Pretend She's Here(21)

“Now that they’ve dyed your hair black, mine can go back to my natural color. I don’t have to have the curl anymore. They don’t dab the birthmark on my cheek. Just look around this room. They took a million pictures after Lizzie died, before we moved here. They documented every inch. Movers came for the rest of our house, but not this room. My dad moved it himself, with every single box labeled exactly, and the three of us put it all together. Do you know how long that took?”

“A long time,” I said.

“They made me stay here once we got it ready.”

“You mean they wanted you to be Lizzie?” I asked.

“My mom did. But you see—there was still that empty chair at the kitchen table. She couldn’t pretend our family was the same because one of us was still missing. Lizzie wasn’t here.”

“She still isn’t,” I said.

I was bigger and stronger than Chloe, and if she tried to stop me, I’d have no problem shoving her aside. While she was still staring at her feet, I walked straight toward the door.

“Don’t,” she said.

“I think you left it open because you know it’s right,” I said. “You know I shouldn’t be here.”

“You have to,” she said. “They don’t need me to be Lizzie anymore, because now you are.”

“No, Chloe. No matter how I look on the outside, they can’t change what I think or feel. And I’ll always be Emily.” I took a breath. “I’m out of here.”

She stared at me with obvious pity in her eyes. “My mother said you might say that. See, leaving the door open was a test. She told me to do it.”

“Well, thank you,” I said, half stepping through. I peered into a shadowy basement. It smelled musty. The walls were fieldstone and concrete. Some of the stones were damp, as if groundwater was seeping in. There was a washer and dryer in the corner. Tall shelves held canned goods. There was the Ping-Pong table that used to be in the Porters’ family room in Black Hall. I picked up speed, heading for the stairs.

“She told me you’d want to see this!” Chloe called. She held up her cell phone and I glanced at it. The screen glowed blue. I caught sight of Seamus, our golden retriever, bounding through tall grass. That stopped me dead. I stood still as Chloe walked closer.

At first I thought it was a video. It could have been taken at any time. I saw Seamus run toward my mother. She was taking him through the marsh—my family’s favorite place to walk, and the exact same place where I’d seen Mrs. Porter in August. Then, through Chloe’s phone, I heard voices.

My mother’s and Mrs. Porter’s.

“It’s FaceTime,” Chloe said. “This is live.”

The picture wobbled, as if Mrs. Porter was holding the phone casually, not actually pointing it at my mom, just catching glimpses of her khaki pants, her Merrell boots, her blue jacket, the back of her head, hair in a messy ponytail.

“Anything I can do,” Mrs. Porter was saying. “Absolutely anything in the world, just tell me. I drove down as soon as I could. When John and I first heard Emily was missing, oh, Mary—our hearts broke.”

“Thank you, Ginnie,” my mother said. Her voice was gravelly with tears. “They’ve already searched this area for her body. Hundreds of people, and they found nothing—of course! Because Emily’s still alive. I come here every day, just to think, to get through the days, waiting to hear something.”

“I can see why. It’s very peaceful,” Mrs. Porter said. “I needed a lot of quiet after Lizzie died.”

“Oh, Ginnie.” My mother stopped, half turned to clasp Mrs. Porter’s hand. She must have knocked the camera because the image bobbled up and down before Mrs. Porter steadied it again.

“It’s not the same as what you are going through, of course, but I know what it’s like to lose a daughter,” Mrs. Porter said.

“We all loved Lizzie so much. I pray for you every day,” my mother said.

“That means a lot,” Mrs. Porter said.

“But Em is coming home. I wish more than anything that Lizzie could, too,” my mother said.

“I know you do,” Mrs. Porter said. “You’ve always been such a good friend. I want to be here for you now.”

They started walking again, and all I could hear was the sound of their feet tromping through the tall, dry grass. The camera showed they were on the remote marsh path. Unless someone else was taking a walk there, no one would see Mrs. Porter and my mother. Mrs. Porter could do anything. “Have you heard from Emily?” she asked my mom.

“No. I always have my phone with me, and Tom has his, and there’s always someone at home, waiting,” my mother said. “I’m sure whoever has her won’t let her call …”

“Is it ransom they want?” Mrs. Porter asked.

“We have no idea,” my mother said, her voice breaking. “Martin Wade, the head investigator, tells us to be patient, but it’s driving us insane. Why would someone take her?”

“Are you sure she was taken?” Mrs. Porter asked.

“What else could it be? Emily would never stay away without calling us.”

“Of course not, Mary. I was just remembering that time she ran away … but never mind. You must be absolutely devastated to think of what she’s going through.”