by Sonja Yoerg
“No. I didn’t think of it. Can you?”
He took off toward the kitchen and she followed. He opened the back door, threw on the security lights, and crossed the patio. Suzanne waited in the doorway while he made a circuit of the yard, moving in and out of the shadows.
Whit jogged across the patio, spread his hands, and told her what she already knew. “She’s not there.”
“Oh God.” Why would Iris have left the house? Suzanne knew instantly it had to do with prom, with Brynn.
She went to the living room, snatched Brynn’s phone from the table, and unlocked the screen.
Whit appeared at her side. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for photos.” Suzanne fixed her attention on the screen. Her trembling fingers refused to obey her. She opened the photo folder and accidentally closed it. “Shit!” She took a seat, dropped the phone in her lap, and wrung her hands to stop the shaking. She tried again, moved to the right folder, and scrolled through the most recent shots, ones taken at the house, in the limo, at the prom itself. Nothing more recent.
Of course. Snapchat. Photos evaporating in a virtual cloud.
She returned to the home screen, clicked on the message icon.
Whit sat beside her. “Suzanne.”
“Wait. There’s another folder.” She pressed it open. “Oh my God, Whit. Look.”
She showed him the photo of Iris in the lilac dress, sitting on Sam’s lap. “That’s in the limo, Whit.” He winced. Suzanne swiped to the next photo. Iris and Sam again. Iris holding a cup, Sam’s hand on Iris’s breast. The expression on Iris’s face betrayed confusion and fear through an awkward smile.
“Is that Kendall’s house?” Whit said.
“I think it’s the party.” Suzanne’s throat closed. She clicked back to the home screen and opened the message folder. IRIS . KENDALL . SAM . ROBBY . She touched the first thread. “These messages. These are to Iris.”
“How? Her phone doesn’t work.”
“Not the one we gave her.” Suzanne tapped the phone symbol beside Iris’s name and put the phone to her ear. Whit stared at her, concern etched on his face. She turned away. Brynn. Iris. The limo. The party.
Three rings. Four. Five.
“Hello?”
“Iris.” Her throat clogged with tears. “Iris, it’s Suzanne.”
“I know.” Her voice was faint.
“Where are you?”
“Under a tree.”
Whit touched her arm. Suzanne nodded at him. “Iris, can I come get you?”
“No.”
“Please, Iris. We want you safe.” The skin across her palms tightened. She rubbed her free hand on her thigh and tried to think of what else to say. “We want you home.”
“It’s not my home. I don’t want to be there.”
“I know.”
Iris’s voice was stretched thin, close to breaking. “I don’t belong there.”
Suzanne winced and pressed her fist into the hot, painful ball below her rib cage. “I know you don’t. I understand.” As she said it, Suzanne realized it was truer than she’d previously known. She understood because she felt it, too. “Let me bring you back and we’ll figure it out.” She reached inside herself for the conviction she knew Iris needed. “Iris, I promise. We’ll find a way to make you happy again.”
A long pause. “Okay.”
Suzanne smiled. “Okay. Thank you.” She gave Whit a thumbs-up. “So where should I pick you up?”
“I’ll walk.”
“It’s dark.”
“I don’t care.”
“See you soon.” Suzanne closed the call and put down the phone.
Whit got up before she could say anything. “I’ll turn on the porch lights.”
Suzanne leaned back against the cushions, disgust with herself for failing Iris mixing with relief that the girl was safe. Dread pricked below her skin. She rubbed her temples and stared at the phone on the table.
Who the hell was Robby?
CHAPTER 32
Whit managed a couple of hours of sleep after Iris came home but awoke at nine, bleary and lethargic. He texted his tennis partner to cancel their scheduled match and holed up in the living room with the Sunday paper. When Brynn finally crawled downstairs around eleven, she took the route to the kitchen through the dining room, avoiding him. Fine. Whit was in no mood to lecture her on the rules she had broken and the lousy judgment she had exercised. He had left water and two Advil on her nightstand before he had gone to bed, and that was all he could offer, at least for now. Suzanne seemed to be taking the same approach. Since he hadn’t seen her downstairs all morning, Iris, he assumed, was asleep in her room. She had come home with twigs in her hair but, unlike Brynn, hadn’t shown any signs of intoxication.
