Graham slides the remote from my hand and punches the mute button.

“That’s terrible,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. He’s staring at me as if I’m something fragile that may break.

He places his hand on top of mine, rubs it softly. “How do you know this girl?”

I let out a long, ragged breath and keep staring down at the table.

How am I supposed to answer?

I take a moment, then explain that I had met Abby just last week at Jill’s swim party. That Brad, the boyfriend in the news clip, is Jill’s son.

“How awful,” Graham says, his face scrunched up with concern. “Well, hopefully she’ll show up soon. You know how teens are.”

I don’t tell him that Margot is sleeping with Brad.

And I don’t tell him about Margot’s text to Brad, which comes flashing back into my brain like neon:

Get rid of her.

38

Monday, April 16, 2018

IT’S MIDMORNING, NEARLY ten o’clock. I’m parked behind my laptop, where I’ve been since Graham left this morning with Jack. I’m unable to move, unable to pry myself from the screen, from searches of Abby. Unable even to go to the kitchen to warm my latte, which has grown cold and sits untouched on the corner of my desk.

Yesterday was pure torture.

Over breakfast, Graham spread the Sunday paper out in front of him—as is his habit—feeding me only bits and pieces about Abby’s story. No new details, no new leads, only glimpses into her life, some of which I knew already through Jill: Abby is a junior, a cheerleader, on the honor roll. An only child, beloved by all, with a large circle of friends, steady boyfriend. Wholesome Abby, now missing Abby, and I wanted to snatch the paper from him, read every word myself, but I couldn’t act too overly interested.

I kept hoping all day that Tina would call with more info—out of everyone in the group, she’d be the one most likely to loop me in, but she never did. I had to fight the urge to call her, the minutes ticking by with slow-moving agony, my thoughts running rampant like a pack of wild dogs. Had Brad done something to Abby? Had he gotten “rid of her” as Margot had asked him to? Had Margot and Brad done something to her in the window of time when I was blacked out? Surely not. Surely I was being paranoid. Surely Abby would turn up safe and sound soon. But nothing about Abby suggested to me that she was the runaway type. Where the hell was she?

Inwardly, my stomach churned, but outwardly, I plastered on a calm veneer for Jack and Graham until bedtime. Until Graham finally clicked off his bedside lamp and roped a heavy arm around me, pinning me in place.

I stared up at the ceiling, Graham’s hot, purring snores on my neck. That usually comforts me, but last night his ragged breathing only set my nerves further on edge.

An hour later I was still wide-awake when my cell sprang to life, sending shards of blue light dancing along the wall.

Gently peeling Graham’s arm off me, I rolled over and grasped my phone.

A group text, from the Hunting Wives, from Tina, who was clearly unable to contain herself one second longer.

Tina: Praying for sweet Abby! Have you guys heard anything at all? Jill, honey, please let us know if you need anything. Anything at all.

My face reddened on Tina’s behalf and I hoped Jill wouldn’t pick up on her outright thirst for gossip. I mean, Tina’s a good person and all, but she can’t help herself when it comes to juicy news. A few seconds later, though, a reply from Jill lit up my screen.

Jill: Obviously we’re all sick over here.

Margot: Obviously! We’re here for you, Jilly.

Callie: SO terrible!

My hand clutched the phone, and my thumb hovered over the screen as I thought of how to reply. I settled on: Sending love! And as I was hitting send, I saw that Callie was typing a fresh message.

Callie: Why don’t we meet at my place tomorrow? At noon. I’ll have Rosa make lunch.

Jill: That would be really nice, Callie. Thank you.

Callie: Sophie, my house is 11 Kensington Drive. Text me when you get to the gates and I’ll buzz them open.

I was caught off guard by Callie’s warmth—it seems as though it takes a tragedy for her to act even remotely human—and it took a minute for me to reply. And honestly, I wasn’t sure how I felt about going over there and being around Margot. After Friday night, I really wanted a clean break. But I also knew I didn’t have a choice: I needed to know the latest about Abby.

