Detective Evans is watching me. He asks, “What makes you say that, ma’am? What makes you think someonehasher?”
“It’s just... it’s just that I know Reese. And I know she would never hurt her parents,” I say, telling myself that she was only angry and that people say things they don’t mean when they’re angry.
“Do you have a reason to believe someone took her? Was she afraid of someone? Was she being threatened?”
“We’re not from around here, Detective. We don’t know anyone here.”
That said, I think of the man at the bar just now. I think of the men—grown men, married men—leering at Reese sunbathing in her bikini by the pool.
Anyone could have done it. Anyone could have taken her.
“When is the last time you saw Mr. and Mrs. Crane alive?”
I think back to last night, how everything happened. Cass and Mae asked if they could have a sleepover. We were at their cottage at the time and Emily suggested the girls stay there, so that Elliott and I could have a night alone. For a short-lived moment, I felt excited by the idea, because Elliott and I almost never had any time to ourselves anymore. With an only child, practically everything we do involves Cass. Family movie night, family game night. I thought about opening a bottle of wine, about staying up late sitting on the sunken sofa, talking.
But Reese was the one to complain, to put a kibosh on those plans.They arenotsleeping here. No fucking way. I am not listening to them all night.
I didn’t want to make Emily feel bad for the way Reese reacted, and so I said no, that Elliott would probably just go to bed early because he planned to leave early to fish.We can keep them, I’d said.And then another night they can sleep at your cottage.
Now there would never be another night. A moan rises up inside of me as I think about how close Cass and Mae came to being killed too. I picture them lying on the floor of the screened-in porch beside Emily. I see them dead. I see blood on their small bodies as thoughts fill my mind of Emily and Nolan dead. Murdered. Dead. Murdered. I say it again and again in my mind, until the words lose meaning and I can’t make senseof them anymore. I can’t process the fact that Emily and Nolan are no longer living. That they’re gone. I think about their last moments alive and wonder if they knew they were going to die, if they were scared, if they fought back or if it happened so fast they didn’t have time to react.
Someone brings me a glass of water that I don’t want. Detective Evans takes it when I don’t, holding it before looking around for someplace to set it—settling on a dusty windowsill—and turning back to face me.
I don’t know how much time passes before I can answer. “Last night,” I say. “Maybe half past eight. My husband and I were at their cottage. Wyatt and Reese were there too. The girls, Cass and Mae, were back at our cottage alone. They’re ten,” I say, as if feeling the need to defend my decision to let them stay home alone for a few hours, though he’s too young to know anything about raising kids. “And we were just next door. We assumed they’d be fine and they were. The four adults played cards, had a few drinks, and then my husband and I said good-night to come back and check on the girls. That was the last time we saw Emily and Nolan alive.”
I’ve said something, sparking the detective’s interest. He stands up straighter, looks around, noticing Elliott’s absence for the first time.
“Where is your husband?” he asks slowly, cocking a head, his words, however benign, getting under my skin.
Reese
I drift to the window like a leaf caught in a breeze, getting carried away by the wind. I stand there watching as the boy unloads boxes from the bed of a rusty pickup truck, completely hung up on his arms: the suntanned skin, a tattoo partially visible from beneath the short sleeve of a white t-shirt and the way his biceps flex when he lifts the boxes, carrying them across the parking lot and then stacking them beside an open door. I can’t look away. I’m hypnotized. Transfixed. I feel warm all over, my heart fluttering as he closes the truck’s tailgate, thinking how good he looks in his tight t-shirt and jeans as he turns and walks toward a vending machine on the side of the lodge. He slides money in before reaching down for a Pepsi that he uncaps and throws back, and then I watch him drink it, completely obsessed with his neck as he swallows, on the sweat that tumbles down the sides of his face—envying it because of its closeness to his skin—and on his dark eyes that slowly lower as he finishes drinking, locking with mine.
My heart stops. I freeze like a dummy, telling myself that he can’tseeme in the window, that there must be a shadow or a glare blocking his view.
But then a smile pulls on the edges of his lips, and he lifts his hand and waves.
He can see me after all.
I fall away from the window. I hide myself, feeling my cheeks burn. Embarrassed, I ask Wyatt and Mae, “You guys ready to go?” though it isn’t so much of a question.
Only Wyatt answers. “Not yet. Once I get past this level we can go.”
I turn around, thinking Mae is behind me. She’s not, though she should be back by now. It shouldn’t be taking this long to pick out a movie, especially when there were only like ten to choose from. I let my eyes go to the wall of them, irritated that she’s being a snail again, though Mae is always a snail. Normal people do everything Mae does in half the time, but she gets a pass because she shouldn’t even be alive.
The area by the movies is empty. Mae isn’t there; she’s gone.
My heart beats hard again, but for a completely different reason than before.
“Where’s Mae, Wyatt?” I ask, but he doesn’t hear me because he’s too caught up in his game. “Wyatt,” I say again. “Where is Mae?”
“How should I know? You’re supposed to be watching her, remember?”
I don’t know how much time has passed since Mae went to look for a DVD. I don’t know how long I was staring outside, if it was five minutes or fifteen.
“Help me look for her,” I say, my eyes darting around the lodge, but Mae is nowhere. “Mae!” I call out, that creep from before suddenly living rent free in my mind, the way his eyes went from me to Mae when we walked in. I think of every worst thing I can imagine in that moment. Child predators. Human trafficking. “Mae!” I shout out, loud enough that people turn to look.
Before anyone can offer to help, she appears from behind a dark curtain—her eyes wide and her face white—with someguy’s hand on her shoulder. A sign on the curtain readsAdults Only.