Whit was drifting off on the couch when the front door opened.
“Reid?”
His son ambled in, pale and serious, his hair wet from showering. “Hey.”
“Did you come straight from Alex’s?”
“Yeah, why?”
He checked his watch. “It’s noon.”
“So?” Even for Reid, his tone was hostile.
“So were you guys out last night? Because you didn’t text us.”
His son looked straight through him and headed for the kitchen.
“Reid!” Whit tossed the paper onto the coffee table. He listened for an answer, or at least a conversation between Reid and Brynn, but all he heard were cabinets opening and closing and someone rummaging through the refrigerator. Frustration mushroomed in his chest. Since Iris had moved in, his home had become utterly chaotic, and it was unacceptable. Suzanne had given up on keeping things running smoothly, and Brynn was acting out, no doubt in response to the disruption and having to vie for her mother’s attention. This wasn’t the way to raise teenagers.
Suzanne was coming downstairs. Once they’d had a chance to talk with Brynn and set her straight, he’d take the time to sit down with Suzanne and address the real problem head-on—Iris. Headstrong girls like Brynn would always push the envelope and risk getting into trouble. That’s how they discovered their strength and gained confidence. Naturally, he didn’t want her to get hurt, and she’d been patently stupid last night, but he would not break her spirit. Brynn had always needed a lot of attention, and having to compete with Iris for it was not bringing out the best in her.
“Is Reid back?” Suzanne had changed into dark jeans and a white button-down shirt and had pulled her hair into a ponytail. This, he recognized, was her armor. If she looked tidy and put-together, she might feel that way.
“He’s in the kitchen with Brynn.”
She marched by him. He had no choice but to follow.
Brynn was slumped at the breakfast table with a glass of water and a plain bagel. Her skin was the color of marble and her eyes were closed. Reid was eating Raisin Bran at the counter. They looked like strangers at a late-night diner in a bad neighborhood.
Suzanne approached Brynn. “We have a lot to talk about. Did you take the Advil?” Brynn nodded, almost imperceptibly. Suzanne walked around the counter to face Reid. “You all right?”
He spooned cereal into his mouth and didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”
“Good. I’m glad.” Suzanne ran water over a sponge and wiped the counter, the crease over her left eye deepening. “Brynn got into some trouble last night.”
Reid nodded. Whit wasn’t certain what the nod meant, but the lack of a verbal response was irritating.
“And Iris,” Suzanne said.
Reid looked up, his spoon suspended in the air. “Is she okay?”
“I think so.”
He nodded again and went back to eating.
Something about the boy’s posture, his attitude, sent a creeping sensation across Whit’s neck. He ran a hand through his hair and busied himself getting a glass of orange juice from the fridge, trying to dispel the feeling that he was missing something.
Suzanne rinsed out the coffeepot and the sink,
wiped the counter again.
Whit said to her, “Maybe you and I should conference about this first, huh?”
“Maybe.” She seemed to be considering it, then abruptly turned to Brynn. “Who’s Robby?”
“Huh?” Brynn’s voice was gravelly.
“Who’s Robby?”
“Can we talk about this later? My head hurts.”
Reid peered over his shoulder at his sister. She studied her bagel.
“Robby who?” Whit offered it cautiously. The room seemed filled with water, sloshing one way, then the other. He felt seasick or like he was the one with a hangover.
Suzanne said, “Last night Brynn texted someone named Robby.”
Reid laid both forearms on the counter and addressed Whit. “Come on, Dad. You know. Robby.” He drew out the name. “Robby. Commonly short for Robert.”
Whit placed the carton of orange juice in the door of the fridge. He did it slowly, not eager to turn around. Robby. Robert. Suzanne would be standing behind him, looking worried and exhausted and, now, puzzled. Reid would be smirking. Whit exchanged the position of the orange juice and the milk, then shut the door and took a sip of juice as casually as he could.
