The Winter Sister(6)
Ssshhhhk, ssshhhhk, ssshhhhk.
Falley glanced back toward the hallway, listening to the muted sounds of my mother’s rage. She looked at her partner before speaking.
“Sylvie,” she began, “when your mother’s acted like this in the past, did she—”
“My mother’s never acted like this,” I interrupted. “She’s never had a daughter who’s been missing before.”
Silence spread through the room like a gas. Even the sound of paper paused, and I imagined it was because Mom had heard me defend her. I could almost feel the soft approval of her fingers stroking my cheek.
The detectives shared a glance, Falley tilting her head at Parker, her eyes asking a question I couldn’t read. Then Parker nodded, closing his notebook and clicking his pen one more time.
“Thank you,” Parker said. “You have our information. Please feel free to call us anytime.”
He slipped his notepad into his pocket and headed toward the front door. Falley stayed behind a moment to put her hand on my shoulder. “You’re being really brave,” she said gently. “We’ll find your sister. Don’t worry.”
Aunt Jill walked toward the entryway to see them out, and I sank into the couch cushions, which were still blanketed with Jill’s makeshift bed.
“This is crazy,” Missy said, the expression on her face one of slow understanding, as if she was just beginning to comprehend how serious the situation was.
Down the hall, behind my mother’s door, the sound of shredding paper started up again.
2
That afternoon, we posted more than fifty flyers. Persephone’s face smirked at us beneath a black, bulky “MISSING” as we worked our way through the center of town and neighboring streets. By the time we stapled the final sign to a telephone pole outside the post office, our fingers felt raw, even through our gloves.
When we got home, Jill pushed mugs of hot chocolate into our hands and encouraged us to “thaw out” in front of the TV. Missy put on a rerun of The Real World, which I watched without seeing, but at six o’clock on the dot, I changed it to the local news in case they mentioned Persephone.
As it turned out, my sister’s disappearance was the lead story.
“The town of Spring Hill is in search of a missing high school student today,” the anchor said. “Persephone O’Leary, eighteen, was last seen leaving her house on Friday night with her boyfriend, Ben Emory, the son of Spring Hill mayor and prominent land developer William Emory. Since then, police have been questioning neighbors and residents, including O’Leary’s boyfriend, who, police say, dropped her off on Weston Road around eleven p.m. on Friday night.”
“That’s bad reporting,” I said to Missy. “Saying ‘police say’ makes it sound like it’s a fact that Ben dropped her off. But it’s not a fact—it’s Ben’s story. And why didn’t anyone talk to us about this?”
Missy shrugged. “Maybe they tried,” she said, “while we were out. Maybe your mom didn’t answer.”
The thought of that chilled me, despite the steam rising from my mug. Could Mom have locked herself away so thoroughly that not even the ringing phone or doorbell could reach her? After we had gotten home, she finally let Aunt Jill into her bedroom, and although I couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other, it made me feel better to remember that they were in that room together.
On the TV, the news anchor continued to speak over a video of people dressed in heavy coats and scarves, trudging in thick boots through the snowy woods by Emory Bridge.
“A modest search party is already underway for O’Leary, and people in town appear confident that they will locate the missing girl soon.”
Missy and I looked at each other, the surprise in her eyes reflecting my own.
“Search party?” I said. “What search party?”
The footage switched to a close-up of a middle-aged woman in a knitted purple hat. Her nose was red and her breath danced in front of her lips as she spoke. I recognized her as Persephone’s third-grade teacher, Mrs. McDonald.
“I organized all this myself,” Mrs. McDonald said, almost proudly, to the microphone in her face. “I live near Weston Road, so of course I saw the police cars this afternoon, and as soon as I found out what was going on, I sprang into action. Called some friends together, alerted the press, and now here we are. We’re a small group, and we’ve only just started, but we’ll keep searching even after dark.” She held up a flashlight and smiled to the camera. “We won’t stop until we find her. She’s one of Spring Hill’s own, and that really means something.”
Did it, though?
Spring Hill, Connecticut, was a town of about twenty-five thousand people, a good majority of whom lived in the big brick houses on the hilly northern side of Emory Bridge. People in neighboring towns came to Spring Hill for its frozen yogurt shops and its apple and berry orchards, and at Christmastime, they did their shopping at Spring Hill Commons. Then they drove around to look at the twinkling white lights on all the Ionic columns and wraparound porches, and when they returned home, they reevaluated their monthly budgets, trying to find some extra savings for a new swimming pool or a kitchen remodel, anything that would make them feel more like the residents of Spring Hill.