Authors: Tara Altebrando
“I’ll read through this,” Lucas said. “I’ll tell you what I find.”
Ryan nodded—“Of course”—and took Miranda’s hand, and they left.
I would say that my father’s novel became a cult classic in the truest sense of the word. It’s not that it was cherished by a small group of people; it’s that it became doctrine for a smaller group of fringe elements. People who really thought the country was going to hell and that the government could do something about it. He has a few boxes of fan mail, which makes it look like he has a lot of fans, but they’re mostly repeat customers. People who called him a visionary. He was, for a time, a well-respected scientist, but his reputation suffered after he wrote the novel. (Mind you, the print run was minuscule.) People thought he started to let the more “out there” ideas he put forth in the novel creep into his research and that he’d lost his way. Maybe he had. Anyone who saw any value in his scientific work, which focused on erasing memories, mostly saw applications for PTSD, but he started to move away from that line of research
.
Which is a long way of saying that yes, it’s possible the situation you are describing has something to do with his work, though I can’t for the life of me see a direct connection—unless perhaps . . . a fan?
His father had written back,
Can you send me the letters? Or the names and addresses of his biggest fans? Did you ever speak to the police after my son and the others disappeared? Didn’t you see a connection?
That e-mail was never replied to.
How had his father even found the book?
Lucas’s own Google search turned up almost no hits, and none of the coverage Lucas had seen of The Leaving had mentioned it at all.
Had his father gone to the police with it?
Lucas opened a new window, and his fingers went to work. He knew how to type, and quickly. He composed his e-mail without a single wrong keystroke:
It is with regret that I write to inform you that my father, Will, with whom you had corresponded on this matter, has died. I’m his son—returned after eleven years with no memory of that time—as you may see if you follow the news at all. I was hoping we could meet? I am interested in this line of research my father was pursuing with regard to your father’s book and fan base as potential inspiration for this crime
.
He hit Send, then found a barely-there Wikipedia page about Daniel Orlean.
Noted again that he lived in Florida.
Then mapped directions to Tarpon Springs.
A day trip.
Easy.
Clicking away from the window, he noticed the screen saver for the
first time. It was a photo of him, Ryan, and their mom and dad. On the beach. Smiling. His mother with heavy black sunglasses on. He wanted very much to see her eyes through them but couldn’t, so he closed his eyes and tried to picture them there but drew a blank.
His phone buzzed.
I’m home
, Scarlett had written.
On my way
, he wrote back.
The computer dinged.
The e-mail had bounced as undeliverable.
AVERY
They were hanging out on the lanai eating popcorn and making a list of suspects who might have written the note as a prank.
“Morgan Bestler?” Emma said.
“She loves me!” Avery said.
“Never mind!” Emma laughed.
“What? She doesn’t like me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
Chambers had sworn her to secrecy and she’d sworn Sam and Emma. It wouldn’t be her fault if they blabbed. And to her credit, she didn’t say a word about the old book. Lucas’s secret she felt she had to keep, if only to keep his trust now that she had it.
If she even did?
At the very least, she had his phone number. That was something.
“I’m thinking Maggie Corrigan.” Avery couldn’t decide if she wanted to bother swimming or not. “She’s just evil for evil’s sake sometimes, you know? And she had a crush on Sam around the time we started going out.”
“Don’t drag me into this,” Sam said. He got up. “I’m going in.”
He took his shirt off and Avery felt a pang of regret with the feeling
of knowing she had to end it. He was cute, just not . . . right. He dove in and she made a wish that when he resurfaced, she’d see his face and think,
Of course I want to be with him. Why wouldn’t I?
But when he came up and wiped his lids before opening his eyes and flicked his hair off his forehead, she felt nothing.
“What if it’s really him?” Emma said. “What if it’s really Max and he’s just scared?”
“I highly doubt he’d write a note and put it in your mailbox,” Sam said. “How would he even know the address? It’s not like he’d remember? Would he?”
“No,” Emma said. “Probably not.”
“And if he can show up here to drop a note off, why not ring the doorbell? It makes no sense.”
“I’m telling you,” Avery said. “It’s Maggie Corrigan. It has to be.”
Emma said, “She’s definitely at the top of the list.”
“Oh, man.” Avery lay back in her lounger and put her sunglasses back on. Rita was inside vacuuming and Avery found the sound comforting. “I need to plot my revenge.”
Sam said, “I want no part of whatever evil scheme you dream up.” He grabbed his stuff, kissed Avery on the lips quickly, and said, “I’ve got to go.”
“All right,” Emma said when he’d left. “I’m dying. I’m going in.”
She got up and adjusted her polka-dot suit and dove in and then swam underwater the length of the pool. When she surfaced at the far end, she pushed off and backstroked back to Avery.
“Do you think they’ll go to school?” she asked, putting her forearms on the pool edge and resting her chin on her hands.
“Who?”
“The ones who are back.”
“I guess so,” Avery said. “What else would they do?”
“It’s weird to think about,” Emma said. “That one guy is hot.”
“Lucas?” Avery’s gut tightened.
“No. The other guy.”
“Oh, right. Yeah. Good.”
“Good?” Emma pushed up out of the pool and grabbed her towel. “Why good?”
“You have to promise you won’t tell Sam. Or anyone.”
Emma crossed her heart and rolled her eyes. She shook her hair in Avery’s direction, getting her wet.
