All the Way Home (18 page)

Why does my family have to be so weird?
Molly wonders miserably now.
It isn’t fair.

There’s no one I can even confide in,
she thinks miserably, realizing the burden of the news might be a little less devastating if she could at least share it.

But Kevin is gone, and Rebecca isn’t speaking to her, and that about covers the people she trusts in this world.

Everyone leaves,
she thinks morosely, swallowing hard around a lump in her throat.

Carleen.

Daddy.

Kevin.

Even Mom—she might be here physically, but she’s totally escaped into another world, and that might be worse than actually taking off, the way Kevin did.

Of course, Daddy couldn’t help leaving. He’s dead.

And Carleen—well, who knows what happened to her?

Not that it matters,
Molly thinks bitterly.
Carleen was never there for me, even when she was around. Rory came right out and said she didn’t want me—that she wanted to have an abortion.

God, I wish she had. I wish I’d never been born. My own mother didn’t want me.

Her sister’s face flashes in her mind, clear as that photo of her on the wall above the stairs.

Carleen is getting her undressed for her bath, smiling, patiently touching each of Molly’s bare toes.

“This little piggy went to market . . . This little piggy stayed home . . . This little piggy had roast beef . . . This little piggy had none . . . And this little piggy cried ‘wee wee wee wee,’ all the way home.”

“Do it again, Carleen! Please, please, do it again!”

“All right, you little munchkin. Just one more time, though. This little piggy . . .”

Tears sting Molly’s raw, burning eyelids and she swipes at them with her pillowcase, not caring that another smudge of black makeup appears along the ruffled edge.

I have no one.

Not a single soul in this world who’s there for me.

Her thoughts drift to Ryan, and for a crazy moment, she wonders if she can confide in him.

She quickly dismisses the notion.

After all, what’s she supposed to do? Call him and say,
“Remember me from last night? Well, I just found out my whole family has lied to me all my life, and my missing sister is really my mother, and nobody has a clue who my father is, and can you please help me sort out this mess, because I have nobody else to turn to?”

They’ve all left,
she thinks again, images of her family running through her mind.

Kevin.

Carleen.

Daddy.

Mom.

Rory’s face sticks there, though.

Yeah, she left, too,
Molly reminds herself stubbornly.
Just like the rest of them.

But she came back.

She’s here now.

She’s worried about you.

So what? She’s the one who ruined my whole life by telling me all this. Why didn’t she just leave it buried, where it belongs? Why did she have to throw it in my face? I didn’t need to know. I didn’t want to know.

She hides her face in the pink-checkered pillowcase again, clinging to it as though it’s a life raft, soaking it once again with a torrent of bitter tears.

B
arrett Maitland stands at the edge of Lake Charlotte, eyes fastened on the narrow, paved bike path several yards away, separating the beach from winding Lakeshore Road, which traces the shore.

So. A decade ago this very day, according to local legend, Kirstin Stafford rode her bike along that very path . . . and vanished
.

Barrett would have known the particulars by heart even if they hadn’t been neatly laid out in this morning’s edition of the local paper, the
Foothill Gazette.

TEN YEARS SINCE FIRST DISAPPEARANCE
screams the front-page headline, accompanied by four grainy photos of smiling, unsuspecting teenaged girls.

It’s all there, in a detailed chronicle that takes up a good part of the front page, sharing space with the latest White House scandal. The story is continued on page two, where the enterprising reporter tells precisely how Kirstin Stafford got on her bike as she often did after supper, apparently unworried about tires that her father later said had needed air.

How several reliable witnesses had seen her riding along the path as the sun set on the horizon.

How she had waved cheerfully at those she knew, and reportedly even at those she didn’t, with characteristic breezy friendliness that might have somehow led her into trouble.

Because Kirstin Stafford never came home.

Not a trace of her was ever found.

Not even her pretty lavender bicycle with the personalized license plate,
Barrett mentally echoes the last line of the article that is, in his opinion, on the melodramatic side.

I could have done much better,
he thinks somewhat smugly, walking slowly along the beach, sidestepping a pair of sunsuited towheads busily digging in the sand.

But you aren’t in Lake Charlotte to write articles for the
Foothill Gazette,
are you?

He makes his way up to the bike path, then crosses it. He glances up and down winding Lakeshore Road; sees that it’s momentarily devoid of any traffic. Despite the humidity and blazing sun, it’s still a little early for the locals to head for the beach. Most Lake Charlotte residents hardly seem to be early risers like the New Englanders he’d encountered while in college up in Vermont. This is your classic sleepy little town, he reminds himself, knowing from experience that by midafternoon, the sand and water would undoubtedly be dotted with sunbathers and swimmers—

That is, if that thunderstorm they’re predicting doesn’t hit sooner than expected.

Barrett crosses the road and stands on the narrow patch of grass on the opposite side. In front of him is a bank of woods that rises fairly steeply, obscuring any view of the town nestled above. There’s a faint trail leading upward.

After glancing over his shoulder to see that the few people dotting the beach aren’t even facing in his direction, Barrett steps into the woods. He expertly makes his way along the overgrown trail, skirting fallen logs and large boulders, hearing birds chirping overhead and small animals darting away in the underbrush as he passes.