“You remember, Dad. At the club. I told you I met Robby. Son of Robert.” He snapped the t sound. Whit couldn’t figure out why the sound bugged him so much, but it did.
“I remember you mentioning him.”
“Do you remember me mentioning a photo he showed me? Do you remember who I said it was?”
“Well, sure.” Right away, Whit regretted the admission.
Suzanne tilted her head and eyed him, like a robin examining a worm it was about to spear. “What’s this?”
Brynn let out a huge sigh. “Can we not do this now? My head?”
Reid spoke to his mother. “This is something Dad didn’t want me to bother you with. At the club, at that fund-raiser, Robby Shipstead—I think we all know who we’re talking about now—showed me a photo on his phone. It was a girl, blonde hair, mostly undressed. Her face wasn’t in the picture.”
“Right.” Whit organized his thoughts. Reid was saying this all wrong, confusing everything. “Suzanne, Reid recognized a pillow. Part of a pillow.” He waited for her to say it was ridiculous.
She was stone faced. “A pillow.”
“Yes. I should’ve said he thought he recognized part of a pillow.”
Reid said, “With a red horse on it exactly like the one in your old room.”
“There must be a million—” Whit began.
“A million, Dad? Seriously?”
Suzanne’s eyes were trained on her son. “With a white background? A red horse with designs on it?”
Reid nodded.
“Wait.” Brynn straightened a little, holding on to the edge of the table. “Let me get this straight. Robby showed you a photo of me ?”
The color drained from Suzanne’s face. Whit moved toward her, but the look she gave him stopped him dead.
Reid twisted toward his sister. “Your buddy Robby didn’t know who I was, obviously. He probably showed it to everyone.”
“Shut up. Just shut up.” Brynn slumped in her chair, her tangled hair covering most of her face.
Whit detached himself from his wife’s glare and took a step toward Brynn. “I can’t believe you would send someone a photo like that.”
Reid said, “Why not, Dad? Why can’t you believe it? I told you, after all. And you said you’d talk to her.”
Suzanne’s voice was low and calm. “And did you, Whit?”
He looked around at his son and his wife, their faces angry, disappointed, accusing. He avoided Brynn, whose sickly pallor was its own commentary. “Before she left for prom, I told her to be careful, so, yes, I did talk to her.” Suzanne’s expression hardened. “I didn’t talk about the photo, about the part of the pillow, okay? Because it was absurd! It was too damn absurd!”
The room fell silent except for the sound of Whit panting in furious impotence.
“Brynn.” Suzanne’s voice faltered for the first time. “The party was at Robby’s, is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“He invited you?”
“Yeah.”
“Who else was there?”
“What do you mean?”
“Any of your friends?”
Brynn sighed and dropped her head onto her arms. “Sam. Ophelia. Lisa.” She uncrossed one arm and pointed at Reid.
Whit scowled at his son. “You didn’t tell us.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of that going around.”
“You saw your fifteen-year-old sister at a college party and you didn’t do anything?”
Reid scraped his stool back and stood up. “I’m not going to be the fall guy, okay? You can’t make this about me.” He started to leave and turned in the doorway. “And who says I didn’t do anything? Why do you always assume the worst? No one forced Brynn to go. No one forced her to get drunk and climb all over that guy.” He spun away.
“Reid!” His son walked off. “Christ!” Whit swiped at the air in front of him. “Suzanne, did you know about this?”
She was crushing the sponge in her hand, and her mouth was a grim line. “About Reid? No.” She paused, opened her mouth and closed it again, appearing to change her mind about what direction to take. She went to the breakfast table and sat across from Brynn. “Do you know where the police found you?”
Brynn lifted her head an inch.
“On the lawn.” Suzanne’s voice thickened. “Someone, Robby probably, dumped you on the front lawn.”
Brynn sat up and pulled her sleeves over her hands. She blinked hard and rubbed her eyes.
“Brynn, are you remembering something?”
