The Leaving(10)
A van turned onto the street, and for a second Avery actually wished it was the Mystery Machine—Scooby-Doo and his crew could crack the case for sure—but no, of course not. It was a news van.
Avery really should have called or at least texted her dad.
He needed to get on the next plane home.
The phone rang and, this time, it somehow sounded more urgent. Avery ran over and picked it up, hoping it was her dad, and if not him at least someone who could explain the delay. “Hello?”
“Avery?”
“Dad.”
“Is it true?” he asked. “They’re back? I just got a crazy call from Adam’s father. Something about us needing to get in front of this, in terms of the news.”
Avery’s mom came to the open doorway, hope lighting her shiny eyes.
“Some of them are back, yeah,” Avery said into the phone. “But no sign of Max yet.”
Her mom sank to her knees on the foyer rug and began to sob. Avery saw a flash of her mother’s fleshy white thigh inside her robe and had to look away.
“I’ll get there as fast as I can, Ave,” her dad said.
“Move mountains.”
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 wishing 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.
Scooby-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.
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And whether any of the others had violent tendencies.
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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?
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She got up and walked to her room, put back on the clothes she’d come home in.