Читать книгу Forget Me Not: A gripping, heart-wrenching thriller full of emotion and twists! - A. Taylor M. - Страница 12

When we were about six or seven Nora decided that the only popsicles she would eat were the red ones. They didn’t seem to have a flavor; they were just red the same way red M&Ms are just red too. Anyway, from then on she only ever ate the red popsicles. Even when we were seventeen. I didn’t care what color I had; as long as I had one, I was cool. Nora was like that about a lot of things. Single-minded, determined. Tunnel vision, I guess is what you’d call it. I used to laugh at her refusal to try any other flavors because it meant she often went without one, even when there were other colors available and I was happy sucking down on a blue one, or whatever else was available, but she was so sure of herself, so intent on the right-ness of her choice that her lack of desire to try something else seemed almost admirable.

By the time it came round to picking out colleges, Nora already knew where she was going to go. She’d known since our freshman year for Christ’s sake. It was absurd to me that she would limit her choices so much by only applying to Carnegie Mellon, but she was just so damn sure of herself. Of her choices. She’d been singing forever, and had appeared, more often than not as the main character, in every single musical theater production our high school had ever put on. It was pretty exhausting being her friend, to be honest. Me, I had about a thousand different ideas of where I wanted to go. I wanted Northwestern and NYU, Columbia and Stanford, Berkeley and Vanderbilt. By which I mean I didn’t know what the fuck I wanted. I was just as big a mess back then as I am now, I just used to have more options available to me. I laughed at Nora’s certainty about Carnegie Mellon just as I’d laughed at her red popsicle decree. She didn’t need any backup. She didn’t need options or choices—she knew exactly what she wanted, even before the rest of us realized we were expected to have formed some sort of opinion on our future selves. That is, of course, until she had all her options taken from her. Until her future went from certain to nonexistent.

I can’t untangle lost-Nora from alive-Nora; they’ve become the same person so much that every memory I have of her is blighted, dimmed by the fact of her being gone. Sometimes I can see her as bright and clear as a summer’s day. She stands in my mind in full technicolor, a riot of color saturation. But most of the time the way I think of her is the way I think about the time when we lost her. They’ve become one and the same, and in a way it’s like losing her all over again. Just as I was robbed of my best friend, I was robbed of my memories of her too.

She got in of course. The letter came, in all its cream-colored glory, heavy with anticipation and congratulations, Carnegie Mellon somehow the only people in the country who didn’t realize what had happened to Nora. Nate showed it to me and Ange, his face grim but somehow determined, and I tried so hard to work out what he was feeling; did he think she was still out there, desperate to be found? Or maybe desperate to remain lost? It took me a couple days to realize that he’d just come to the same conclusion I had. Because in that moment, when I saw those words, “Congratulations, Nora Altman, and welcome to Carnegie Mellon!” I just knew. I knew she was gone for good and not because she didn’t want to be found.

It’s exhausting coming up with synonyms and euphemisms for dead. We had to use so many in those first few months when she was simply gone. Missing. But that was the first time I let the word enter my vocabulary. It was the first time I realized she wasn’t just a space in my life. Someone hadn’t simply thrown their hand into the ring and snatched her out of our lives. Someone had killed her.

The impotence I felt in that moment and in the months, years, that followed doesn’t even bear describing. It was all-consuming. It’s one thing to realize your best friend has been murdered; it’s a completely different thing to watch, from the sidelines, as those in power, those with control, fail at almost every turn to find or apprehend the killer. To refuse even to admit that she has been murdered. It is, apparently, very hard to find a killer when you can’t even find the body.

So, it was that impotence, that dreaded powerlessness that I was thinking about when I parted ways with Ange at the diner, and instead of going home to crawl back into bed as I probably would have done ten years before, I got into my dad’s car and drove out to where Noelle’s body had been found and Nora’s car had been abandoned all those years ago. My hands gripped the steering wheel ever tighter the closer I got and by the time the flickering yellow police tape came into view a low buzzing hum had taken up residence throughout my entire body.

