All the Little Lights(110)

Mrs. Mason sat at the table, her palms flat against the dark wood. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and then nodded. “Okay. Nothing has happened yet. Let’s not worry until there is something to worry about.”

“Becca, he shouldn’t be here,” Mr. Mason snapped.

Mrs. Mason looked up at her husband. “And neither should you.”

Mr. Mason fidgeted, clearly hurt by her reply. He had lost weight since the first day of school, biceps beginning to bud from his arms, the flab beneath his shirt nearly gone. He wore clothes that reminded me more of Coach Peckham than the usual short-sleeved button-downs and boring ties Mr. Mason was known for.

He started to walk out but stopped by the tree, peering down at the presents. All were green, red, and silver foil but one: a small rectangle wrapped in the same shade of purple that was painted on the walls in my room. “Becca . . .”

“You should go, Milo.”

Mr. Mason pointed at Elliott. “He’s staying?” When Mrs. Mason opened her mouth to argue, he stopped her. “He’s a suspect, Becca. He shouldn’t be left alone. He shouldn’t have any moment unaccounted for.”

“Then I’ll follow him,” Mrs. Mason said.

Mr. Mason looked at Elliott and sighed. “I’ll do it. I don’t want you girls driving back here alone at night. Not with Presley still missing. And not after you’ve pissed off Mrs. Calhoun. No offense, Catherine.”

I shook my head and shrugged.

Elliott turned to me. “He’s probably right. If the cops stopped me on the way home, Mr. Mason could tell them where I’ve been at least.”

“You’ll see her in the morning at school. My office. Eight o’clock,” Mrs. Mason said.

Elliott nodded, then bent down to kiss my forehead, letting his lips linger for a while. “See you in the morning.”

He hugged me tight and then grabbed his jacket from the closet, his keys off the table, and then passed through the open door Mr. Mason was holding.

Mr. Mason’s eyes were full of conflict when he met his wife’s gaze. “The back door is locked? The windows?” She nodded, and he sighed. “This was reckless, Becca. I wish you’d talked to me first.”

She folded her arms across her middle. “I would’ve done it anyway.”

He breathed out a laugh. “I know. Be sure to lock the door when I leave. Enable the alarm.”

Mrs. Mason nodded, closing the door behind her husband and twisting the bolt lock.

She pressed a few buttons on a white, square display and then looked over her shoulder. “I need a four-digit number. Something you’re familiar with.”

I thought about it for a moment.

She pressed the code and then another button. It beeped twice. “You just press in your code and then hit this button to both arm and disarm the alarm when you’re leaving or coming home. This one to arm if you’re staying home. Get in the habit of arming it every time you walk in the door. I won’t always be here.”

“Okay, Mrs. Mason. I will.”

“Becca,” she said with a tired smile. She stretched and then rubbed the back of her neck, looking down at the nearly empty pizza boxes.

“I’ll get it.” I went to the table, gathering the plates, and took them to the kitchen, rinsing the dishes and breaking down the boxes.

Mrs. Mason watched me with a smile, leaning against the wall. Her eyes were heavy and red. Being watched by her was like being watched by Elliott, so different from feeling eyes on me at the Juniper.

“Thank you,” she said when I finished.

We walked together toward the hallway, Mrs. Mason pausing to turn off lights on the way. She left the Christmas tree plugged in, the soft white glowing brighter.

“Isn’t it funny how lights seem so much more beautiful in the dark?” she asked.

“Like the stars,” I said. “I use to stare out my bedroom window, down at the lights that lined our street. The city stopped replacing the bulbs when they burned out, and it bothered me until I realized I could see the stars better.”

“Always making the best of your circumstances,” Mrs. Mason said. “Good night, Catherine.”

“Night,” I said, watching her go toward her bedroom.

Her door opened and closed, and then I found myself standing in the hallway alone, waiting for the house to breathe, for its eyes to open and watch me like the Juniper did at night. But there was only the faint aroma of Mrs. Mason’s apple cinnamon–scented plug-ins and the glow of the Christmas tree.

I closed my bedroom door behind me. One article at a time, I unpacked my clothes. At the bottom of the last bag was my music box.

It seemed old and dusty when I placed the aging pink-and-white cube on the shiny dresser of my new room. All my things—including me—seemed worn now that they were inside the Masons’ charming home. I undressed and showered, attempting to scrub the secrets from my skin. Mama being alone and afraid forced its way into my thoughts, and worry for Elliott made the center of my chest feel heavy. Six months ago, the only thing that held value was my loyalty to Mama and the Juniper. How had I so quickly and completely changed my mind?

Water poured over my face, rinsing away the suds from my hair and body, pooling around my feet. The tub was perfectly white, the caulk seal where the fiberglass met the tile wall was mold-free, and the windows kept out the cold wind blowing outside. I looked up at the showerhead, the streams all spitting out water evenly, hard water buildup absent from the metal.