“I went to see Lucas yesterday. We spent some time in the old RV his dad has—had?—that I told you about. We were friends when we were kids and stuff. It’s just weird to see him now and, well—”
“You’re
crushing
on this guy?”
“I wouldn’t call it a
crush
.” Avery suddenly felt older and wiser than Emma. “We have something, is all. Some kind of bond.”
“I thought you didn’t trust him,” Emma said. “I thought for sure I saw you on the news saying something like that.”
“I do now. At least I think I do. The way he looks at me—”
“In my world, we call that a crush.”
“Since when do you watch the news?” Avery asked.
“Only since it involves my best friend!” Emma sat down and got settled again with a magazine. “Do you think any of them have had sex? And like forgotten?”
“That would be such a waste,” Avery said. “I mean, to finally decide to do that and get it out of the way and then not know?”
“Seriously,” Emma said.
And Avery sat wondering about Lucas. And Scarlett. But she mostly tried to push the idea of it out of her mind. They were only a year older than her, and tons of kids waited longer than that. She grabbed Emma’s magazine and said, “All right, lady. Let’s hear this audition song of yours.”
“Now? Here?”
“All the world’s a stage, my dear.”
Emma pulled her tank dress on over her swimsuit and stood by the pool steps and sang “When I Grow Up” from
Matilda the Musical
, which everyone had wanted to be the school play, but it wasn’t allowed for some annoying rights reason. Emma was pretty much nailing it, and Avery was suddenly very grateful for her sunglasses because it was a weirdly sad song about how things will be better when you’re grown up and, frankly, she wasn’t so sure. She felt herself bloating with emotion and willed it back down.
Cheers erupted from a distance when Emma was done. Avery got up and joined her looking out toward the bay, where a small motor-boat was passing. A bunch of older guys holding beers whooped and clapped.
“Can we come over?” one of them screamed.
“Oh my god,” Emma said.
Avery cupped her hands by her mouth and shouted back, “Losers!”
Emma pinched her arm. “Why do you have to be like that?”
“Because I am,” Avery said.
A pirate tour boat was next to pass—larger, farther out in the water. It was painted black and flew a skull-and-crossbones flag. Avery had never been on a pirate boat and thought that if she’d had a brother
longer
, she would have.
Someone with a too-loud microphone said, “Land ho, mateys!”
“You’re going to break up with Sam, aren’t you?” Emma said.
Avery said, “Afraid so.”
They went back to magazines, and Avery got her phone out and went to Amazon and eBay, and there appeared to be no copies of
The Leaving
for sale . . . anywhere.
Or, wait, one, but it was in Wisconsin and cost thirty-five dollars and how long would it even take to receive it? And where the hell were her flip-flops? And why did he have to grab the book like that? Why hadn’t he asked her to go up to the house to talk to Ryan with him?
She’d
been the one to find it.
How could a book that sounded inspired by The Leaving have been written before The Leaving?
She ordered the copy in Wisconsin—even sprang for expedited shipping. She’d figure out the connection, and she’d go to Lucas with it and he’d realize how amazing she was. Together they’d figure out where Max was. The thought of it made her heart tangle and flip like tumbleweed. She imagined it rolling down the street and plunging softly into the canal where manatees sometimes came to stay warm.
S
c
a
r
l
et
t
Brushing her hair, Scarlett felt the weight of it dragging her down and suddenly very badly wanted a haircut.
Who had been cutting her hair all these years?
Maybe it wasn’t actually the clothes that were wrong?
Maybe it was the hair?
She hunted for scissors and then went into the bathroom. Using a comb, she wet her hair a little, then she pulled half a head full over her left shoulder and chopped off four inches in jagged cuts.
XSnip.
X
Snip.X
Xxxxxxxxxxx
XSnip.
xxxxxxXX
X
XClumps . . .
Falling and feathering to the floor.
When she went to do the other side, she realized, of course, that she couldn’t, so she went to find her mother and presented the scissors. “I need help.”
Looking horrified, Tammy said, “What on earth . . . ?” then stopped herself with a disappointed huff. “Come. Sit.”
They’d had an argument.
Scarlett had declined an invitation to go meet some of Tammy’s friends tonight at the Abduction Group gathering. Since then, their interactions had been limited to short exchanges every time Scarlett came out of the bathroom.
Anything?
No.
Anything?
No.
So this was progress.
Tammy put her scissors down and ran her hands through Scarlett’s hair, fluffing it up some. “Best I can do,” she said.
“Thanks.”
She turned and grabbed a magazine and a glass of lemonade she’d already poured and said, “I’ll be out back. Back to the grind tomorrow so better get some sun.”
Yes.
Better do that.
Now Scarlett waited on the front steps, studying the front yard for ghosts of her childhood self. She tried to conjure an apparition of herself blowing bubbles or skipping rope, but couldn’t.
What had ever happened to that pink flamingo, anyway? She’d have to ask Tammy later.
Lucas appeared on a bike and came to an awkward, almost-crash stop out front on the sand. He leaned the bike against a palm tree and walked with purpose toward her. She half thought he was going to grab her and kiss her, from the look of intensity on his face, and she felt her whole body perk up at the idea of it.
A tingling in her lips.
And other places.
All over.
He held out a book to her. “I found this in my dad’s stuff.”
She took it from him and read the title, and he said, “It was written before we were taken,” and felt like she was back on that cliff of her life.
This time, her existence was . . .
. . . an
A
B
Y
S
S
“Hey,” he said.
Catching her.
She flipped to the back and read.
Futuristic
. . .