17 & Gone (30 page)

the window didn’t have a pattern of frost

on it like the others in the kitchen.

The window was fogged in the center

into a round, warm shape, almost like a

pair of lips. Like someone had pressed

her glossed mouth to the window glass.

And breathed.

My mom was taking out her cell

phone and dialing the number for the

Pinecliff Police Department, the one that

was listed on Abby’s Missing notice.

She was making the call for me, like she

said she would. She believed me enough

to make this call.

When someone answered, she said

she wanted to find out more about a

missing-persons case in the area. It

involved an underage girl named Abigail

Sinclair. She wanted to know if there

was an active investigation, because she

had information that led her to believe

the girl didn’t run away, as suspected.

After a few questions, and discovering

she should call back in the morning

when the day shift was on, she asked if

she could leave a message for a specific

officer, one who had more knowledge of

the case. Officer Heaney, she said.

A pause.

“Yes,” she said. “Heaney. H-E-A-N-

E-Y, I think, or maybe H-E-E-N-Y? You

don’t have a large department; surely

you know who I mean.”

Then she got quiet. She was

completely silent as someone on the

other end of the line spoke, and I wasn’t

close enough to make out what they were

saying.

“What’s going on?” I said. She waved

at me to give her a second. “Did he

come to the phone? Is he there?”

“No,” she said into the phone. “No,

I’m afraid not, no.”

“Can’t you leave him a message?” I

asked. She didn’t respond.

“I understand,” she said at last. “All

right. Okay. Yes, thank you.” She left her

name and her number. She was in this

now, too.

When she ended the call, she took a

long moment before meeting my eyes.

She’d spoken to the police on the

phone as if she absolutely believed me,

had not a single doubt, and would go to

bat for me if she had to. But now she

was full of doubts. They flew and

flapped all over her, making grim

shadows darker than the tattooed birds

that lined her neck.

“How tipsy are you right now?” she

asked.

“Only a little,” I said. “I know where

I am. I know what’s happening. I know

who I’m talking to. What’d they say?

Tell me.”

“Besides tonight,” she said. “Besides

whatever you had to drink tonight. How

have you been feeling lately, Lauren?”

“Fine,” I said, in growing confusion.

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

The question hung in the air,

unanswered.

“All right,” my mom said. “Just

making sure. I’ll tell you what they said.

They’re opening an investigation.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Not because I called,” she was quick

to add. “Not because of us. Turns out the

case was just reopened, actually. Just

this morning. Because her legal guardian

called. Her grandfather, they said. From

what I understand, he called out of the

blue and said the family had reason to

believe she didn’t run away and they

wanted her case recategorized.”

There was a warmth inside me, and it

wasn’t the pendant heating up; it was

knowing Abby’s grandfather had heard

me. He did what I’d asked him to do.

And, because of that, someone would be

searching for her now. They hadn’t given

up.

“But,” my mom said, and lingered

there like she didn’t know how to finish.

“But?”

“But there’s no Officer Heaney at the

Pinecliff Police Department, Lauren. I

don’t know who you met that night, but

no one by that name or any name like it

works at the station. Are you sure he

was from the Pinecliff station?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And you’re sure you got his name

right?”

I nodded. “He said. Heaney, he said.

Pinecliff police, he said. I think. I’m

pretty sure. He was going to arrest us for

trespassing on private property. He

said.”

She shrugged. Then said what she

really meant. “Are you sure you talked to

someone that night? Are you sure you’re

not . . . confused?” There they were

again. The shadows on her face that

showed she doubted me. Now she

thought

I

was

having

imaginary

conversations with authority figures and

lying to make my story more convincing.

“Jamie was there with me. He met the

guy. He talked to him. Officer Heaney.

He had on a uniform. He . . . I think he

had on a uniform; it was dark.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “It doesn’t

matter. They’ve opened an investigation,

so if she’s out there and needs help,

they’ll find her, okay?”

I didn’t feel okay.

Not anything close to okay.

Yes, I wanted them to be looking for

Abby, but there was more to this. There

was the fact that I didn’t know if I could

trust my own mother.

That was when I saw it on her chest.

The hint of red. Bright and searing red.

Like a patch of flames.

My mom had new ink. Did she get

another tattoo while I was out at the

party? Because a blazing crimson thing

was

newly

visible

beneath

her

collarbone on her chest. Her shirt was

open beyond the third button, and

somehow I’d missed what looked to be

an unfamiliar picture there, until now,

because now I couldn’t seem to see

anything else. The tattoo was a fiery

heart above her real heart.

“Mom,” I said carefully, “you didn’t

tell me you were getting a new tattoo.”

“What?” she said. “But I’m not.”

“You already did. Can I see?”

“What, when? I didn’t. What do you

mean?” And right then, so I could see

her do it, and so the shadows watching

us could see, my mom took her hand and

held it over her chest. Covering the new

tattoo.

