The Leaving(53)

“Of course,” Lucas said.

She closed her door and drove away, and he stood so very still and watched and his eyes followed the stones at his feet, just picked a path and stone by stone it led to up to that empty plateau.

He made a promise to himself to do something about that, then went up to the house, where lights were on and Ryan said, “How’d it go?”

Miranda was there.

Miranda was always there.

This time standing at an ironing board in the middle of the living room, ironing a decal onto a shirt.

“Someone recognized us.” Lucas went to the couch and sat aside a tall stack of neatly folded T-shirts. “Like from before. He told us where we’d carved our initials into a pier.”

“That’s incredible,” Ryan said. “So what now?”

“Wait.” Miranda’s iron hissed. “Where was this?”

“Anchor Beach?” Lucas said.

“That’s where the author of the old book lives?” Ryan asked.

“No.” Lucas said. “About an hour away.”

“So how did you end up there?” Miranda held the shirt up, examined her work, set it aside. The room smelled of melting plastic.

“It’s a long story,” he said. The penny was Scarlett’s to talk about.

“So,” Ryan repeated. “What now?”

“We told the police. We’ll talk more. They’re going down there to check it out.”

“So they’ll search for Max?” Ryan asked.

Like that, a rush of guilt.

A surge of shame.

Hadn’t even had a thought about Max. Or


AVERY. DEFIANT. ELBOW STOUCHING.

HOW COULD YOU JUST FOR GET A WHOLE PERSON ?


Had been so caught up in


KISSES. HEARTS. PIERS.

XXXXS. EXES?


And now, wanted to be the one to tell her.

About all this.

So she was maybe . . . what . . . ready?

“Hey, where do they live?” he asked, and had the feeling of hiding something. “Max’s parents, I mean.”





AVERY



She recognized him walking in the dark, a castle guard doing his rounds, as Sam drove up the block to drop her at home. She didn’t say anything, hoped Sam hadn’t even seen him, and bent to slide her heels back onto her blistered feet. How much worse would they hurt right now if she had decided to dance?

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Sam leaned over and they kissed, but barely.

“Sounds good,” she said, feeling something fake in her voice.

Then she got out and walked up the front path and the front steps and put her key in the door and opened it and turned and waved. Sam seemed intent on watching her actually go inside, so she went in, annoyed about it, as quietly as she could and then watched through the peephole as he drove off, and then she stepped back out.

The street was crickets-quiet.

He was probably still four houses down.

Why was he out? Lurking?

Her ears were ringing from hours of boogie-woogie nonsense.

Electric slides and last-dance-last-dance-tonights.

Finally, his footfalls broke through and then he was standing in front of her house, but not seeing her, maybe looking for a house number.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in a loud whisper. “Avery?” he whispered back.

She stepped forward so he could see her and realized her wish was coming true.

Her in her purple dress.

Him here to see it.

“Yes,” she said, going down to meet him. Still feeling small next to him, even in heels.

He looked at her hard. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” she said.

“No”—he seemed embarrassed, flustered— Good.

“I mean, yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I went to talk to the author of The Leaving today. I wanted to tell you about it. And we went to a place where someone recognized us. So we told the police and maybe they’ll find Max there. I don’t know. It’s all still unfolding. I just. I wanted you to know.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” she said, knowing what the answer was going to be but wanting to hear it anyway. “Who’s ‘us’?”

“Oh,” he said. “Me and Scarlett.”

She nodded. “Did she read it? Did she know why she said that about going on a trip? What’s it even about?”

“It’s pretty out there—people living in an underground city to avoid sending their kids away, that kind of thing.”

“Anyone left behind? Killed? Anything that could be a parallel to Max not coming home?”

He shook his head. “No, sorry.”

“So what did the author say?

“He has Alzheimer’s.”

“Tell me you’re joking.”

Sometimes life was too much.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

She shook her head and thought again about the calendar with the countdown to getting out of Florida. Why would anyone in their right mind want to spend the prime years of their life there? Florida wasn’t the Sunshine State. It was the prune juice state. The Depends state. It was where you went to go to Disney and visit your grandparents, sure, but it was no place to actually live—not if you had a healthy pulse. Maybe whoever had done this knew that. That Florida was no place to raise kids. They should’ve moved away after the shooting. Then maybe that would have been that.