Their daughter scanned the room. “Where’s Iris?”
“Upstairs.”
“Is she all right?”
Suzanne leaned closer, her voice trembling. “Do you honestly care, Brynn? Do you?”
Their daughter lowered her lids, exhaled loudly, and dropped her head again.
Whit waited a moment for Brynn to answer or for Suzanne to repeat her question or pursue a different line of questioning. The silence grew too large for him to bear, but he couldn’t leave. That would only make things worse, if that was possible.
Suzanne gave up on Brynn, who was too hungover to be communicative, and retreated upstairs. She curled up in a chair in her bedroom facing the window. A light drizzle shrouded the view, muting the vibrant green of the newly leafed trees. Her limbs sank, heavy with weariness, so heavy she was numb. She would’ve crawled into bed were it not for the anxious, heated energy coursing through her. She could not relax. Sleep, as desperately as she needed it, was out of the question. She was far too furious to sleep.
She waited for Whit to come in. When she’d left the kitchen he had stayed with Brynn, and cowardice was keeping him there. The longer she waited, the hotter her anger grew, as if she were an incinerator and the thoughts and feelings she could access by simply sitting still were a kind of fuel. She thought about asking Whit to come upstairs so she could say what she had to say, but when she imagined herself at the top of the stairs, calling to him, she knew she would scream his name and keep screaming it. In the bedroom, at least, the door could be closed. She might contain her fury.
Suzanne rose and paced the room, lifting logical thoughts, rational plans from out of the overheated slurry in her mind, considering what she was going to do. Her life had become intolerable. It might, indeed, have been intolerable for a very long time, but she was only now acknowledging the fact. The timeline, the road that had brought her here, didn’t matter. What was important was to change course. In her mind the image of a glacier arose, a mile-thick slab of ice sliding inch by inch across the earth, transforming what had been cold but alive into something hopeless, crushed, and frozen solid. She had been overtaken and crushed by a glacier.
The door opened and Whit entered. Suzanne stopped pacing and returned to the chair, where she would b
e more controlled and have something to hold on to.
Whit lifted his hands. “Before you say anything, Reid did not get the story straight, the one about the photo. You know how he is.”
“No. Tell me.”
“He’s idealistic and he’s stubborn. Once he sees something a certain way, he never reevaluates.”
“And what, exactly, was he supposed to see differently?”
He stepped closer, sensing a chance to explain his position. “What that photo seemed like to me, last Sunday, a week ago. Not now, obviously. Not with hindsight.” He spread his hands in innocence. “You didn’t see his attitude when he told me about it at the club. He’d spent the day doing something he didn’t want to do, and it seemed to me he was taking an opportunity to rile me.”
Suzanne clenched her teeth and measured her words. “It was about you? Your son tells you about a photo he saw that he thinks is Brynn, and your first thought is that he’s doing it to score points.”
“At the time, yes. That photo could’ve been anyone, Suzanne. It could’ve been anyone.”
“Then it could’ve been Brynn.”
Whit jammed his hands into his pockets. His cheeks flushed and he turned away.
Suzanne went on. “And you told Reid you would talk to Brynn. If you had actually talked to her about the photo, she might at the very least have had second thoughts, knowing this guy was showing her photo around.” Suzanne stood, unable to control her agitation. “But there was more to it than that, wasn’t there, Whit? It wasn’t, in the end, about Reid or Brynn, was it?”
He’d had his back to her and now turned halfway around. “What are you talking about?” But he knew, he knew exactly what she would say. His shoulders were hunched, ready to absorb the blow.
She felt not a drop of pity for him. “The reason you didn’t believe Reid or talk to Brynn had nothing to do with the credibility of what Reid said. It had to do with Robby, and with his father.” She circled around him so he had no choice but to face her. “You knew if I found out, I’d insist on talking to Robby and his parents, and that wasn’t something you could handle. Instead of protecting your daughter, Whit, you chose to protect your precious deal!”
Whit straightened his shoulders. “That’s not how it was. That’s not it at all.”