I tried to breathe deeply, pulling over to the side of the road and staring out at the desolate scene. There was nothing much to see, but just a few yards away I could make out the ribbon tied to one of the nearby trees. It must have been replaced a thousand times, but there had been one there ever since Nora went missing. I could still remember the discussion of what color ribbon to choose; the mundane back and forth between yellow and blue barely cutting through the cloud I’d been drifting through since she disappeared. Finally, I’d had to shout, yell, my voice catching on the words, that it should be purple. I was the only one who remembered it was her favorite color.

I got out of the car and walked towards the police tape before looking around me and slipping underneath it. There was nothing to see, really. I followed a very small path into the woods, but the recent snow meant everything had been covered over. Willard must have been quick to get even his low-quality photo. I stopped walking after a while, aware that I was just getting ever deeper into the woods, and with no real reason. Whatever it was I was looking for, I thought, I wouldn’t find it here.

I heard the crunch of the snow coming from behind me before I heard his voice.

“You shouldn’t be here, Fielder.”

I turned around to see Leo standing at the edge of the clearing. He was with Bright, both of them dressed in their blue police uniforms.

“Didn’t you notice the big yellow ‘do not cross’ line down at the road?”

“I didn’t come from the road. I was just taking a walk and came across it.”

Leo rolled his eyes at me. “Don’t lie to us, Mads. I recognize your dad’s car. I saw it every day in the high school parking lot, remember? Just like everybody else.” Just one of the many downsides to having a parent as your high school principal.

I grimaced. “Oh, right.”

“What are you doing here, Maddie?” Bright asked gruffly. Bright and Serena had been together for almost all of high school and even into college before they broke up, and I like to think he held a certain amount of affection towards us Fielder girls. He never really said much to me, but then he never really said much to anyone, so I didn’t take it too personally.

“I just wanted to see it. I’m sorry.”

“How’d you even know where to come? I didn’t think details had been released yet.” Leo’s chest was puffed up in indignation, his face a caricature of concern.

“Ange,” I said simply. I didn’t add that an article detailing the existence and nature of the crime had already gone live on the Madison Journal’s website.

Leo groaned and turned away from me as if disgusted, kicking at a small drift of snow. Bright and I caught one another’s eye, but I looked away quickly. He just stood there, arms crossed against his broad chest, jaw set firmly against the cold and the crime scene, determined to remain as stoic as ever. I’d seen him like this countless times before: impassive as a rock in the face of grief, loss, anger, frustration. He was perfect for police work really, never giving anything away, but it sure did make for cold comfort.

“Well, I’d better get going,” I said, suddenly deflated. I’d hoped going out there would help me understand what was happening, what had happened to Elle, but all I felt was a mixture of disappointment and dread that I couldn’t quite decipher.

I walked back the way I’d come, squeezing between the two men, knocking Leo’s arm with my shoulder. His head turned sharply towards me but I just stared at him, daring him to say something. Instead, his face dropped and he gave me a soft little smile, mouthing “I’m sorry,” at me. Just so I knew he wasn’t a total asshole. Just so I knew he was only doing his job. I shrugged at him and carried on walking.

I got a few strides away from them before I heard Bright speak up again. “You heard from Nate?”

I turned back to check he was talking to me and not Leo and nodded. “I’m going round there later to watch Noah.”

Bright gave a single nod and then turned back to the clearing.

There was someone else down by my dad’s car when I got back to it, waiting, but I didn’t think for me. Hidden beneath a bright red bobble hat and matching padded jacket—whoever it was was so small that I’d been taken aback to see they were probably about Elle’s age—when they turned around at the sound of my approach, and not a child as I’d wrongly assumed. The girl had been staring silently at the purple ribbon when I arrived, but now I could see her face and there was something about the terrifying blankness of her eyes that I recognized. Not from a picture or photo I’d seen, but from the reflection of my own face whenever I’d managed to look in the mirror ten years earlier when Nora had first gone missing. It was that, more than anything else, that made me say: “Jenna?”

