Ink and Bone(45)

Penny followed Bobo to the upstairs landing and down a wide, carpeted hall, where he pushed open a door. Warm sunlight washed bright and yellow, spilling onto the rug. Penny blinked against the brightness as she walked inside.

It was a princess room, pink and lace with a four-poster bed and plush carpet. Tiny roses on white wallpaper. Shelves of dolls and teddy bears, rows of 4H trophies for riding horses and raising chickens—and not the small plastic ones that everyone gets. Tall, glittering towers with horse and rider on top, emblazed with First Place. Little golden horses jumped or stood regal beside the little gold rider. Ribbons in blue and green, red and white. Looking closely she saw that they were from long ago—1979, 1981. A million years ago. The room did look old-fashioned—no posters of rock stars, no computer, no iPad. Just a desk with shelves of books above—books about horses: Black Beauty, The Black Stallion, National Velvet. And lots more—who knew there were so many.

She sat on the bed, bouncing a little. It was so soft; she wanted to climb beneath the covers and sleep and sleep. On the bedside table was a picture, the young woman from the portraits downstairs. Familiar.

“Is that Momma?” she asked.

Bobo nodded, still wearing that same smile. What did he want? Why had he brought her here? The girl in the picture pressed her cheek against Momma’s. They smiled bright and happy, but didn’t it look a little strange, a little tense—like all the pictures of Mommy when she and Daddy went white water rafting (before we had kids) in New Mexico and she was actually terrified the whole time.

“She looks like you,” said Bobo. “But prettier.”

Penny knew she was pretty. His words didn’t bother her. “Who is she?” she asked.

“She’s the one they loved best,” he said. And his smile was gone, replaced with a kind of still anger that caused Penny to avert her eyes. He hadn’t meant to, but Bobo had given her something. Now she knew how to hurt him.


*

Afterwards, he made her a peanut butter sandwich, then another. He let her drink two glasses of milk. Then he brought her back to her room and locked her up again. The sun sank down, and Poppa and Momma still didn’t come back. She lay still, thinking. Thinking about the clean man, and what Poppa had told him. Thinking about the princess bedroom and all the pictures. Thinking about the other girl who had been here and wondering where she’d gone. Thinking about the pair of riding boots she saw in the closet full of pretty clothes.

Her mother always said that when you were sad or worried or angry, that you had to do something. Anything. Go for a walk. Make cookies. Draw a picture. Clean your room. Never just lie there and feel sad or mad, because those feelings become like weights, holding you down, and they only get heavier, and you only get less likely to move them. As the sky went dark and the stars started to shine, Penny decided that she was going to do something.





FOURTEEN


The Egg and Yolk was the newest restaurant in The Hollows. An overpriced, fifties-style diner—complete with red leather and chrome counter stools, a jukebox, and Leave It to Beaver, -Father Knows Best, The Andy Griffith Show, and other classic American -television shows playing in a continuous loop on wall-mounted, flat-screen televisions.

Merri knew that it was a place frequented mainly by tourists and people passing through town to see the fall foliage, or packed with weekenders for the Sunday brunch. She’d chosen it as the place to meet Jones Cooper because she thought it would be empty at three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon and so it was. The locals stayed away because it was too flashy, too expensive—too new.

She walked in and took a seat in a booth toward the back, following the directive of the sign, which encouraged her to: Sit Wherever You Like!

Even so, she felt the eyes of the cook behind the counter and the older waitress over by the cash register. People in The Hollows knew her because of Abbey. Folks were always kind to her, but after a while their kind and pitying glances were heavy and brought Merri down. But it was more than pity, too. There was a current of fear, of distrust. As if the horror that had befallen her family might in some way be contagious. Merri could just imagine other mothers wanting to hug their children away when she was around. She didn’t blame them. She would have felt the same way once upon a time.

She stayed bent over her phone, scrolling through news. In true Jackson fashion, she’d set up an alert for stories relating to that missing man. A shadow caused her to look up, and the waitress was standing over her with an ice water and a menu.

“Thank you,” said Merri.

The woman placed the red plastic tumbler on the table with a ringed, elegant hand. Merri glanced up and saw her own reflection in the woman’s glasses, then the cool, ice-blue eyes behind that. Her smile was warm, attentive.

“Mrs. Gleason?” she said, laying the menu down.

Merri nodded. Shit.

“I was one of the volunteers that helped search for your girl,” she said. “I want you to know that we’re all still hoping you’ll find her.”

“Thank you,” Merri said. Her face felt like ice, like it might crack into a million pieces.

People didn’t even know how cruel kindness could be, how much it hurt.

“I pray for your family every night,” she said. She smoothed out the front of her yellow-and-white uniform, something odd, uncomfortable about the gesture.

Yes, from the safety of your home, where your life is perfectly intact, you pray for us. Why did that always sound so condescending? She’d asked Wolf once. So goddamn superior. Because you’re a hard, cold bitch, Merri Gleason, Wolf would joke. Or half-joke.