The room was pristine—it was obviously the “good” room, kept for company that never came. There was no way Mrs. Thornhill ever sat with her feet up on that sofa, reading a racy novel and eating bonbons. No way Mr. Thornhill spilled chip crumbs there while he drank beer.
My siblings and I had done this kind of break-in plenty of times. If one lived nearby and was stupid enough to go away for a period of time, leaving one’s door unlocked or an easily opened window in reach, then an Esmie child might find their way into one’s home. At first, we did it for the usual reasons—to search for money or food, neither of which was given out often at our house. Then it was simply a habit. I liked being in other people’s houses. I liked looking at people’s photographs, the snapshots and children’s drawings they pinned to their fridge with magnets. Like I had at the birthday party, I occasionally stole a snapshot. A picture of a picnic, maybe, or a beach trip. You could keep your wedding and baby photos. Those weren’t my style.
It was the forbidden thrill that drew us to it, even more than money or food. There was no one to stop us, no one to say no. Our parents didn’t know or care where we were. Our teachers noticed even less. Why grow morals when no one cares whether you have them or not?
I looked around the Thornhills’ living room, thinking,That isn’t entirely true, is it? That we don’t have morals. Because we never brought Ben with us when we snuck into an empty house. We never taught him that. We taught him songs and letters and stories and games, but not that.
My gaze snagged on a photo in a frame on a side table. I picked it up and studied it, thinking at first that I might add it to my collection. Then I realized what I was looking at.
The photo was old—it was black-and-white. The Thornhills were younger in it than they were in my memory. They stood in their front yard, Mrs. Thornhill in a simple dress with her hair in a perm, Mr. Thornhill in his Saturday pants and white shirt. Between them stood a boy of ten or eleven, gangly and tall. His hair was clipped in a buzz cut and he stood awkwardly, his smile for the camera rather shy. Mr. and Mrs. Thornhill each had a proud hand on his shoulder.
The Thornhills hadn’t had any children. Was the boy a nephew? It didn’t seem like it. They stood too close to him, their hands on his shoulders too possessive. They’d kept this photo in their formal living room for decades.
I was still pondering as Vail’s steps came down from upstairs. I met Vail in the hall.
“The bed is made, but there are clothes all over it,” he said. “The closet looks like it has clothes missing, and I didn’t see a suitcase. They packed and left on purpose, but they did it in a hurry.”
“Did the Thornhills have a son?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “They didn’t have kids.”
“There’s a photo of a boy, though.” I held it out to him.
Vail studied the photo for a long moment, like I had. “That’s strange,” he said. “I wonder where he went.”
There was a moment of weighted silence between us. Was Ben’s disappearance not the only one in the neighborhood? Why hadn’t anyone mentioned the Thornhill boy when all of those policemen were in our house? Why hadn’t Gus Pine said anything about it to Violet or added it to the police report?
“Well, the Thornhills haven’t moved out.” I motioned to the furniture around me. “So it must be a vacation.”
“A hasty vacation.” Still holding the photo, Vail headed for the kitchen. “They didn’t cancel their newspaper subscription.”
I followed him into the kitchen, which had a small farm-style table covered in a gingham tablecloth. “There are dishes in the sink,” I pointed out.
Vail opened a high cupboard and pondered the contents. Without a word, he grabbed a box of granola bars, took one, and handed me one.
I put it in my pocket for later. Old habits die hard.
Vail was frowning. He looked particularly off-putting when he did that, though I could grudgingly admit that he was good-looking. Women had always loved Vail, even from the time he was twelve or thirteen. Girls got cross-eyed and swoony when he was near. Violet and I got used to it early.
Vail never encouraged them. If a girl was persistent enough, he’d date her for a short while, then tell her that it was over. No matter how she cried, he never changed his mind. And those were the girls heliked.The rest, he fended off carelessly, like you fend off flies with a can of Raid.
“What?” he asked, looking at me and scowling harder.
Until I came back to Fell, I couldn’t recall when I’d spent this much time alone with my big brother. Possibly I never had. The little sister in me was thrilled about it, but it was a fate worse than deathto let him know that. “Vail,” I asked in my most treacly, annoying voice, “are we bonding?”
“No,” he replied, turning to open the fridge. “Hey, there’s one can of Coke in here. I’m calling it.”
“I think we are,” I said. “I think we’ll be best friends now. Let’s pop popcorn and watch TV tonight. You can braid my hair.”
Vail had opened the Coke and took several long, deep swallows, his throat flexing in annoyance. I knew what was coming. I ducked as he aimed the belch at me.
“How old are you, you pig?” I shouted at him. “I can smell that in my hair.”
“Stay on topic, Dodie,” he said, unconcerned. “The Thornhills left in a rush, and I want to know why.”
“Who cares why?” I straightened and took a step back, out of the gaseous range. “Mrs. Thornhill was the one to tell the police that Violet was crazy. I hope she has food poisoning and a sunburn, wherever she is.”
“There are milk and eggs in the fridge,” Vail said. “It’s full of food. Who goes away on a long vacation with a full fridge?”
