“I need to be a better role model. Henri has that same independent spirit I have. I need to cook a meal once in a while. Be more domestic.”
“I can’t figure out why Oscar would make such a shit move. And take Henri with him.”
“I could be a more supportive mom too. So Henri sees the empathetic side of me. I do have one, but sometimes I have to dig deep.”
“Oscar acts too much like me. Has a hero complex. I don’t though, not really. I just can’t stand by and watch when someone’s in trouble.”
I look up. Eight’s been muttering beside me. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I’m busy trying to find our kids.” He circles the same block he’s already done three time.
“We aren’t going to find them driving in circles. We need a plan.”
“You’re right.” He pulls his truck over. “So what do we do first? We don’t know where the fuck they’d go. They’re on foot, have no money.”
“Henri doesn’t even have her cell phone.”
“Let’s be logical. Sagebrush is small enough they could walk anywhere but big enough that they wouldn’t go far.”
“Yeah, and Henri doesn’t like to walk, so she’d start complaining after a block.”
“Well, they didn’t go to my place,” Eight says.
“Obv,” I reply. “Maybe they went to mine.”
Eight nods and pulls back onto the road. It’s late in Sagebrush, not much traffic, which speeds us along. When we get to my house, the lights are blazing. “Your mom home?”
“Don’t think so. Workday.”
“Then they must be here.”
“Well, that was easy.” I yank off my seatbelt and get out of the truck.
Eight is momentarily stunned by the color of the house. “Aren’t you afraid you’re going to be arrested by the good-taste police?”
“Mom’s the mastermind behind the color. She’s brainwashed me into believing she’s done the right thing.”
Inside I’m grinning. Eight does have a sense of humor. Also, the tension is gone from my shoulders.
That’s short-lived. “My purse is in my car, which is in the Sagebrush vehicle compound waiting for me to fork out more money than the car’s worth.” When I knock on the door, no one answers.
“Knock louder,” Eight orders.
“And wake the neighborhood?” I go to get the key we keep hidden in a plant, but it’s not there. “What the hell?”
Eight says, “Never mind. The door’s open.”
“Of course it is,” I mutter.
Eight checks out the main floor and basement as I bolt upstairs hoping and praying that Oscar and Henri didn’t make up the way adults do. They’re almost adolescents after all.
No one is in any of the rooms. I meet Eight at the bottom of the stairs. He’s shaking his head. “Not here, but they have been.”
I really want to say ‘duh’ but I remember we like each other now. So instead I ask the vapid question. “How do you know?”
Obviously he’s forgotten we like each other because he looks at me like I’m stupid. “Follow me.”
When I see the kitchen, I suck in a breath. Mom is going to blow a gasket. Several slices of bread are spilling out of its bag and onto the counter and crumbs are scattered everywhere. The peanut butter jar is open and the knife used to scoop it out is next to it, leaving smears on the granite. There’s a pile of crusts on the counter next to the knife, which clinches the deal that Henri’s been here. She refuses to eat what she calls burnt bread parts.