The girl took a step back initially, and then moved towards me, shoes crunching on snow. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Maddie Fielder,” I said. “I … was Nora’s friend. I knew Elle, too. You are Jenna, right? Elle’s girlfriend?”

Jenna nodded eventually, swallowing hard, and taking a quick look back at the purple ribbon, fluttering a little in the wind. “You’re Maddie? Elle spoke about you a lot.” Her words were stilted, hard come by, almost lost in all that cold air, and I felt bad even forcing her to say Elle’s name, although it’s unlikely there was anyone or anything else on earth currently taking up her mind and time. I looked back up the way I had just come, aware that Leo and Bright were probably going to come crashing down through the woods at any moment. I thought I could just hear the low rumble of their voices, getting louder and closer, but I may have been imagining it.

Before I really knew what I was doing I asked Jenna if she wanted to go someplace warm and chat, and she surprised me yet again by agreeing to, so we both got into our own cars and drove off back towards CJ’s in convoy.

Somehow I ended up getting to CJ’s a little before Jenna and watched as she pushed open the heavy door, letting a puff of cold air into the warm diner. Her short reddish hair was cut into a pixie cut and she fluffed it up with her right hand as she walked towards me, having just pulled the bright red bobble hat off her head. Underneath her red coat she was wearing jeans and a massive sweatshirt that completely dwarfed her slight frame.

Jenna slipped into the booth, Ruby silently depositing two cups of coffee and two menus on the table in front of us as she did so. I smiled my thanks and she left us to it. Jenna wrapped her hands around the mug of coffee nearest her and stared into the brown liquid. She wasn’t wearing any make-up, but her skin was clear except for one spot by the corner of her mouth. Up close, her eyes, which I’d thought looked so horrifyingly blank, were hazel, and upon closer inspection looked puffy but not red. From crying but not too recently.

I probably should have said something first, I was the grown up after all—I had suggested we come here, and on top of everything I wasn’t the one who had so recently lost their girlfriend—but for some reason I simply couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think of a single thing to say. So, silence settled all around us until finally Jenna looked up and said: “I can’t believe she’s gone. I was on Facebook last night and that was all anyone seemed able to say, you know? ‘I can’t believe you’re gone.’ It doesn’t feel real. Even with all … the other stuff.” She looked up at me then. “Did it feel real with Nora?”

It took me a little while to answer. For some reason I hadn’t expected Jenna to ask me about Nora, but she had every reason to, of course.

“At first it was like I was watching it all happen to someone else,” I said slowly, watching her face, “but then, finally, I don’t know, something snapped and I realized it was real. That she was gone.”

I didn’t normally talk so easily about Nora, especially with someone I’d never met before, but I felt as though Jenna deserved it. The truth. Or my truth at least. I also couldn’t help but notice that we’d completely dispensed with and skipped over the small talk. There wasn’t any place for it there, not then.

“Do you ever think that she might still be alive?” she asked, her words whispered, her eyes lowered again. Like she was asking me something embarrassing.

When I said “No,” very firmly she looked a little taken aback by my conviction. “If she were alive I’d know. There would have been something. She would have let us know, somehow.” It always surprised me how shocked people were by my belief that Nora was dead rather than still missing. They thought I should still have hope that she was out there somewhere, alive, but hope had given up on me long ago. I wasn’t willing to indulge in it for the sake of people finding me easier to deal with; when I told people I thought Nora was dead it was as if I had killed her. And maybe I had, up to a point. I’d killed the idea of her being alive, and if I didn’t believe it, then who were they to? What they don’t understand is that hope is relentless, unforgiving, and living within its grip isn’t like living at all. So, I chose to believe in something that let me live, even if only a little, even if only just.

To her credit, Jenna simply nodded, taking a sip from her mug of coffee and then, as if she’d suddenly just summoned the courage to do so, she looked at me, her jaw set, her chin raised slightly in an image of determination. Her eyes looked steely somehow, something metallic catching amid the green and brown. I could see how she might present quite a formidable opponent on the ice, despite her small size.

“I want to know what happened to her. To Noelle. I deserve to know.”

