All the Missing Girls(63)

“Tyler’s been doing some work on the house for us,” I said, picking at the biscuit.

“That’s good. He’s a good man.”

“You never liked him when we were kids,” I teased.

“That’s not true. He worked hard, and he loved you. What’s not to like?”

“I thought fathers of teenagers were supposed to hate their daughter’s boyfriends. It’s a rule.”

“I never read the handbook. Obviously,” he said. Then he pushed himself back in the chair. “I never knew what to do with you, Nic. About you, I mean. You turned out good, though, all on your own.”

“I didn’t turn out good,” I said, half laughing, crumbling the biscuit so it fell into uneaten sections.

“You did, though. Look at you. Look at you now.”

I needed to steer the conversation gently back. Carefully. “Tyler said the house would be worth more if we finished the garage,” I said. “Remember when you and Daniel were going to do it?”

He looked into my eyes, smiling. “He asked me,” he said, thinking about the wrong thing, the very wrong thing. “Or he told me. You know Tyler. Said he wanted to marry you.”

I felt warmth flooding my face, my fingertips tingling, trying to imagine that conversation. I hadn’t known that, and the surprise caught me by the neck. “He did, huh? What did you say?”

“I said you were just kids, of course. I told him to see the world first. I told him about time . . .” His eyes drifted to the side, and I could sense his mind starting to drift as well.

“What about time?” I asked, pulling him back.

He refocused on me. “That it shows you things if you let it.”

I tilted my head to the side. “That’s what Mom used to say.” When she was sick and I was crying, and she said she could see me, me and Daniel both, the beautiful people we would become.

“Well, that’s what I told her. When she was pregnant with Daniel, she worried so much, and the same with you, so we used to make up these stories . . .” Dad was getting sucked into the memories. I’d lose him if I didn’t ground him in the now.

“What did Tyler say to that?” I asked. Maybe I just really wanted to know. To see the conversation, a fly on the wall, Tyler sitting on the couch, my dad in his chair.

“Hmm?” He looked up and shrugged. “He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t asking for my permission. So I told him: Don’t be mad when she says no.”

I smiled.

“I thought you should know that. It was the day the Prescott girl . . . Well. There were more important things after that, and then you left. But I wanted you to know about that. He’s good. He’s a good guy. I think he’s still mad at me, though. For not giving him your new number.”

“You’re a good dad,” I said. “You really are.”

“I’m a shitty dad, and I know it. But I tried to do the right thing when it counted. I’m not sure how that went.”

“Dad, look at me. It’s done,” I said. I stared at his eyes, willing him to remember this conversation. “Whatever happened back then, it’s over. It’s done. It’s time to put the house up for sale.”

He sliced into his biscuit, pointed the butter knife at my heart. “Eat your breakfast, sweetheart. You’re starting to disappear.”



* * *



I KNEW THAT THE answers to Annaleise’s disappearance hinged on what she saw ten years ago, even if the police weren’t quite there yet. I knew the answers were going to come all at once. That people wouldn’t find out what had happened to Annaleise without finding out what had happened to Corinne, and neither would I.

I had to go back in time.

I had to, while the investigation was still in the find her stage. Before it morphed into something more, something worse.

Hannah Pardot showed up from out of town ten years ago, with her stoic expression and bright red lipstick, on a mission. The investigation morphed from find the girl to solve the case. Those were two very different things. Two very different assumptions.

One week after Annaleise’s disappearance and I could feel the shift starting.

I had to understand how everything looked from Annaleise’s point of view—all of it—starting at the beginning of that night ten years ago. Starting with what she saw at the fair.



* * *



THE FAIR DOESN’T REALLY have an official entrance. It has a field that turns into a parking lot that funnels between the buildings that were stables, now used to sell ticket stubs for rides and games. There’s a storage shed of first-aid equipment off to the side of the stables/ticket booths, and past that, nothing but trees.

Through the old stables, the space opens up to fields where once a year, for two weeks, the booths come to life and the Ferris wheel looms, proud and majestic. In the fall, hot-air balloons rise up, tethered to the earth. It was the place we went to touch the sky.

The air tonight was full of noise: kids cheering or whining, parents laughing and shouting. Music from the rides, bells from the game booths. Teenagers calling to each other across the grounds—from a picnic table, from the front of the portable restrooms, from the top of the Ferris wheel. My breath caught, seeing it circle from the parking lot. Unlike most things that appeared smaller now that I’d grown, the Ferris wheel looked bigger. More untouchable. I tried to picture a girl hanging from the outside of the cart. I’d be panicked. I’d be sick. I’d be furious.