used to sing. “That’s amore!”
He’d sing it loud and goofy, dance her around. Mommy used to roll her eyes, but in that funny, happy way she did when Daddy was being silly. When Mommy was really mad at him, her face went very still, and she got very quiet. Penny pushed the thought of them away. She didn’t like to think about her mom and dad, and how angry they must be with her. She hadn’t listened; she’d broken the rules. They didn’t love her anymore because she’d been bad. That’s what Momma had told her. Even though it didn’t seem right, she thought it must be true because no one ever came to get her.
Don’t go. Not yet.
The whispering was loud tonight. When she first heard it, she thought it was just the wind in the leaves. But night after night as she listened, she realized that it was voices, a million voices saying she didn’t know what. She listened now, with the moon shining through that gap, falling on the dirty floor. Her blanket was itchy. Her back screamed from the lashes of the belt she’d received from Poppa. She’d stopped crying, though.
*
The day after the clean man came, Momma and Poppa took the truck into town. Momma was wearing her uniform, the yellow-and-white dress and shoes that looked like sneakers but weren’t. She went into town dressed like that a few days a week.
Or had it been longer ago that they’d left? Two days? Three? Penny was wobbly with hunger; she was being punished and hadn’t been fed. Still, as soon as she was sure they were gone, she managed to get down on the floor and work on the circle. It was screwed hard into the ground, but she kept trying to unscrew it. She imagined that it was loosening a little. The shackle on her ankle was so tight that it rubbed the skin raw until it was bleeding. She’d tried to slide her foot out, but she couldn’t.
A little while after she heard them pull down the drive, Bobo came into her barn room. She hadn’t heard him and didn’t see him until he cleared his throat, startling her.
“That won’t come loose.”
“It might.” If you want something bad enough and you work hard enough at it, you can usually get it. That’s what her daddy had always told her.
Bobo didn’t hurt her like Poppa did; he didn’t do the same kind of horrible, not understandable things. But he did hurt her. Once he slapped her so hard across the face that she saw stars. Once he took Baby, who was her only thing, the one thing she held and told her secret thoughts, the one thing she cuddled at night. He ripped Baby’s arm off, held her over Poppa’s fire pit. But when she’d cried, Bobo gave Baby and her arm back. He even returned the next day and sewed Baby’s arm back on.
She didn’t understand Bobo, who was tall like a man but spoke like a boy, who was pale, with straw hair and misty blue, blue eyes that sometimes looked sweet and sad, but more often just empty, blank like Baby’s button eyes.
He walked up closer, held up a shiny silver key. Then he leaned down and unlocked her ankle.
She sat, rubbing her ankle, which was black under the broken skin. Her foot was swollen, an odd grayish blue color and painful to the touch.
“Come on,” he said, stepping to the door. She got up and limped after him.
Bobo walked up the porch of the big house and in through the front door. It was the first time she’d been unchained since the clean man came, and she thought hard about running. There was a moment when Bobo was in the house, and she was still outside about to step in.
Is it time now? she asked the voice.
But there was no answer.
From where she stood, she could see the rocky road down which the truck had driven. She saw the tracks etched there in the soft dirt. How far could she get before he caught her? Could she hide herself in the woods and then sneak away?
But then she thought about how big Bobo was and how fast, and she imagined Poppa’s weight on top of her pressing all the breath out of her body, and the belt on her flesh. And she was so hungry and thirsty. Maybe Bobo was going to give her something to eat. And she didn’t have any shoes. Poppa took the boots he’d given her. And her ankle hurt so bad. So she followed Bobo inside.
Bobo was smiling at her, a strange, not nice smile from the top of the stairs.
She was surprised to see what a pretty house it was and how clean. She thought it would be like a horror movie house with cobwebs and locked doors, creaking floorboards. She thought it would be filled with dark corners and mysterious passageways leading to ugly hidden rooms. But it was bright, free from dust with old but nice furniture—dark woods, flower prints, sparkly lampshades.
There was a ticking grandfather clock in the living room. Sunlight washed in through a stained-glass window beside it, casting a confetti spray of rainbows on the wood floor. There were pictures of a happy young couple on a rickety old piano. Two china dogs sat pretty on the fireplace hearth.
On the candy-striped walls, there were portraits of children—a boy playing baseball, riding a tricycle, opening Christmas presents. There was a pretty girl on horseback, a chubby blond toddler on the beach, a young woman with a baby wrapped in pink. Family pictures, like the million pictures her parents had—except the photos at home were on phones, computers, digital picture frames. Different people, different places, but the same energy (her mommy’s favorite word)—happy, beautiful, look at us and all the little pictures of our life.
Penny followed Bobo to the upstairs landing and down a wide, carpeted hall, where he pushed open a door. Warm sunlight washed bright and yellow, spilling onto the rug. Penny blinked against the brightness as she walked inside.
