Caro reaches out and squeezes Ash’s hand. It feels odd—dangerous even?—to leave Ash on her own. “I’ll have Dan look after him so I can come back to Sonnet as soon as possible. Can you stay—I don’t know where—somewhere near other people?”
“I’ll finish the movie,” Ash says. “Then I’ll hang out in the common area by the food truck. AndthenI’ll lock myself up nice and tight in the Airstream if you’re still not back.”
“I’ll hurry.” Caro turns to her dad.
“Henry,” she says, as gently as possible. “We have a car thatdoeswork. Let’s have you come with us. We can get you something to eat if you’re hungry. Maybe Wendy’s? Maybe a Frosty?”
For a second she thinks he won’t let go of the steering wheel, that he won’t come with her. But then:
“Yes,” he says, and opens the car door.
42
ASH
ASH IS ALONE.
She texts Wade again.Could you please tell me where you are?
Minutes pass. Nothing. On-screen, the apes are preparing to make their last stand.
Ash knows it’s unfair to ask her husband for information that she’s been withholding. Still, there’s a pit in her stomach.Why did she have to call him that first night?In spite of recent events, she still doesn’t know much about how hard it is to track a cell phone. She assumed that calling Wade would be fine, that he would never do such a thing, but could anyone really blame him if he had? His wife leaves on a trip and won’t tell him where she’s going?
She imagines him explaining it to his mom or to Derek. Lois, his mom, prides herself on being a wonderful mother-in-law, a class act in all circumstances. So Lois won’t say anything outright, but her face will take on a meaningful expression and she’ll say something like, “Ash is an amazing woman and you are awonderfulhusband, Wade. I’m sure she wouldn’t ask for this if she didn’t need it, and I think you’re doing the right thing by giving it to her.” Then Wade and his brother would trade smirks at the way Lois had phrasedgiving it to her, but they wouldn’t laugh outright because then they’d have to explain the joke to Lois and she wouldn’t like it.
Ash is so sick of golden boys.
She texts her daughters, aiming for a light and breezy tone.
Hey girls! How is today going? How’s Grandma? Remind me again where Dad and Uncle Derek went on their trip?
She doesn’t love the way she’s asking the girls the question. It feels like she’s using them to find out about Wade. Putting them in the middle.
Instead of feeling like she’s on the inside of something special—which is how it’s felt to Ash ever since the group came together that first night online—she feels like she’s standing on the outside of a place where she used to live, craning her neck for a glimpse through a window. It’s a feeling she’s had the last year or two in her family, in her marriage.You’re everything to me! Am I even a minor character in your life?
Ash puts her hands on the steering wheel the way Henry had his. She presses her foot against the gas pedal and imagines speeding, Thelma and Louise style, right through the screen and out among the red plateaus to find her friend. Maybe instead of Brad Pitt in a tank top she’ll find Hope.
Ash glances at her phone again. Nothing more from the anonymous number. The police said they couldn’t track the calls or messages, but how hard did they really try? And are the police telling Ash and Caro the truth about everything, or do they consider them to be suspects in Hope’s disappearance?
We told them everything. Even what we swore to Hope we wouldn’t. And it might not even matter.
Ash realizes that the movie has ended. Other people are slamming their car doors, and the screen is dark. The pathway lights glow, lighting the way, and she hears people walking on the gravel as they make their way through the juniper trees. The smells of popcorn and sagebrush still hang in the air.
It’s blue-black dark now, pinprints of stars above.
Something is nagging at Ash—and it’s new, besides Hope being gone and things with Wade feeling off and Tony and Ed and Jean being dead and this whole nightmarish mess—
But what is it?
As Ash goes to leave, something in the footwell sticks to the sole of her shoe and she reaches down to pick it up. A postcard. She turns on her phone’s flashlight. The handwriting is familiar, one she’s seen on birthday and Christmas cards over the past two years:
Hey Dad,
I was thinking about the Devil’s Backbone Drive and how you and I used to go eat at the grill in Story after. I remembered how they served everything on mismatched china and had fresh rainbow trout on the menu. Do you? Should we try to go there again?
I love you.
Caro