“Of course.”

“No, you don’t get it. No one’s telling me anything. Not the police, not her family.” Her eyes looked a little wild then; so wide they seemed to jump out of her face. Her resolve from just seconds before had left her completely and she was having trouble looking at me, or anything, for more than a split second. Her gaze flicked from one thing to the next, to the next and I wondered if she’d taken something. “I mean, I get it,” she continued, after taking a deep breath and trying to calm herself, “there’s not much to tell yet, but I’m her girlfriend.” Her chin dipped ever so slightly and the firm, set line of her mouth turned down somewhat. “Was. Was her girlfriend.”

“Can I ask why you weren’t at the memorial on Sunday? For Nora?”

Jenna wiped a hand across her face, exhaustion written all over it. “It was my grandmother’s eightieth birthday. I couldn’t miss it; my mom would have killed me.” She stilled suddenly, her eyes catching mine, her face pale. “I mean … I didn’t mean that, I didn’t mean to say that.”

“It’s okay, Jenna.”

“No, no, no. You don’t understand—”

“I do understand. And it’s okay.”

Jenna slumped forward, her arms resting on the table, showing me the crown of her head. I thought perhaps that she was crying, but when I said: “Had Elle been acting any differently recently?” she jerked her face up and it was clear of tears.

Taking a deep breath she turned her gaze to the window, which was a little steamed up, snow drifting lazily past it. Calmer by then, she said: “A little, I guess, yeah. She’d been more withdrawn than usual.”

Elle had been particularly quiet on Sunday when I had last seen her, and although I wasn’t used to seeing her like that, I hadn’t thought much of it at the time; it was the ten-year anniversary of her sister going missing after all. If she had a right to be withdrawn at any time, it was then. I wanted specifics though, so I asked: “What do you mean by ‘withdrawn’?”

Jenna sighed, pushing back her hair so that it stood on end. “Quiet, distracted. She kept cancelling stuff at the last minute. Like, we’d arrange to go to the movies, or just to hang out, but then she’d cancel right before we were supposed to meet. I thought … I actually thought she was going to break up with me.” She looked back at me, her eyes once again wide and a little wild, filling with tears.

“Do you know why she wasn’t home on Sunday night?” This was a question that had been bothering me; why had Elle not been at home and why hadn’t anyone noticed that she was missing earlier?

“She … she was supposed to come over to my house, to hang out, but then she texted to say she wasn’t feeling up to it, so I figured she was just going to stay home with her family. I texted and called a couple times but when she didn’t answer I thought maybe she’d just gone to bed early or something.”

There was a shot of silence while I swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “Do you think she went out anyway? To meet someone else?” I asked at last.

Jenna nodded, blinking rapidly at me as a way to stave off tears. “Maybe. It’s the only reason why her parents wouldn’t have known where she was. If they thought she was at mine, then they wouldn’t have been worried, right? But what if she told them she was with me but she was actually somewhere else?” Her voice broke as she was speaking, tears falling silently down her cheeks, and I reached for a napkin from the stainless-steel dispenser and handed one to her. She took it silently, wiping away at her face.

“Had she ever done that before?”

“I don’t know,” Jenna said, shrugging her shoulders helplessly. “Maybe, I guess.”

“Do you think she could have been seeing someone else?”

“You mean cheating on me?”

I drew in a breath, watching Jenna’s face fall ever further. “Yeah.”

Jenna swallowed, shaking her head. “I didn’t ever think she’d do that. But I don’t know now. Maybe she would?”

I felt awful asking Jenna all these questions, making it so much harder, so much worse. It was like I was digging through the rubble of a ruined building and kept uncovering body parts; I wanted to stop, but there was a chance there was a live one down there, and I needed to know. “Is there anyone you can think of who she might have been seeing? Anyone at school she was flirty with? Anything like that?”

“No,” Jenna replied, just looking at me.

“Are you sure? What about if I put it this way instead: Was there anyone who seemed interested in her? Even if she wasn’t interested back?”

