Lost in the Moment and Found (Wayward Children #8)(37)

They had never included her mother looking tired and worn and beaten down, and so sad, sad all the way down to her bones, with no idea who Antsy was. It was … hard. It was like looking through a window that could never be opened, and in that moment, Antsy felt like her heart caught halfway up with her body, aging in a great, traumatic jerk forward.

“It’s not dyed,” she said, desperate to continue the conversation somehow.

“No, it couldn’t be. When you get that color out of a bottle, it always looks a little garish, even if it should be perfect. I used to try, when I was younger, and again for a while after my Antoinette…” Her mother stopped talking, voice tapering into silence, throat working as she swallowed. “I’m sorry. I’m being silly, and you don’t know me at all. You just look so much like I always thought she would, if she got to be…” She sighed.

“I’m sorry you lost her,” said Antsy. “Maybe you’ll find her again someday.” Maybe, in another fifteen years. She had the vague feeling that some people looked basically the same at twenty and at thirty; if she stayed out of the sun and took care of her skin, maybe she could pass herself off as her actual age when her birth certificate said twenty-five and her body said thirty-three.

Maybe not, but it was worth hoping for.

“That’s all that keeps me going,” said her mother, with a tight, dry laugh. “But it’s not going to happen. There was a full police investigation. What they found was … on his computer, there were … pictures … My ex-husband is in prison for … for taking her away from me, and her little sister only knows her from pictures.”

Abigail would grow up in a haunted house, surrounded by the ghost of a big sister who would never misbehave, never yell at her, never do anything wrong. It didn’t seem fair … but it was better than growing up with a father who thought little girls were for hurting. They weren’t. Abigail deserved to be protected. She deserved to be safe. She deserved to stay found.

Antsy smiled at her mother, who smiled back automatically, not understanding entirely why. “I’m sure she’s a lovely little girl,” she said. “I’m sorry for your loss, and I hope someday you find what you need to be happy.”

“Thank you,” said her mother, looking oddly brightened by the encounter.

The static was gone. As her mother walked to the car, Antsy found the strength to turn and walk away.

Whatever she’d been looking for, she had apparently managed to find it. She was halfway back to the shopping center—with no place better to go, it seemed like a reasonable point to return to—when the static came back, and she followed it down a smaller street and into the side yard of a house. There was no car in the driveway and the curtains were drawn, so she hoped it would be safe, and one teen girl didn’t look like much of a robber. Still, she was tense and careful as she pushed her way past the shrubbery and stepped around the flowers, following the sound of static.

There, at the very back of the little strip of yard, huddled in the shadow of a rosemary plant, was a fluffy white kitten with darker markings on its paws and face and blood on its haunch. It whimpered when she picked it up. The static stopped for a moment, telling her she had found a lost thing, and then started again, more insistent, as the kitten burrowed against her chest, seeking comfort and shelter from the terrifying world that had done it such harm.

Antsy began walking again. The static was enough to guide her, and the weight of the kitten was comforting in her arms. So she kept going, tired as she was, confused and disoriented as she was, until the static led her up the walkway of a house she didn’t know. She rang the bell, careful not to jostle the kitten in the process, and waited until she heard footsteps on the other side of the door, someone hurrying toward her. She managed not to shy away as the door opened and an older woman appeared.

“Can I help—” began the woman, before her eyes grew huge and she gasped, “Bootsie! Oh, where did you find her?”

She reached for the kitten, and Antsy shifted enough to make it easier, saying as she did, “Be careful, she’s hurt. She was under some bushes, I heard her whimpering.”

The woman took the kitten very gingerly out of Antsy’s arms and looked her over, finally sighing. “She’s an indoor cat,” she said. “But I have to open the door when I go out, and she escaped. I’ve been looking for her for days. I promised a reward … If you want to come inside while I call my vet, I can get it for you.”

“Oh, I didn’t bring her back to you for a reward,” said Antsy. “And I’m sure seeing the cat doctor will cost money. I’ll be fine.”

“No, really, I insist.” The woman retreated into the house, kitten still clutched to her chest, and Antsy, who still had static buzzing through her head and had very little experience arguing with adults, followed after checking the doorframe carefully for writing. There was no resistance; sometimes a door is just a door. She did pause to close it behind her, in case the kitten found the energy to run again.

The woman was in the kitchen, a phone pressed to her ear, talking rapidly to someone. Antsy looked around with wide, wondering eyes, trying to remember what all these things were used for. The refrigerator was easy, as was the stove, but some of the shiny chrome and metal appliances were completely unfamiliar now, if they had ever been anything else.