The minute ends, and the air is heavier after it. Like calling the town’s loss back into focus has left it hanging all around us, dragging down our limbs.
Most of the neighbors have filled up their plates and sit around on lawn chairs or rickety plastic ones. The majority, the unofficial table attendants, have abandoned their posts, too.
Except our table. Paige has had to run back to the house to grab another bowl of mac ’n’ cheese twice now; the last bowl is half-empty, and I still haven’t gotten a scoop. I’m considering stashing the whole thing under the table with its corny plastic tablecloth when two new faces approach the table.
“Well, well, well,” Paige says, “look who decided to show.”
I jerk my chin up.
On the other side of the table, a man Paige’s age stands beside agirl a few years older than me. They share the same light brown hair and high cheekbones. Father and daughter, I assume.
“Speak for yourself, Griffin. I’ve been busy fielding sign-ups for the neighborhood watch,” the man says. “Volunteers always spike in the summer, so scheduling can take ages.” He’s handsome in an eighties-supervillain way, all sharp features and permanently pursed lips. His gaze lingers on her a moment before turning to me. My fingers curl into the edge of the table. “And you must be Joanna. I’ve heard all about you. The musician.”
Heat rushes up my cheeks. Regardless of whatever history this man has with my family, I want to shrink, curl up under the table, and vanish.
The musician. I don’t know if the label applies. Considering I’ve never really played outside my house, I’m unsure it ever did.
“It’s just Jo,” I correct.
The man’s brows rise ever so slightly, but a smile quickly replaces whatever expression he had.
“Oliver Holden,” he says, holding out a hand to shake. I take it reluctantly and drop it quickly. “I grew up with your mom and Paige.”
“Holden’s parents lived across the street,” Paige says. “They ran the ranch hospital for ages.”
“They’re enjoying their retirement in an RV, driving across the country,” Holden says with a smile.
“And Holden took over the practice for them,” Paige says. She reaches over to squeeze his arm. “Always a mama’s boy.”
Holden lets out a laugh. “I used to spend my days in a lab. Now I deal with big splinters on horses.”
At his side, the teen clears her throat. Holden gives a sheepish smile and loops an arm around her shoulders.
“And this is my daughter, Cecily. She’s starting her second year of college in the fall.”
Cecily waves. There are dark circles under her eyes, and her cheeks have a sunken look to them. Like she hasn’t slept in days, weighed down by the stress of her college courses.
“School’s going well?” Paige asks.
Cecily nods, and it’s clear that’s as much acknowledgment as she’s going to give. Paige seems ready to push for more but doesn’t get the chance.
Two new faces approach the table. I hadn’t noticed them walk up, but they are definitely not here for the block party. A man and a woman who look around my mom’s age but with a weariness etched into their skin that goes bone-deep. They each carry a stack of posters. I catch a glimpse of one.
A missing poster—I recognize the girl in the photo from the flyers at the bookstore. Ingrid, who is around my age, with long blond hair and dark eyes. She’s smiling in the picture.
“Harriett. Andrew. It’s good to see you,” Paige says. “How are you?”
The man says nothing, but Harriett gives Paige the most strained smile I’ve ever seen.
“Doing our best,” she says. “Taking it one day at a time.”
At the far end of the table, Holden watches the couple with an expression I can’t place, then looks to his own daughter. I wonder if he is thinking about Cecily, her face on a poster.
Harriett clutches the stack of papers to her chest. “We’re working with a new PI. He’s incredibly highly rated, so we’re hoping he can make progress. Find some clues the police haven’t.”
“Let’s pray he finds her trail,” Holden says, joining the conversation.
Andrew, speaking for the first time, nods, and says, “SamuelHiggins. Top-rated PI in the Midwest. He specializes in missing persons. Has a success rate higher than seventy percent.”
