“You sound like you have to convince yourself of that fact.”
“My God, Jonah,” she splutters. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“A dog with a bone.”
Now that makes me laugh. Because it’s something my mom is always accusing me of.
“Yes,” I say honestly. “My mother says it’s my worst trait. The fact that I can’t let things go until I get to the bottom of them.”
It’s how I found out that she might have cancer, a year and a half ago. She and Dad didn’t want to tell me, not until they knew for sure either way, but I could tell something was up. So I pried and harangued them until they finally relented and told me what was going on. Maybe it annoyed them, but I don’t regret it one bit. Having all the facts meant I could be there for her in the way that she needed.
“Well, I’m not worth solving, Jonah,” Winnie says firmly. “And there isn’t a prize at the end for figuring me out.”
The way she discounts herself so easily knocks the wind from me. It’s like she doesn’t even think that she’s worth getting to know. I grip the steering wheel, hard, and drive on for a few minutes without responding to her.
“It’s not about the prize at the end,” I say finally. “It’s about the solving. And you are worth it, Winnie. I promise. We all are.”
7
WINNIE
It’s notabout the prize.
It’s about the solving.
And according to Jonah, I’m worth it.
I think he meant that we all have something to offer. And that knowing oneself is a difficult, but worthwhile task. He might have just been being nice, and I don’t think he meant that I’m special or anything—after all, he said thateveryoneis worth solving.
But his words still bring me comfort as I try to muster up the courage to look at what my parents have posted about me online. I avoided reading it this morning with Candice at breakfast, but I can’t any longer. I need to know how intensely they are looking for me. I have to be prepared in case they are willing to take drastic steps to get me back.
Jonah and I got back from the rental car place half an hour ago, and he’s currently with Beau and Candice discussing the sick horse. I’m standing in front of Rosie’s stall, because I couldn’t face doing this by myself. She’s not paying attention to me and is munching away at her hay, but being with her still makes me feel a bit better.
I slip my phone out of my pocket with shaking hands. Instead of googling myself this time, I search for the name of my mom’s social media account. Even though I’m not logged in, I can still browse her account.
I click through the most recent posts—all photos of me and my parents smiling together—until I find the one that Candice told me about this morning.
Help us find our baby girl, it says in bold.
As you probably saw, Winnie posted a few days ago announcing that she was quitting her career as a pageant queen and influencer. We know that this comes as a surprise to many of you, and it was a surprise to us as well. We awoke to find that our daughter was gone. All traces of her had disappeared overnight, as if our baby had been erased.
Our baby. The words make me want to vomit. I’m not their baby, I’m their cash cow, and they’re just upset that the milk has finally run dry. I force myself to keep reading.
We have reason to believe that foul play was involved in Winnie’s disappearance. Those who follow her know that she’s dealt with many obsessed fans over the years, and receives quite a lot of unwanted attention from men. What if one of them took her, or manipulated her in some way?
We can think of no other reason why Winnie would leave us, and all of you, when she was so happy and beloved. She adored her role as Miss Alabama and was excited to compete again this year, and she loved the community she built here.
We ask that anyone who has information about Winnie or her whereabouts contact us immediately. Help us get our baby girl back safe and sound! We have set up a dedicated hotline, and we have reason to believe she may be in Montana.
Those last words are like a punch to the gut, and they circle around in my head over and over again, like endless water circling into a drain. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, and alsolike I can’t breathe. I’m dimly aware that I’m about to have a panic attack, but I have no clue how to stop it.
All I can see, as I breathe in and out rapidly, is my life in that house. In that gilded, beautiful cage of a house. My routine: wake up early, work out, eat what my mom deemed appropriate. Then, I’d get dressed and present myself for inspection. If I looked too “slutty” I’d be told to change. If I looked too “fat” I would be told to put on something black.
If I tried to fight any of it, I’d get a thirty minute lecture on how much my mother had sacrificed for me. How she’d given upher careerto help me make it on the pageant scene. How she just had my best interests at heart and wanted me to look the best that I could. How she knew more about these things than I did because she’d done pageants while in high school.
I try to take deep breaths, but the image of my mom’s face, frowning as she looked at my latest dress design, is fixed in my head. Her mouth set in a harsh line, her arms crossed.
