The Leaving(77)

At home, she heard her father; he was in his office with the door open: “Yes, I suppose it’s run its course. So yes, shut it down.”

“What were you talking about?” She popped her head in when he hung up. “Shut what down?”

“The tip line.” He looked at his watch. “Why aren’t you in school?”

“But we haven’t found Max yet.” Avery’s tongue burned.

He rubbed his eyes. “I know you really wanted to find him, Ave, but we need to start facing facts.”

“There are no facts. Not about Max.” She seriously felt like she could breathe fire.

“I’m sorry, hon. It’s done. They found the person who did it and they didn’t find Max.”

“But Lucas doesn’t even believe it’s the right place. And if the call about John Norton’s body was even legitimate, why not leave a name? They didn’t even claim the reward!”

“Avery, we need to move on.”

“You’ve been saying that for years, Dad.” She was shouting now. “Has it worked?”

“Keeping the tip line open isn’t going to change that. They’ve sent me all the recordings. And at this point Chambers says it’s just the same nut-job calling. Cryptic nonsense. I’m not going to pay to staff an answering service indefinitely when Max was probably killed and his body was probably dumped in the Everglades or who even knows where?” He looked at his watch again. “I have to head into the office. I’m sorry. We’ll talk later, okay?”

He left.

Fine.

She’d move on.

She went and got a few large trash bags from the kitchen and grabbed a few empty Amazon boxes from the garage, where the recycling hadn’t been broken down yet and obviously her flip-flops were never going to arrive.

She went back upstairs and into Max’s room and put her supplies down. She took a good look around, closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, and picked up a trash bag. She started with Max’s dress er drawers, emptying them of clothes. Tiny shorts and socks. Super hero shirts. She’d put it all in that drop box behind the VFW hall. They’d find new, good homes. They’d be worn by real, live boys.

Next, she set about boxing up toys.

X-Men.

Plastic toy soldiers.

LEGOs.

So. Many. LEGOs.

Transformers.

Plastic dinosaurs.

Pirate this, pirate that.

Matchbox cars.

She filled two boxes without having to pause. But paused at: Daphne

Velma.

Fred.

Shaggy.

Scooby.

But they had to go.

She turned to face the framed photos on the wall. This time, a smaller box. This time, more care in the packing. This box she’d keep.

Her and Max on that carousel at Disney.

Max at his first soccer game.

Max as a baby, leaning on a big blue rubber ball at some indoor play space.

Christmas. Santa’s lap. Her on one side, him on the other.

He was dead.

Her parents were going to have to accept it.

She’d have to accept it.

The world would always see her as an only child, but she’d always know better.

Down the hall in her room, she hid the box where no one would ever find it but her.

Back in Max’s room, she stripped the bed, folded everything neatly before putting it all in another bag, another one for the donation dump.

She made four trips down to the garage. Hiding the stuff in a corner. She’d have to get rid of it fast, or else her mother would find it, say it was too soon, put it all back, make a scene.

There was no point in telling anyone about the newest note. The writing was different, anyway.

And maybe she was an evil cow.

Maybe she deserved the hate being sent her way.





Scarlett


She stood on the center pier at Anchor Beach, squinting out at the water as clouds gossiped on the horizon.

It had been foolish, maybe, to visit Orlean again. But she’d left Adam’s house feeling like she had to do something—and Orlean was the last possible lead they hadn’t gone back to follow up on. A lead that might point to the real who, the real why. But of course he hadn’t remembered her, hadn’t read The Leaving, hadn’t been able to tell her once and for all what the stuff was that you couldn’t forget if you tried.

She’d visited Goldie again, only now they were calling her by her name, Margaret. They’d talked about the painting on the wall, which was named Christina’s World.

“Do you like it?” Margaret had asked.

“I do,” Scarlett had said. “Her body positioning projects such desire for movement. Do you think she ever gets there? To the house?”

Margaret had said, “Yes, I think so. I think someone comes to help.”

Scarlett had texted Sarah—Any progress on the sketches?—when she’d left, but had gotten no reply. A text from Ryan had said, Going to bail my brother out. He asked me to let you know.

Now Scarlett closed her eyes and tried to picture the sky in Christina’s World—was it blue? Gray?—and wondered what a painting of this moment—her on this pier, this sky—might look like.



Would the artist be able to capture the pull she felt to the water?