A Lily in the Light(36)
He was standing very still in the living room, hands folded over the bottom of his stomach. His badge was clipped to his belt. Esme wished the tarnished silver numbers matched their phone number or address or someone’s birthday, a sign that this would be OK, but they didn’t. Whatever she’d planned to say about living with Amelia stuck to the roof of her mouth. He was wearing a suit. He smiled sadly when he saw her. Suits meant bad news.
“There’s no easy way to say this.” He sighed. “But at this point, we have no further leads. Anthony Santos has an alibi. No one saw Lily leave the building, and no one’s seen her since.”
A cup of coffee sat on the table, untouched. An oily sheen floated on top, changing colors in the light as Detective Ferrera spoke.
Cerise was in her forget-me-not-blue bathrobe, an ice pack pressed to the back of her neck for the same headache she’d had yesterday. They were all in pajamas, and it didn’t matter. Esme’s dance bag slid to the floor.
“What about the psychic?” Cerise leaned forward as if she might latch on to him but stopped. “Maybe there’s something in there to . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her fingers curled around the sleeve of her bathrobe, lost in the thick terry cloth.
Detective Ferrera’s right foot turned toward the door. In dance, the direction of Esme’s feet always determined where her body would go. His foot was a clue. He didn’t want to help them anymore. Or couldn’t. Esme’s mouth felt dry. Was it over? Her body was heavy enough to sink through the floor.
“It isn’t concrete enough.” The lines around his eyes softened. “Even if it was, we don’t have evidence to substantiate her opinion.”
“So what you’re saying is there’s nothing else you can do?” Andre pressed his fist to his chest as if he were holding his heart inside.
“For now,” Detective Ferrera said. “If anything changes, call me right away. If we hear anything, we’ll do the same. I’ll send the case file over. Go through it. Something might click that didn’t before.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Cerise’s voice broke in the middle. Andre peeled his fist from his chest to let it rest on her shoulder. She pushed it away. “Just pretend she never existed? Give up? There has to be something else.” She looked between Detective Ferrera and Andre, begging. “What else is there? Just tell us, and we’ll do it.”
She was crying now, slow tears that beaded on her collar. Detective Ferrera sighed and stared at the floor. Madeline picked at her cuticles, peeling away bits of white skin and letting them fall. Nick’s foot kicked against the bottom of the couch. His eyes met Esme’s across the room, an invisible bridge. This felt final.
“You could hire a private investigator. They have time and resources we don’t. I can give you a name.” He fished a card from his pocket and handed it to her father. The glossy letters held the light. No one moved. Staying still would make the bad news go away like a seeker in hide-and-seek.
“Think it over,” Detective Ferrera said. “We’ll be in touch if anything changes.”
He let himself out, footsteps echoing down the hall.
“We’ll be in touch.” Cerise laughed, a thick, bitter sound that caught in the back of her throat. “Like it’s poker night. And you.” She rounded on Andre. “You’re letting him leave?”
Andre looked young, small. “Why don’t you lie down?” he suggested quietly. Cerise threw the ice pack. It hit the wall near Esme’s head and landed with a thud, waterdrops flying.
“I’m done lying down.” She grabbed the card from Andre’s hand and stomped across the room, slamming the bedroom door behind her. The lock clicked. Cerise punched the phone number so hard they could hear it through the door. Esme stared at the carpet. She didn’t want to look at her father, hands hanging at his sides, or the drawings under the window, Lily’s thick crayon marks already fading.
She dug her nail into the tender skin between her pointer and thumb to see if it hurt, but it didn’t. She didn’t know what to do, so she curled up on the couch with a blanket, tucking her head underneath to breathe into the warm space. Her father knocked on his own bedroom door, begging Cerise to open it, but Cerise was already involved in a muffled conversation with someone on the other end of the line.
The couch shifted, and Madeline’s feet worked their way under the blanket. They were cold on Esme’s leg, but she didn’t mind. She listened to the noise outside the blanket, pretending it was a TV channel she could change if she didn’t want to watch anymore.
I have a sister named Lily, she thought. She’s four years old. When she grows up, she wants to be one of Santa’s helpers, and if she can’t do that, she wants to be the Tooth Fairy’s assistant. When no one’s watching, she climbs to the freezer and fills bowls of ice cream. She likes clothes that don’t match. Her favorite is a royal-blue-and-teal-striped skirt because she likes the way it circles when she twirls. Without Lily, I’m the youngest, the cookie part of the Oreo. With Lily, I’m the cream, and she is the cookie. She was born in September on the first day of school. Lily was pale when she was born, like the inside of a flower. That’s how you got your name, Lily.
What would Anna Pavlova do? She would just find another way. That was what she always did. Rigid feet, make a new shoe. Make your own company. Make your own ballet. Hide away in a country house with a pond full of swans and a secret husband.