It was here, while studying her, while

paying attention, that I noticed the

difference in her face. It was very slight,

and there was a good chance I wouldn’t

have

noticed

if

I

hadn’t

been

concentrating. But I was. And my mother

—the one I’ve had all my life—has a

beauty mark on her left cheek, just

beside her lips. So black it’s almost

blue. I always wanted one of my own,

and when I was little she’d pencil one

on me with her eyeliner and say I was

just like her, except mine washed off in

the bath at night.

This mother, this one sitting at the

kitchen table with me in the early, early

hours of a dark morning—she had a

beauty mark on her
right
cheek.

Same spot and same color and same

shape. Wrong side.

She saw me staring and rubbed her

cheek. “Have I got some food on my face

or something?”

“No,” I said, “it’s nothing. I’m tired. I

should sleep.”

But, oh, it wasn’t nothing.

The secret tattoo was one thing, but

now this? This made me question

everything about her. It made me wonder

if telling her about Abby had really been

the right thing.

I shouldn’t have asked for help,

should I? I shouldn’t have trusted her. I

should have done this on my own. With

only myself. And the girls.

MISSING

JANNAH AFSANA DIN

CASE TYPE:
Endangered Missing

DOB:
April 4, 1995

MISSING:
January 2, 2013

AGE NOW:
17

SEX:
Female

RACE:
Middle Eastern

HAIR:
Brown

EYES:
Brown

HEIGHT:
5'3" (163 cm)

WEIGHT:
135 lbs. (62 kg)

MISSING FROM:
Clarkestone, MA, United

States

CIRCUMSTANCES:
Footage of Jannah was

caught on surveillance video at a gas station in

Clarkestone, Massachusetts, in the early-

morning hours of January 2. She may have been

meeting someone but appears to have left

before that person arrived. She was wearing a

white coat, blue jeans, and a Red Sox baseball

cap. Jannah also wears contact lenses.

ANYONE HAVING INFORMATION

SHOULD CONTACT

Clarkestone Police Department (Massachusetts) 1-

617-555-4592

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS

GIRL?

Please help find my sister Hailey

Pippering.

She comes here or she used to all

the time.

If you see this flyer and you know

anything, e-mail me PLEASE!!!!!

You don’t have to use your real

name! I won’t call the police. I just

want to know where she is!!!!

[email protected]

(Trina Glatt: disappearance

unreported)

—
46
—

THE
house was waiting for me.

Always there, when nothing else was.

The girls were gathered—the newest of

the girls, Trina, at their center. She was

flashing something that caught the

firelight. A blade of some kind . . .

sharp, silver. A knife.

No one knew how she smuggled it in,

and everyone wanted to hold it, but

when she said maybe it’d be for the best

if they avoided getting their prints on it,

they stopped reaching for the contraband

and they stopped asking.

Trina told us that it all began when

she got that knife. Before it came into her

life, she felt helpless. She felt like a
girl
.

She spat out that word like it was the

worst insult in the world, to be what we

all were, and so she offended every one

of us.

The knife itself was titanium, the

blade and handle coated in a silvery

finish. It was a butterfly knife that folded

in on itself so it could fit in the crevice

of a clasped hand.

Trina had stolen the knife from a

boyfriend who’d himself shoplifted it

from an army-navy surplus store. She

couldn’t explain why she’d swiped it

from his pocket while he was sleeping—

better would have been to rifle through

his wallet—but she wanted to take

something from him that would really

bother him. Something he’d notice,

something he couldn’t replace. She’d

planned to return it, maybe a week later,

but once she had it she found she

couldn’t part with it. The knife was so

compact, it could be tucked into her front

jeans pocket, and the secure sense of it

under her pillow helped her sleep at

night.

After she dumped him—all right, she

admitted,
he
dumped
her
—she realized

the knife was hers forever. She’d find

herself playing with it, like in school or

at home in full view of her mom’s

boyfriend on the couch. What was to

keep her from plunging it into someone

who tried to mess with her? Nothing.

Not saying she did or would. Just having

the weapon and knowing she could use it

was enough.

The thing is, she never once made use

of that knife. Not technically, because

slicing incisions into the arms of her

mother’s couch didn’t count. And making

snowflakes out of loose-leaf paper for

her little half sister didn’t count, either.

She never made use of the knife on a

person.

That was her biggest regret. She could

have done so much with it! When she

leaped up while telling this part of her

story, the other girls backed away. Not

like they could get hurt in the smoky

house, which was more charred and

patterned by fire each time I visited—

because this house held them close, kept

them safe—but they remembered being

hurt and reacted like they still could be.

Maybe it was talk of the knife that

brought her out after all this time. She

shifted from the curtains, and before

anyone knew what was happening, Fiona