I typed back:

Me: Ok, sounds good, see everyone tomorrow.

Margot: See you soon.

Tina: Soon!

* * *

—

SO HERE I am passing the time until I’m due at Callie’s, scouring the net but finding nothing new. Abby’s Facebook profile is predictably outdated, and like most teens, she probably uses a secret handle on Instagram, if she even has an account.

The only new piece about her is from the local paper, the Mapleton Times (which, as of this morning, I follow on Facebook—we only get the Sunday edition for home delivery), and it’s a brief announcement that Abby’s church, the Piney Woods Church of Christ, will be holding a candlelight vigil for her tonight. The article ends with the hashtag #prayforAbby.

I snap my laptop shut, and for the umpteenth time, pick through the article in Sunday’s paper, which is littered over my desk, and scan it yet again for new clues, my fingertips turning gray and chalky from the inky pages.

My eyes rest on the photograph of Abby’s parents, of Abby’s dad in particular. He has a serious, almost forlorn look about him—a look that screams control freak—and I catch myself having the sick thought that I’m hoping he’s responsible for Abby’s disappearance. That it’s not Brad or Margot and Brad, that it’s ten steps removed from them. From me.

But why would he harm his own daughter? And his alibi is airtight: He was with his wife all evening, the two of them together, unsuspecting, inside their home.

Abby never even crossed the threshold that night.

Folding the paper back together, I shove it to one side of my desk and head down the hall to get dressed for Callie’s.

39

THE OUTSIDE OF Callie’s house is as cold and austere as she is; it’s a massive modern contemporary, all glass and grays with slate-blue trim and boxy lines. The landscaping is similarly monochromatic. Even though it’s spring, there’s not a pop of color or a flower to be found. Only a dark carpet of Saint Augustine grass bordered by stark beds of charcoal-colored rock with cacti and other jagged succulents poking through.

It’s at the end of the street from Margot’s, and as I ease into the cul-de-sac at five minutes past noon (I’m purposely late; I don’t want to be the first to arrive and have an awkward, one-on-one moment with Callie), I spy both Jill’s and Tina’s cars parked out front.

Margot will most likely just walk down from her place, I think to myself, and then I wonder if she will actually show at all.

My pulse is jittery as I head up the sidewalk, and as I approach the front steps, a dog howls from inside. Through the slim horizontal window that flanks the tall black door, I see a chocolate-and-white beagle pawing at the glass.

I press the doorbell, sending the beagle into more frenzied bellows until the door swings open and an older woman in a white linen blouse with matching slacks toes the dog and snaps, “Hush, Carter!”

She has silver hair pulled into a tight bun and her demeanor is chilly, her expression severe. She offers me a thin, forced smile before planting her bony hand on my back and ushering me into the sunken living room.

The interior of the house is as frigid as the outside: no family photos lining the walls, no personal touches as far as I can see; it feels like the set of a magazine shoot.

The entire back wall of the living room is lined with glass, overlooking a narrow, leafy, walled garden with more cacti and an enormous slate fountain that bubbles softly in the background.

As I step down into the living room, Callie shoots me a glare of irritation as if I’m interrupting, as if she hadn’t just buzzed me in five minutes earlier. Her arm is wrapped around Jill, who sits between her and Tina on a sectional.

Tina turns toward me, gives me a quick smile, and I cross the room and sink into an ottoman next to them. Jill is dressed in all black, her hands twisting a wad of Kleenex in her lap. Her eyes are puffy from crying, and when she looks up at me, my throat tightens but I manage to squeak out, “I’m so sorry. I really, really am.”

She sniffs and nods.

“I’m sure she’ll turn up soon,” I dumbly add, and at this, more tears gush from Jill’s eyes, and to my surprise, she holds her arms out to me like a toddler. I lean in and hug her as sobs rack her chest.

A moment later we’re interrupted by the housekeeper.

“Red or white?” she asks me.

Drinking in this situation feels slightly bizarre, but a shot of alcohol actually sounds nice. Something to take the edge off my jangled nerves.