Jenna put down the mug of coffee she’d been drinking from and licked her lips. “Yeah, there were a few.”

“A few?”

“There were some guys at school who were constantly hitting on her. As if we were just some sort of act. Like we were there just to turn them on or something, and because everyone knew Elle was bi, they’d always hit on her, super creepy, all like, ‘let me know when you want a man’ or whatever. As if because she was attracted to men and women she’d be attracted to a complete asshole.”

“Who were they?”

Jenna thought for a second. “Johnny Phillips, Mike Stiles, Adrian Turney. I don’t think she was seeing any of them though. She thought they were assholes.”

“Are you sure?”

She shrugged, and leaned back in the booth. “I guess I don’t know.”

“Did the police ask about these guys?”

“No, they just wanted to know where I’d been and if Elle had seemed different at all recently. They asked if she’d been seeing anyone else, like you did. If we had an open relationship.” She raised her eyebrows at me.

“So, there’s no reason these guys—Johnny, Mick and whoever—would be questioned by the police?”

“Mike. And no, I don’t think so. Unless they decided to question the whole school.”

“Okay. Do you have any of these guys’ numbers? So I could get in touch with them if I need to?”

Jenna shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. But they’re all on Facebook. You could just message them there.”

“Right, of course.”

Jenna gave me a thin smile and shifted in her seat, looking down into what I assumed was her nearly empty coffee mug. I could tell she wanted to leave.

“Hey, have you ever been up to the Altmans’ lake house?” I asked, and Jenna nodded.

“Yeah, plenty of times,” she said.

“What about those guys? Would they have been there too?” I was thinking about that compass drawn in the snow next to Elle’s body, all four points leading to an “N.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. Mike might have been to a party there once or twice. Why?”

I told her about the compass, which she didn’t seem to have read about yet, and watched as her face drained even further of any color.

“Anyone could have seen that compass though,” she said after a pause. “Elle had a tattoo of it on her ankle.”

“She did?” I asked, but as soon as she had said it, it all came flooding back.

I’d sat there, in that very diner, sometime at the end of the last summer, catching up with Elle and she’d told me all about it. I hadn’t seen her in months, not since the beginning of the year probably, and we’d had a lot to talk about. She’d spent a few weeks of the summer in Austin with Nate and then they’d driven back together so that she could take possession of his old Land Cruiser.

***

“You got a new tattoo,” she says excitedly, reaching for my arm and turning it over so that she can better see the arrow pointing down towards my palm, its tail just scraping the inner crook of my elbow. “Why an arrow?” she asks.

I look down at my arm, her warm hand still wrapped around my wrist, and it feels as though I’m looking at someone else’s. I’m used to the tattoo by now—I’ve had it since January—but for some reason I feel unhooked from my body, let loose from its rigid confines. “I got it for Nora,” I say eventually, my voice sticky, constricted, and raise my eyes to meet Elle’s, watching as they widen a little. “She always seemed to know exactly where she was going. I could use a little of that in my life I guess.”

Elle grins at me and she seems to be bubbling over with something. “It’s like we match,” she says animatedly, pulling her leg up onto the diner bench and twisting her ankle towards me so I can see it: an inky black compass with all points ending in “N.” It’s still a little red, sore. “Nate got one too,” she says, “on his arm though. Guess we’ll have to force Noah to get one at some point too. But look,” her finger traces the compass on her ankle gently as she speaks, “it’s like your little arrow matches the pointers on the compass. Part of the family.”

Something heavy fills my stomach and even though I find it difficult I manage to smile at her. “Don’t you have to be eighteen to get a tattoo?”

Elle makes a face as if she’s disappointed I’d ask her such a question, and proceeds to roll her eyes. “Yeah, and Mom absolutely flipped. It was ridiculous. As if she doesn’t have more important things to worry about than me getting an effin tattoo.”

I can’t help but really smile at her then; there is nothing more endearing to me than Elle’s quiet refusal to curse. We move onto talking about her parents, who, Elle believes, are in the process of getting a divorce, although neither one of them will talk about it with her.

