All the Rage(48)

“No,” Mitchell snaps, and the boy flinches.

“We’re looking for a girl,” Diaz tells him.

It’s quiet after that. The farther into the woods we get, the darker it gets, and the air turns just so slightly cooler. Bugs hover curiously at our faces and we wave them away. Diaz holds herself like she’s done this before, but there’s no history of missing girls in Grebe that I know of.

“You can’t,” Cat says to me.

“What?”

We fall back a little. Enough to talk, but not enough to get yelled at for it.

“You can’t make up that time.” She steps over a large tree branch. “They probably would’ve found her if they’d started out with enough people looking for her.”

I think of Cat collapsing on the track, think of her listless in Brock’s arms. How jealous Tina was when Brock carried Cat off and what he said after Tina asked him if he got Cat to the nurse’s office. Eventually. I wonder what Cat would think if she knew Brock said it and how when he did, people were deciding things about her, things she had no control over.

“I was on a road.” My voice cracks. “I had no idea where I was—”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have gotten so f*cking drunk.”


“I wasn’t drunk—” And she rolls her eyes. “I think Brock slipped me GHB.” The thing I didn’t want to think about bubbles off my tongue, nothing I can stop. Cat’s mouth drops open, and then she shakes her head over and over and I imagine her hands around my phone, aiming its lens at me. “Or maybe if I was that f*cking drunk, someone should have taken me home—”

Diaz turns, furious. We’ve broken formation and we’re too far behind.

“Ladies, keep up.”

Cat hurries forward.

“So why didn’t you take me home?” I call at her.

“What was that, Ms. Grey?” Diaz asks.

“Nothing.”

The faint rumblings of another group breaking into the brush to our left reach my ears. I turn my attention back to the ground, waiting for something to catch my eye. Garbage all over. Tossed wrappers; dirty, broken red cups. I wonder how old it all is. If it’s from the party and has been rotting away ever since, or if it’s from some party years before.

How can we even be doing this?

We’re combing through trash, looking for a girl.

I stare at a plastic bottle and try to decide if it’s important. Twigs snap underfoot. Something moves above me. A crow flying from one tree to another.

A whistle sounds.





“stay here,” deputy Mitchell says, and he goes.

I imagine Penny, her perfect body, bent and broken in these woods with no life left inside it. I imagine her hair matted with dirt. I imagine her pale face lighting up the ground and her eyes seeing nothing.

The whistle came from behind us, to the left. There’s a flurry of voices. Other groups make themselves known. What is it? Is it her? Did you find her? The questions echo through the trees and after a long moment, a deputy, with the Youngs and Alek behind him, comes scrambling up the path.

A girl wails.

It’s the kind of sound you run from, not to.

But I need to know.

Diaz calls me back, tells me to stay but I’m not a dog. I push through the brush until I find the girl and it’s—not Penny. She’s a small, pale thing, no more than ten, her knobby knees pointed toward each other, too tall for her age. She stands in front of us, shaking, her face red and tear-streaked. It’s Lana Smith’s sister, Emma.

And then the Youngs are there, and Alek, and another group, and another group, all of them wildly hopeful as they force themselves onto the scene and then—not.

When he realizes who it isn’t, Alek stumbles back, turning in a dazed circle because no person in the world can go through that kind of having and taking away in such a short amount of time and still be okay after. He breathes hard, his face damp with sweat. And then he stiffens—clamps his hand over his mouth and staggers away. Brock runs after him, calling his name. Emma sobs through it all and Lana is suddenly there, like we’re all suddenly here, pulling her little sister into her arms and she’s apologizing to the Youngs for none of this being what they wanted except I don’t know what anyone wants anymore.

“I got separated.” Emma sobs. “I got scared—”

“It’s okay,” Lana says. “It’s okay. She was scared. We’re so sorry. Emma, tell them you’re sorry—” and Emma bleats over her, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry …

Mrs. Young does something I don’t think I could do if I was her. She doesn’t lash out, doesn’t yell or cry. She gathers Emma in her arms and tells her it’s okay, we understand, it’s okay … and then more people, more witnesses to this, all this nothing. It’s nothing. Someone says something about taking a five-minute break and I hear a deputy mutter waste of time and that’s when I decide I have to leave.

I make my way back through the woods and around the lake and the rotten, stagnant scent of the water makes me nauseous. I text Mom, begging a ride home and realize I didn’t even let her know I arrived, like I said I would.

The point of contact comes into view. Helen Turner at the table, on her cell phone, getting the news that it’s not Penny. As much distance as I can put between us is not enough. Being this close to her makes me want to bury myself. God, did my dad hate her. Hated her. I think part of him was always secretly happy she fired him because it proved it, didn’t it, that she was the cunt. Helen is still on her phone when the New Yorker pulls up. Todd’s in the driver’s seat. I climb in and buckle up. I press my hands against the cold air vents until my fingers go numb. He drives us out.