It was a princess room, pink and lace with a four-poster bed and plush carpet. Tiny roses on white wallpaper. Shelves of dolls and teddy bears, rows of 4H trophies for riding horses and raising chickens—and not the small plastic ones that everyone gets. Tall, glittering towers with horse and rider on top, emblazed with First Place. Little golden horses jumped or stood regal beside the little gold rider. Ribbons in blue and green, red and white. Looking closely she saw that they were from long ago—1979, 1981. A million years ago. The room did look old-fashioned—no posters of rock stars, no computer, no iPad. Just a desk with shelves of books above—books about horses: Black Beauty, The Black Stallion, National Velvet. And lots more—who knew there were so many.
She sat on the bed, bouncing a little. It was so soft; she wanted to climb beneath the covers and sleep and sleep. On the bedside table was a picture, the young woman from the portraits downstairs. Familiar.
“Is that Momma?” she asked.
Bobo nodded, still wearing that same smile. What did he want? Why had he brought her here? The girl in the picture pressed her cheek against Momma’s. They smiled bright and happy, but didn’t it look a little strange, a little tense—like all the pictures of Mommy when she and Daddy went white water rafting (before we had kids) in New Mexico and she was actually terrified the whole time.
“She looks like you,” said Bobo. “But prettier.”
Penny knew she was pretty. His words didn’t bother her. “Who is she?” she asked.
“She’s the one they loved best,” he said. And his smile was
gone, replaced with a kind of still anger that caused Penny to avert her eyes. He hadn’t meant to, but Bobo had given her something. Now she knew how to hurt him.
*
Afterwards, he made her a peanut butter sandwich, then another. He let her drink two glasses of milk. Then he brought her back to her room and locked her up again. The sun sank down, and Poppa and Momma still didn’t come back. She lay still, thinking. Thinking about the clean man, and what Poppa had told him. Thinking about the princess bedroom and all the pictures. Thinking about the other girl who had been here and wondering where she’d gone. Thinking about the pair of riding boots she saw in the closet full of pretty clothes.
Her mother always said that when you were sad or worried or angry, that you had to do something. Anything. Go for a walk. Make cookies. Draw a picture. Clean your room. Never just lie there and feel sad or mad, because those feelings become like weights, holding you down, and they only get heavier, and you only get less likely to move them. As the sky went dark and the stars started to shine, Penny decided that she was going to do something.
FOURTEEN
The Egg and Yolk was the newest restaurant in The Hollows. An overpriced, fifties-style diner—complete with red leather and chrome counter stools, a jukebox, and Leave It to Beaver, Father Knows Best, The Andy Griffith Show, and other classic American television shows playing in a continuous loop on wall-mounted, flat-screen televisions.
Merri knew that it was a place frequented mainly by tourists and people passing through town to see the fall foliage, or packed with weekenders for the Sunday brunch. She’d chosen it as the place to meet Jones Cooper because she thought it would be empty at three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon and so it was. The locals stayed away because it was too flashy, too expensive—too new.
She walked in and took a seat in a booth toward the back, following the directive of the sign, which encouraged her to: Sit Wherever You Like!
Even so, she felt the eyes of the cook behind the counter and the older waitress over by the cash register. People in The Hollows knew her because of Abbey. Folks were always kind to her, but after a while their kind and pitying glances were heavy and brought Merri down. But it was more than pity, too. There was a current of fear, of distrust. As if the horror that had befallen her family might in some way be contagious. Merri could just imagine other mothers wanting to hug their children away when she was around. She didn’t blame them. She would have felt the same way once upon a time.
She stayed bent over her phone, scrolling through news. In true Jackson fashion, she’d set up an alert for stories relating to that missing man. A shadow caused her to look up, and the waitress was standing over her with an ice water and a menu.
“Thank you,” said Merri.
The woman placed the red plastic tumbler on the table with a ringed, elegant hand. Merri glanced up and saw her own reflection in the woman’s glasses, then the cool, ice-blue eyes behind that. Her smile was warm, attentive.
“Mrs. Gleason?” she said, laying the menu down.
Merri nodded. Shit.
“I was one of the volunteers that helped search for your girl,” she said. “I want you to know that we’re all still hoping you’ll find her.”
“Thank you,” Merri said. Her face felt like ice, like it might crack into a million pieces.
People didn’t even know how cruel kindness could be, how much it hurt.
“I pray for your family every night,” she said. She smoothed out the front of her yellow-and-white uniform, something odd, uncomfortable about the gesture.
Yes, from the safety of your home, where your life is perfectly intact, you pray for us. Why did that always sound so condescending? She’d asked Wolf once. So goddamn superior. Because you’re a hard, cold bitch, Merri Gleason, Wolf would joke. Or half-joke.
“That’s very kind,” said Merri, even though she wanted to gather up her things and run. There was absolutely nowhere to hide from people, though that’s one thing she had learned. You couldn’t get away from good-intentioned folks who hurt you without even knowing.
Jones Cooper came through the door then with a jingle of the bell. The woman looked at him and back at Merri with an understanding nod.
“I’ll get another water and a menu.”
