The Leaving Part 8

Avery hung up and went to her mom and knelt beside her, pulling her robe closed and then easing her into a stiff hug; her mother had turned mannequin, unfeeling.

Right then a reporter reached the front porch, trailed by a camera guy, and said, "Tell us your story. Why do you think Max is the only one who didn't come back?"

Avery used her foot to push the door shut and pictured the days ahead. The endless news coverage, the weird-sad looks she'd get from neighbors and everyone at school next week. She'd be famous, but not in the right way. Mannequin Mom would end up in the hospital again, quick-sanding into depression, and Dad would act like there was nothing wrong when everything about Mom-about all of them-was wrong and had been, probably, since the day Max disappeared.

After a minute, there was a gap in her mom's crying and, in the silence, Avery had a weird feeling of wis.h.i.+ng she'd never stopped talking to Ryan-one of the only people who had ever understood-or started things up with Sam, who was too nice for her, or too simple or something-or given up hoping that her brother was still alive.

s...o...b..-Doo, where are you?

"We'll find him, Mom." Avery stared at her worn flip-flops and wondered when the new ones she'd ordered would arrive. "I promise."

Scarlett

"I need clothes," Scarlett said.

"And a toothbrush and . . ."

Hairbrush.

Shoes.

Makeup?

Phone.

Purse.

Deodorant.

Wallet.

Lip balm.

Socks.

Underwear.

Bras.

Pajamas.

Swimsuit.

Tampons?

Driver's license?

What else?

". . . everything."

The woman-her mother-was on her fourth cigarette of the morning, the first three having been consumed while two detectives-one old, one young-asked Scarlett questions and got annoyed at her answers.

They asked about Max.

And whether any of the others had violent tendencies.

They explained about the accident.

Lucas's father.

Opus 6.

Hard to process.

Could she think of any reason why Lucas would want to harm his father?

No.

No, no, no.

How . . . horrible.

As they left, they told her she was to go immediately to an address they gave her, for a physical examination and an MRI. That she'd be informed of further appointments, like with a memory expert and possibly some others.

That time was of the essence if they were going to find Max and the person or people who had taken them.

After eleven years.

Now time was of the essence.

Scarlett was still in her mother's pajamas and wasn't sure which would be worse.

Putting on the clothes she'd come back in.

OR.

Borrowing more from . . . her.

Her mother stubbed out her cigarette-"We should get going. I'll get dressed. We'll go shopping after"-and left the room.

Scarlett watched smoke rise from the ashtray.

The cat appeared, unsure at first, then hopped up onto the table in front of her. It had a collar and a name tag: Comet.

Scarlett lifted her hand to pet it but then stopped.

Looked at her hand.

Was she . . . allergic?

She got up and walked to her room, put back on the clothes she'd come home in.

The police had taken the map.

Would she be able to find the playground tonight?

Returning to the kitchen, she found her mother, also dressed, who grabbed a set of keys off a hook just inside the kitchen.

"We'll leave through the side door." Scarlett's mother reached for a baseball hat and a pair of sungla.s.ses and held them out to Scarlett.

"No one's going to recognize me. I was five."

"People are going to want to know what you look like. Now. You're all going to be famous whether you want to be or not."

Scarlett took the hat and sungla.s.ses and followed her mother to the car. When they pulled out of the carport and eased down the driveway, reporter types and cameramen ran for their vans like startled birds. Scarlett put the gla.s.ses on and slid down in her seat. Her mother tore out at the bottom of the driveway and then blew through a stop sign to get away from a van in pursuit but then had to hit the brake pedal too hard at a light.

The same red as . . .