Despite this, Wendy shouted at the top of her lungs, “Charlie!” There was no answer. There hadn’t been an answer in at least three years.
Wendy poured herself a drink—pomegranate vodka with a splash of lime—and collapsed onto the worn club chair. The chair had been John’s favorite, and yeah, that was probably creepy, keeping the chair here and collapsing in it with a drink at the end of the day, but she found it comforting, so tough.
How the hell, Wendy had wondered before today, would she pay for Charlie’s tuition on her current salary? Now that wasn’t a concern because there was simply no way. She took another sip, glanced out the window, pondered where she would go from here. Nobody was hiring and as Vic had so delicately pointed out, she was damaged goods. She thought about what other kind of job she could do but realized that she had no other marketable skills. She was sloppy, disorganized, ornery, not a team player. If she took home a work report card, it would read, “Does not play well with others.” That worked as a reporter going after a story. It worked almost nowhere else.
She checked the mail and saw the third letter from Ariana Nasbro and felt a sharp pang in her gut. Her hands began to shake. No need to open the letter. She had read the first one two months ago and nearly vomited. With two fingers, she held the envelope as though it had a stench, which it did when you thought about it, walked into the kitchen, and stuck it into the bottom of the wastebasket.
Thank God, Charlie never checked the mail. He knew who Ariana Nasbro was, of course. Twelve years ago, Ariana Nasbro had murdered Charlie’s father.
She headed up the stairs and knocked on Charlie’s door. Naturally there was no reply so she opened it.
He looked up, annoyed, pulled off the headphones. “What?”
“Did you do your homework?”
“Just about to.”
He could see that she was put out, so he flashed the smile, so like his father’s that it stabbed every single time. She was about to launch into him again, about how she’d asked him to do homework first, but really, who cared? It was pointless to get caught up in all that minutiae when her time with him was flying by so fast and soon he’d be gone.
“Did you feed Jersey?” she asked.
“Uh . . .”
She rolled her eyes. “Never mind, I’ll do it.”
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you pick up the food at Bamboo House?”
Dinner. She had forgotten.
Charlie rolled his eyes, mimicking her.
“Don’t be a smart-ass.” She had decided earlier not to tell him her bad news yet, to wait for the right time, but she still found herself saying, “I got fired today.”
Charlie just looked at her.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Sucks.”
“Yep.”
“You want me to pick up dinner?”
“Sure.”
“Uh, you still pay for it, right?”
“For now, yeah. I think I can handle that.”
CHAPTER 4
MARCIA AND TED MCWAID ARRIVED at the high school auditorium at six PM. Because the old cliché that “life goes on” could not have been more true, tonight, despite the fact that Haley had now been missing ninety-three days, was opening night of the Kasselton High School production of Les Misérables, featuring their second child, Patricia, in the roles of Onlooker #4, Student #6, and the always-coveted role of Prostitute #2. When Ted first heard about that, in the life they’d known before Haley had vanished, he had made constant jokes about this, how proud he was to tell his friends that his fourteen-year-old daughter would be Prostitute #2. Those days were long gone, a world and time lived by other people in another land.
A hush fell over the auditorium when they entered. No one knew how to act around them. Marcia got it but was beyond caring.
“I need some water,” she said.
Ted nodded. “I’ll save us seats.”
She headed down the corridor, stopped briefly at the fountain, then continued. At the next turn, she made a left. Down the hall, a janitor worked a mop. He wore earphones, his head gently bobbing to a song only he could hear; if he noticed her, nothing on his face showed it.
Marcia started up the stairs to the second floor. The lights were dimmer on this level. Her footsteps clacked and echoed against the stillness of a building that during the day knew so much life and energy. There is no place more surreal, more hollow and empty, than a school corridor at night.
Marcia looked over her shoulder, but she was alone. She hurried her step because she had a destination in mind.
Kasselton High was big, nearly two thousand kids in four grades. The building was on four levels, and like so many high schools from towns with constantly growing populations, it ended up being more a series of pieced-together add-ons than anything resembling a cohesive structure. The later additions to the once-lovely original brick showed that the administrators had been more interested in substance over style. The configuration was a mishmash, looking more like something a child had made by mixing wooden blocks, LEGOs, and Lincoln logs.
Last night, in the scary quiet of the McWaid home, her wonderful husband, Ted, had laughed, really laughed, for the first time in ninety-three days. How obscene the sound was. Ted stopped almost right away, cut himself off in a choking way that became a sob. Marcia wanted to reach out, do something to comfort this tortured man that she so loved. But she simply couldn’t.
Her other two children, Patricia and Ryan, were handling Haley’s disappearance okay on the outside, but kids adapt more easily than adults. Marcia tried to concentrate on them and shower them with attention and comfort, but again she simply couldn’t. Some probably figured that she hurt too much. That was part of it, but there was more. She neglected Patricia and Ryan because all she worried about right now, her sole focus, was on Haley—bringing her back home. Then, after that, she would make it up to her other children.
Marcia’s own sister, Merilee, the popular know-it-all from Great Neck, had the nerve to say, “You need to focus on your husband and other children and stop wallowing,” and when she said that word—“wallowing”!—Marcia wanted so much to punch Merilee in the face and tell her to worry about her own damn family and that her son Greg was taking drugs and her husband, Hal, was probably having an affair and to shut the hell up. Patricia and Ryan would hopefully get through this, Merilee—and you know what? Their best chance at being okay wouldn’t be by having a mother who made sure that Ryan’s lacrosse stick pocket was properly broken in or that Patricia’s costume was the right shade of gray. No, the thing that would make them fine and whole, the only thing, would be to bring their older sister back home.