“As if our family needs any more skeletons we’re not allowed to talk about,” she says, all her previous enthusiasm drained.

“Shit, I can’t believe I forgot about the tattoo,” I said to Jenna, feeling deflated. I’d been assuming that whoever had drawn that compass had been to the lake house, which might have narrowed down the suspects a little, but if anyone could have seen it on Elle’s ankle, then it was far less significant.

After paying for our coffees I walked Jenna to her car, an enormous dark blue Dodge truck that looked far too big for her, and watched as she climbed into it. Before she drove off I asked her if she was heading back home.

She was staring out through the windscreen as she shook her head and said: “I can’t stand being in my room anymore. It’s so full of her. I can’t stop thinking … I just can’t stop thinking. About her. About it. I need to be distracted. By anything.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

She shrugged, looking lost, looking so much younger than seventeen—far too young for any of this—I thought. “I guess I’ll just go to school. Nowhere else to go.”

I had tried going to school as normal when Nora first went missing. Those in-between days when we all assumed she’d be found quickly and be back home soon took on a strange, vague quality to them, as if I wasn’t even there. It’s as though someone has told me about them and I’m remembering their telling of it. I remember sitting in the school gym on the Monday after she’d been reported missing, in an assembly for Nora, an assembly called by my own father, who was obviously having trouble getting the tone right. Were we grieving the loss of a fellow student and friend? Were we telling one another that there was still hope, that we could still find her? Were we being warned about the dangers of being a young woman out late at night? Were we blaming drugs? When we got to the drugs part I got up and walked out, Ange close behind me, and we spent the rest of the day crying in the backseat of her car. No one came to get us and force us back to class, and I ended up missing weeks of school.

I’d raged at my dad that night, stormed at him as soon as he got through the door, face like a distant thunderstorm. He didn’t understand, I screamed, couldn’t possibly understand; Nora hadn’t run away, she wasn’t some messed-up kid on drugs trying to find her way out. Nora was always on her way up, always, and I couldn’t understand how everyone could have suddenly forgotten that and recast her in this new role of troubled teen. He’d answered in a low voice, quiet, levelheaded, sympathetic even, telling me he knew, he knew, he knew, that he knew Nora as well as I did, but he had professional obligations, he’d been briefed by the police on what to say. I can still feel the hot tears that stained my face that whole evening as I realized my father had loyalties that extended beyond me, beyond Nora.

When I finally went back to school, every glance cast at me and every scrap of gossip thrown my way implying that I’d been given special treatment because my dad was also the principal, it was to a different place entirely. What had once been safe, innocuous, boring, was now unbearable. It was on one of these first interminably long days back at school that I found my first note.

***

It flutters to the floor as soon I open my locker, and I pick it up idly, expecting it to be from Ange.

It’s written in Sharpie, stark black against the clean, perfect white of the printer paper.

Your friend probably killed herself why don’t you do the same

I stare down at it, not taking it in. All I can see for a second or two is the black and white, the curve of the writing, the slope of the sentence. It starts to tremble gently in my hand, but the reaction seems completely divorced from me. I lean my shoulder against the locker next to mine, creating a shield with my open locker door, and read the note again. I almost want to laugh in some way; as if anyone could hurt me now. As if any number of notes stuffed into my locker could make me feel the way Nora being gone makes me feel. I fold the note over carefully, once, twice and then slide it into the back pocket of my jeans.

I slam my locker door shut, forgetting what it is I went there for in the first place, and walk out of school. The metallic noise of the doors banging into the wall sings in my ears as I step out into the dazzle of sun and snow. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel that familiar anvil pressing me down into the earth, the weight of life suddenly a burden too heavy to bear. I walk home through the snow slowly, slowly and crawl into bed, knowing I won’t leave for over a week. I don’t tell anyone about the note—it doesn’t even occur to me—until Serena comes home a few days later.

“You’re not asleep,” she says, coming into my room without knocking.

“No.” I don’t bother telling her that I’m never actually asleep. Just exhausted.

