Girl One(7)

A distracted laugh. “How do you even have this number? Did your mother—did Margaret tell you to get in touch with me?”

“I found your number with her things. In her burned-down house. Which is why I’d appreciate you telling me what’s going on.” The pause went on too long. “Now.”

“Josie, I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say here. Your mother was very clear that I shouldn’t get in touch with you. I don’t want to disrespect her wishes. You understand.”

“No, I absolutely don’t understand.” Abandoning the ghostly FUCK U on the wall, I turned to face the display of Butterfingers and Funyuns, bright packaging turned sickly under the fluorescent lights. My mother had mentioned me to this guy. Warned him away from me. I was electrified in spite of myself. “Listen. I don’t know who the hell you are. My mother’s missing, and I found your number with her things. You’d better tell me what’s going on.”

He didn’t answer. The pay phone was going to ask for another quarter in a minute or two. I bit down my impatience.

“You found my number with her things,” he said at last. “Does that mean you’re actually in Coeur du Lac?”

“Of course.”

A pause. “I just figured you’d stay in Chicago.”

“What, and miss my own mother’s disappearance?” I deadpanned. But it stung. Whatever my mother had said to this stranger, she must’ve made it clear that I wasn’t exactly the type to come home and visit.

“Listen, how long’ll you be there? Can you stay for another…” A creak. “Can you stay for tonight? It’s not a long drive to Coeur du Lac. Three hours, tops. We need to talk this over in person.”



* * *



It only took two hours for Thomas Abbott to reach me. I was waiting just inside the front door—shaky, excited, nervous, everything in me switched on. The scrawled line I’d just found in the notebook had me jumpier than anything that’d happened so far.

The man who got out of the car—an older-model Volvo, butter-colored, pockmarked with dents—was tall and wiry. The lenses of his glasses caught a few slivers of moonlight; his pale hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. I watched him through the window. He came toward the house, quick and confident at first, then slowing as he took in the damage. His face slackened with that same shock I’d felt earlier, sobered by the concrete proof that something bad had happened here.

Call-Me-Tom came up the steps cautiously, testing the weight. He wore a camera around his neck like a goofy tourist. I watched him pause to lift the camera, aiming it at the front door.

I opened the door, stepped out onto the porch. “What was my mother like when you talked to her?” I asked. “Was she upset? Was she scared?”

He startled, the camera smacking back against his chest. “Jesus,” he said. “Give a guy a little warning. Josie, I presume?” Tom crossed the porch in one long stride, held out his hand like we were making introductions at a grad school mixer. “It’s great to finally meet you. I’m only sorry it’s not under better circumstances—”

“What was she like?” I repeated, ignoring his hand, which wavered.

“Uh. She was—she was determined. That’s the best word. Very focused.”

“Focused on Fiona?” I asked, and he let his hand drop. I held out the notebook, pointed the Maglite’s beam at the words so that they floated there, isolated against the darkness. A note scribbled beneath a clipping about the ’77 fire, right next to a photograph of Fiona, coppery-haired and round-eyed. Tell the world about Fiona. Girl Nine. The very youngest, linked to Bellanger in a way the rest of us could never match—not even me, not even his favorite. If the other eight of us were attached to Bellanger through birth, Fiona was bound to him through death.

“Why was my mother interested in Fiona?”

Tom sighed. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I was hoping you would.”



* * *



“Your mother called me out of the blue.” Tom paced near the edge of the burned living room, just skirting its ruined flooring and charred wallpaper. “This was probably … a month ago? Yeah, back in March. I thought it was a prank. Margaret Morrow has a reputation. She never grants interviews, much less sets one up.”

I lingered near the front door, arms crossed, ready to make a run for it if necessary.

“Your mother said she wanted to talk one-on-one. She was very specific about not involving you. She made me swear I wouldn’t drag you into it. Her words.” Tom glanced around quickly, as if my mother might be hiding on the staircase, ready to chastise him for breaking his promise. “We only talked for half an hour. Your mom said—essentially, she said there’s something about Fiona the world doesn’t know, and she wants to share it. Your mother was offering me the chance to break the story for her.”

“Why you?” I asked it before I could stop myself, the accusation blunt.

Tom smiled, chagrined.

“Sorry,” I said. “It just sounds like a big story. If my mother was going to take a risk like this, she’d have made sure everything was perfect. She’d have approached the biggest paper she could find.” Not the Kansas City Telegraph hung there unsaid.