Jill:That would be really nice, Callie. Thank you.
Callie:Sophie, my house is 11 Kensington Drive. Text me when you get to the gates and I’ll buzz them open.
I was caught off guard by Callie’s warmth—it seems as though it takes a tragedy for her to act even remotely human—and it took a minute for me to reply. And honestly, I wasn’t sure how I felt about going over there and being around Margot. After Friday night, I really wanted a clean break. But I also knew I didn’t have a choice: I needed to know the latest about Abby.
I typed back:
Me:Ok, sounds good, see everyone tomorrow.
Margot:See you soon.
Tina:Soon!
—
SO HERE Iam passing the time until I’m due at Callie’s, scouring the net but finding nothing new. Abby’s Facebook profile is predictably outdated, and like most teens, she probably uses a secret handle on Instagram, if she even has an account.
The only new piece about her is from the local paper, theMapleton Times(which, as of this morning, I follow on Facebook—we only get the Sunday edition for home delivery), and it’s a brief announcement that Abby’s church, thePiney Woods Church of Christ, will be holding a candlelight vigil for her tonight. The article ends with the hashtag #prayforAbby.
I snap my laptop shut, and for the umpteenth time, pick through the article in Sunday’s paper, which is littered over my desk, and scan it yet again for new clues, my fingertips turning gray and chalky from the inky pages.
My eyes rest on the photograph of Abby’s parents, of Abby’s dad in particular. He has a serious, almost forlorn look about him—a look that screams control freak—and I catch myself having the sick thought that I’m hoping he’s responsible for Abby’s disappearance. That it’s not Brad or Margot and Brad, that it’s ten steps removed from them. From me.
But why would he harm his own daughter? And his alibi is airtight: He was with his wife all evening, the two of them together, unsuspecting, inside their home.
Abby never even crossed the threshold that night.
Folding the paper back together, I shove it to one side of my desk and head down the hall to get dressed for Callie’s.
39
THE OUTSIDE OFCallie’s house is as cold and austere as she is; it’s a massive modern contemporary, all glass and grays with slate-blue trim and boxy lines. The landscaping is similarly monochromatic. Even though it’s spring, there’s not a pop of color or a flower to be found. Only a dark carpet of Saint Augustine grass bordered by stark beds of charcoal-colored rock with cacti and other jagged succulents poking through.
It’s at the end of the street from Margot’s, and as I ease into the cul-de-sac at five minutes past noon (I’m purposely late; I don’t want to be the first to arrive and have an awkward, one-on-one moment with Callie), I spy both Jill’s and Tina’s cars parked out front.
Margot will most likely just walk down from her place, I think to myself, and then I wonder if she will actually show at all.
My pulse is jittery as I head up the sidewalk, and as I approach the front steps, a dog howls from inside. Through the slim horizontal window that flanks the tall black door, I see a chocolate-and-white beagle pawing at the glass.
I press the doorbell, sending the beagle into more frenzied bellows untilthe door swings open and an older woman in a white linen blouse with matching slacks toes the dog and snaps, “Hush, Carter!”
She has silver hair pulled into a tight bun and her demeanor is chilly, her expression severe. She offers me a thin, forced smile before planting her bony hand on my back and ushering me into the sunken living room.
The interior of the house is as frigid as the outside: no family photos lining the walls, no personal touches as far as I can see; it feels like the set of a magazine shoot.
The entire back wall of the living room is lined with glass, overlooking a narrow, leafy, walled garden with more cacti and an enormous slate fountain that bubbles softly in the background.
As I step down into the living room, Callie shoots me a glare of irritation as if I’m interrupting, as if she hadn’t just buzzed me in five minutes earlier. Her arm is wrapped around Jill, who sits between her and Tina on a sectional.
Tina turns toward me, gives me a quick smile, and I cross the room and sink into an ottoman next to them. Jill is dressed in all black, her hands twisting a wad of Kleenex in her lap. Her eyes are puffy from crying, and when she looks up at me, my throat tightens but I manage to squeak out, “I’m so sorry. I really, really am.”
She sniffs and nods.
“I’m sure she’ll turn up soon,” I dumbly add, and at this, more tears gush from Jill’s eyes, and to my surprise, she holds her arms out to me like a toddler. I lean in and hug her as sobs rack her chest.
A moment later we’re interrupted by the housekeeper.
“Red or white?” she asks me.