“Cool. I just wanted to come say hi.” She walks over to the window and stares out at the evening, which is a perfect dusky purple. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Mom and Dad are really worried.” She turns to look at me finally, staring me down, which I can tell she’s been wanting to do the entire time. Serena isn’t a stareoutth‌ewindowattheevening kind of girl. That’s me. Or at a push Cordy, but definitely not Serena. “I’m worried too. I thought you’d gone back to school. I thought things were better.”

“They got worse again.”

“Can you tell me why?”

I have no idea how to tell her, so I just stay silent. She sighs, padding over to the bookshelf.

“Have you read anything recently? Maybe that would help you feel better.”

Several words, hell an entire sentence even, rise up inside me but end up getting trapped somewhere in my chest, so again I say nothing. Serena’s eyes drift along the bank of books, taking them all in until something stops her in her perusing. I stuffed the note in between two books rather than tearing it up and throwing it away, which I’m now regretting. She pulls it out from between The Return of the King and The Silmarillion and stares down at it before turning to look at me. My face is stuck to the pillow. I haven’t moved since she walked into the room.

“What is this, Mads?”

“An anonymous missive from a concerned classmate.”

“Maddie.” She’s staring down at it again, her eyes drawing in on themselves. “Have you told anyone about this? Shown it to anyone?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

I finally push myself up, leaning my head back against the headboard and closing my eyes. “Because it doesn’t matter. That’s not the problem, Serena, just a symptom.”

“This is really fucking serious,” she says, “this is aggressive. Horrible. They’re telling you to kill yourself.”

My eyes snap open, and Serena is staring right at me, her grey-blue eyes headlights in the near-dark of my bedroom. “It’s nothing,” I say, my voice a rubber band suddenly stretched too far. “Just some sick, psycho jock trying to hurt me.”

“Has this happened to Angela too?”

“I don’t know.” I wonder suddenly what Ange might be keeping from me in light of what I’m keeping from her.

“So, you literally haven’t told anyone?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m sorry but I have to tell Mom and Dad.”

I don’t say anything as she walks out of the room, evidence in hand. I rearrange my pillows and slide back down the bed. The world isn’t any less demanding from this position but at least when it asks its impossible questions I’m not forced to come up with an answer.

I close my eyes.

After leaving Jenna, I headed over to the Altmans’. Katherine was a small woman, with none of the height and strength I always associated with Nora. Noelle looked more like her although she was much taller. The same fine features, with Katherine’s dark brown eyes and chestnut hair, rather than Nora’s deep-blue eyes and almost raven hair. We hugged silently and when she released me about a thousand different words remained stuck in my throat and all I could manage was: “I’m so sorry.”

Katherine nodded and folded her arms across her chest. Her face was a strained white, with no make-up and purplish, bruised-like bags under her eyes.

“Nate asked me to come sit with Noah. I think-I think he thought you guys might appreciate the help.” I inwardly cringed at the inadequacy of my words. Of all words.

“Of course. Thank you, Maddie. We have to … we have to go to the police station. For questioning.”

I raised my eyebrows and followed her into the house. “For questioning?”

Katherine sighed heavily as she pushed through the door to the kitchen at the back of the house. Beyond the kitchen island there was a vast window that overlooked the snow-filled garden. It was quiet and white, with a cold, icy beauty. Completely untouched. Most backyards would bear some trace of the human—childish—touch. Piled up drifts of snow where snowmen have melted, dislodged snow on the climbing frame or swing set, the disintegrating outline of a playful snow angel. A trail of footprints at the very least. But there was none of that in the Altmans’ garden. I guess Noah wasn’t much for playing, despite being only ten years old.

Katherine scraped a chair back along the tiled floor of the kitchen and sat down. She pointed towards the coffee maker to indicate that I could help myself, and I set about making us a pot.

“They let us have the evening but they want us to come in and answer questions about when we last saw Elle. We’re not suspects,” she added, before saying even more quietly, “yet.”