It’s peaceful, here. The foliage is so dense that it absorbs any sound from the beach below and the town above.

Finally, Barrett reaches the top of the incline and the trees give way to a tangled hedge of briars that stops him from going any farther. He peers past them, past the patch of dirt and an orange plastic shovel, past the large yard with its tire swing and picnic table, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully at the big, familiar rose-and-plum house looming beyond.

“M
om? Have you seen Sebastian?”

Cheryl Wasner looks up from the petunia plant she’s busily dead-heading in a container on the brick patio. “No, not this morning.”

Rebecca’s heart sinks. She stands on the back porch, absently watching her mother. She’d been so certain poor Sebastian would have made his way home by now.

But when she’d awakened, much later than usual thanks to a mostly sleepless night, he hadn’t been in the space where he usually sleeps at the foot of her bed. Her father and Casey, engrossed in a computer game in the den, said they hadn’t seen him.

“Did you eat breakfast yet?” her mother asks, straightening and tossing a handful of faded petunia blossoms into a wheelbarrow full of weeds.

“No. I’m not hungry,” Rebecca says glumly.

“Worried about your kitten?”

She nods.

“Don’t worry, ’Bec—cats always take off gallivanting at this time of year.”

“Ralphi never did.”

“Ralphi is an exception. She’s the laziest animal on the face of the earth. Besides, she’s a female.”

“But we had Sebastian fixed, Mom.”

Her mother smiles faintly. “That doesn’t mean he’s lost all his instincts to roam and mate.”

“But he doesn’t have any claws. He’ll get slaughtered out in the woods.”

“He’ll be okay,” her mother says, running a hand through her short, colored blond hair with maddening assurance. “Come on, let’s go in and have some cinnamon toast before I start the weeding. I wanted to talk to you about Molly.”

Rebecca shoots a glance at her mother. “What about her?”

“Her sister called here late last night, looking for her. She seemed to think she was with you.”

“Well, she wasn’t.”

“Obviously. Do you know where she was?”

“No.” Rebecca hates lying. She’s terrible at it.

“Where was she, Rebecca?”

“I told you, I don’t know.” She averts her eyes from her mother’s probing gaze, staring intently at a pot full of geraniums as though they’re the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.

“Rebecca,” her mother says after a moment, “I know Molly is your friend. But it’s not a good idea to lie for her. If she’s doing something or going someplace she shouldn’t be, her family needs to know.”

“Her mother doesn’t even care where she goes.”

“I don’t think that’s the case. That poor woman has been through a lot. And anyway, her sister obviously cares and is worried about her.”

“I’m sure Molly’s fine. She knows how to take care of herself.”

“Not necessarily. Terrible things can happen to young girls if they aren’t careful.”

Her mother’s words send a chill down Rebecca’s spine, but she merely shrugs and says, “Don’t worry about Molly, Mom.”

Mentally, she adds,
What she does is none of my business anymore.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

T
he cafe on Front Street is no Starbucks, but clearly Lake Charlotte has come a long way since Rory left town
.

She’s pleased to see that the cafe offers a number of hot and cold espresso drinks, along with a glass case filled with pastries, bagels, and rolls
.
The place is pleasantly crowded with fairly well-dressed, youngish people, none of them recognizable. Rory figures they must be mostly summer people, though it strikes her that they
could
be locals. After all, she doesn’t know everyone in town the way she once did, and Lake Charlotte is apparently becoming a little more upscale.

She self-consciously tucks her sleeveless coral turtleneck into her white denim shorts, feeling underdressed. She’s glad she took the time to put on makeup and paint her toenails, bared in white leather sandals, a matching shade of coral. She had considered putting on a madras plaid sundress, but deliberately decided against anything so formal. She doesn’t want Barrett Maitland to think she got all dressed up for him, since this is hardly a date.

I should never have agreed to meet him,
she tells herself as she waits at the counter for her iced cappuccino and chocolate biscotti, which she couldn’t resist. She didn’t eat supper
.
It’s just too damn hot, and besides, she’s getting tired of eating alone. She’s used to meeting a date or a group of friends for dinner, or cooking for a bunch of people at whatever apartment she’s currently calling home.

Now, after nearly a week with her family in Lake Charlotte, she knows that she’s going to lose it if she doesn’t start getting out and doing something, or at least having a decent conversation once in a while.

No chance of that at home,
she thinks grimly
.
Her mother and Molly don’t exactly qualify as good company.

“Rory?”

A hand on her bare elbow.

She turns to see Barrett Maitland standing behind her.

“Oh, hi.” She’s glad to see he’s wearing jeans, a plain navy polo shirt, and those same docksiders, again without socks. He looks as casual as she does.

Damn good-looking, too, she can’t help thinking, noticing that he’s picked up a ruddy suntan since she saw him last.

“Did you go to the beach today?” she asks, on a hunch.

He hesitates. “Yeah, for a while.”

Why does he always do that? she wonders
.
Why does he seem to carefully measure his responses to the most inane questions, as though he has something to hide?

Because he must,
she concludes.
And that’s why I can’t trust him, even for a second.