He slid into the booth across from her. She liked his face, strong brow, high cheekbones. Those eyes—what would she call them? Penetrating. The bad guys must squirm before him. Even she felt a little uneasy, wondering what he could see when he looked at her: Someone unstable? Someone desperate? Was she unstable and desperate? Would any other type of person have hired a psychic to find her daughter?
“How are you holding up?” he asked.
“Okay,” she said.
“You’re at Miss Lovely’s?”
When she confirmed, he nodded his approval. “That’s a good place for you.”
He didn’t go on, but Merri thought she knew what he meant. Better than a rental or one of the impersonal places she might have picked outside of town. At Miss Lovely’s she felt safe and cared for, a rare experience.
The waitress came back with the water and menus. Cooper ordered coffee and a patty melt. Merri ordered a pot of tea and chicken noodle soup.
“I have a couple of things I want to get straight before we continue,” Cooper said when the waitress had gone.
“Okay,” she said.
“After Abbey disappeared, suspicion turned to your husband for a time.”
She bowed her head, took a breath. She tasted the familiar flavor of shame and anger in her mouth. She had to force herself to say the words she’d repeated too many times to too many hired detectives.
“At the time of the abduction, Wolf—my husband—was having an affair,” she said. Merri never got used to the word girlfriend. It sounded so sweet and innocent, when in this case, it was anything but. “The police discovered that pretty quickly, and a lot of time was spent on Wolf and his mistress.” Another strange word, somehow antiquated, with an almost permissive quality.
“They didn’t have anything to do with this,” she concluded.
The police didn’t believe Wolf that he couldn’t identify the men on that trail. That he’d never seen the perpetrators, had his glasses knocked off in the fall, as had Jackson. That all he saw were some vague and fuzzy dark forms through the trees, listened to Jackson get shot, the kids screaming. But he was in shock, terrified for the kids and himself, not thinking about identifying anyone. He’d been plagued by nightmares since. Merri told Jones all of that.
Jones nodded gravely. “I’m sorry to have to bring this up, Mrs. Gleason. But are you absolutely certain he had nothing to do with it?”
It was a question she almost couldn’t bear to answer again.
“What motivation would they have to hurt or abduct Abbey?” asked Merri, trying and failing to keep the annoyance from her voice. “Their thing—it was tawdry, insubstantial.”
She hated the way she sounded, like a jaded New Yorker.
“He was careless, stupid,” she continued. “But he loves his children. He’s—broken by this. Just as I am.”
She looked away, swallowed back the tightness at the base of her throat.
“What do you know about the girlfriend?” asked Jones.
Merri lifted her palms. “Just a girl, some publicist, twenty-five. A total slut, sure.” She didn’t like that word; it was misogynistic wasn’t it? Wasn’t Wolf a slut, someone careless about sex and who they hurt with it? Though why should she be concerned about referring to her husband’s mistress that way? “But not someone who would steal a child. Anyway, they were both cleared of any foul play.”
There was that tone again, cold, disinterested in her husband’s infidelity. Boys will be boys.
Cooper nodded slowly but held her eyes. He saw it all, she thought, every shade and layer of her. He’d already decided that the affair had nothing to do with Abbey; he was just doing his due diligence.
“I understand,” he said.
“I’m sorry to have to dwell on uncomfortable topics.”
“Topics?”
He cleared his throat. “There were questions about the prescription drugs you were taking at the time.”
Where do you get your pills? Do you have a dealer? Do you owe anyone money? Would they have come after you? Hurt your family? God, she could still taste the humiliation, the rage, the sick dread. It was a toxin. She might carry it in her body forever, like grief. Maybe it would kill her, show up as cancer or as some mysterious blood disease a couple years from now. When it manifested itself in her body, she would know precisely when she caught the germ.
A tragic event like this put your whole life under scrutiny. If Wolf had been having some petty affair, if she’d been taking too many Vicodin and Abbey hadn’t disappeared, none of it would mean very much. They’d still be shitty parents, but their flaws and mistakes wouldn’t be on display for everyone to see and judge. When you’d failed to safeguard the life of your child, people wanted answers, reasons why such a thing could never happen to them. Nothing like a good public flogging to make everyone feel better about themselves.
“A couple of years ago I had knee surgery and was prescribed some pretty powerful pain relievers to which I became addicted. I was in the throes of that problem when we lost Abbey, and that came to light as well. I had a nervous breakdown about three months after she went missing, and I was hospitalized.”
“Where were you getting your pills?”
Merri shrugged. “I did a little doctor hopping,” she said. “I got some online.”
“You didn’t have a dealer?”
Merri drew in a sharp breath. Could you call a colleague whose family lived in Canada and who on his regular trip up north picked up various prescriptions for friends a dealer? Ambien for his friend that didn’t have insurance? Tylenol 3? Vicodin? That friendship was over; she’d had no choice but to give his name. He didn’t get in any real trouble, but his drug-trafficking days, however benign, were over.