I turned to look at her, both of us clearly thinking about her eldest son, who had been arrested, although never charged, when Nora first went missing. He hadn’t been able to produce a solid enough alibi, or so the cops had claimed, but when no other evidence turned up, and no body either, he was released without charge.

“Is Nate here?” I asked.

“Downstairs, I think. He’s … we’re … we have to leave in a few minutes,” she said, finally finishing her sentence. Her mouth was straight and taut, pulled thinly against the pale skin of her face. “Thank you for coming, Maddie,” she said quietly, “it really means a lot.”

I looked around the kitchen and noticed how bare, almost barren, it was. There were no bouquets of flowers, no letters or notes of condolence. When Nora went missing, someone inexplicably sent the family an enormous brown-furred teddy bear with a bright red bow tie proudly fixed around its chunky neck. It sat in the corner of the living room for a few days before migrating down to the kids’ basement rec room, its cuddly, warm presence too much of an incongruence for the family room. Maybe there simply hadn’t been enough time for the flowers and the cards and the inappropriate plush toys to begin to flood in. Or maybe they never would. Maybe no one knew how to react, how to express comfort and sympathy, compassion and condolence to a family that had already lost so much. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Maybe people had already started talking, hushed tones hiding dark thoughts and malicious accusations. Either way, I suddenly felt extremely empty-handed. When the aroma of fresh coffee began to fill the desolate kitchen I sighed with perceptible relief. It wasn’t much, but at least I could make Katherine a cup of her own coffee.

“Thanks,” Katherine said as I handed her the mug. “Noah’s upstairs. I think he might still be asleep to be honest.”

I raised my eyebrows at that; it was already well past noon.

“You’ll be okay here with him?” she asked, hesitantly.

I nodded. “Of course. We’ll be fine.”

A door shut with emphasis somewhere in the house, and Katherine looked over at me quickly before leaving her chair and walking out of the kitchen, mug in hand. She squeezed my shoulder before leaving the kitchen, and I heard her call out Jonathan’s name, the shuffle of feet and rumble of voices and undercurrent of a murmured, urgent conversation. Before I knew it, Nate was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, looking in at me.

“Mads,” he said, his voice hollow in that large room.

I stared at him as though it was the first time I’d seen him in years, when in fact I’d seen him just two days before. Something burning began to build behind my eyes; something scratchy and insistent and all too familiar and all I managed to say was simply “Nate,” before his dad also called his name and he shrugged and made a face at me and left to join his parents at the door.

I followed him, standing where he’d just been in the doorway, and said goodbye, watching as all three of them left and the front door slammed solidly behind them. I hadn’t been to the house in a while, so I let the quiet of it sink down into my bones before heading upstairs to say hi to Noah.

That house was as deeply entrenched in my memories, as much a part of my childhood and adolescence as my own home, but ever since Nora went missing I hadn’t spent much time there other than for memorials. Then, just like my memories of Nora herself, my memories of the house were warped and tainted by time, and filled with all the spaces that she should have been in and instead was missing from. There were plenty of vigils held in her name when she first went missing, but it wasn’t until she’d been gone for a year that her family held their first memorial.

***

Nobody knows what to say but everybody’s talking. It’s like a white noise machine, the sound turned way up, and then suddenly on mute as I drift in and out of conversations, as the crowd teems and seethes around me, and then suddenly I’m all alone in an aching well of silence. Every time I walk through the hall I see Nora’s face, and either I can’t help but stare even though all I want to do is look away, to forget, or I turn away, unable to take it anymore and feel guilt coil through me, even though all I want is to see her face.

It’s been a year. A whole year.

I’ve never seen the Altmans’ house so full of people, and I’ve spent half my life here, at the kind of parties where balloons are attached to the gate and you’re sent home with a party bag, and at the kind of parties where only the adults are really having any fun and you sit around in too-formal dresses, drinking luridly colored fizzy drinks and watching boys playing video games, and then at the kind of parties where vodka and rum are sneaked out of parents’ liquor cabinets and into empty water bottles, and used to spike cups full of diet Coke as you sit on the edge of the kitchen countertop and wonder how it is everyone seems to be having more fun than you.