Watching her, the fullness of her breasts, the halo of her hair, he thought,
Later, she slept and he lay beside her charged with energy, filled with something he almost didn’t recognize, it had been so long. Inspiration. Unable to drift off again, he pulled on his underwear and traveled downstairs, wandered into the kitchen and got himself a glass of water from the tap. He felt at home, as comfortable as if they’d been dating awhile and this was his regular habit. He wandered out the front door and sat on one of the cushioned chairs on the large veranda. It was way too cold to be outside mostly naked, but he didn’t care. He was a furnace; the cold air made his skin tingle. He felt alive. A wind chime hanging by the door. Tiny bells. A rustling of leaves.
Then, some movement across the street caught his eye. There was a girl, with spiky hot pink and black hair a riot on top of her head, carrying a backpack. She stood beside some old muscle car with a faded green paint job. He could hear the powerful rumble of its engine.
He could see the pale skin of her neck, the top of her head. Her face was obscured by the landscaping surrounding the veranda.
She seemed to be talking to the driver. Curiosity lifted Charlie from his seat and brought him to the railing. Her voice carried across the street, but the words were lost in a wind that picked up and set the chimes to singing again.
He could see her face now. She was young, pretty-she didn’t look afraid or angry, maybe a little sad. A fight with her boyfriend, he guessed. The poor guy was probably sitting in the car, begging her to get back inside. Charlie watched as the girl looked up and down the street uncertainly, then climbed inside the vehicle. He didn’t know what time it was. Too late for a young girl to be out with her boyfriend, he thought. Of course, he’d have thought differently when he was sixteen or seventeen.
As the car disappeared up the street, he went back into the house. Wanda was sitting on the couch in his shirt, drinking a glass of water.
“You okay?” she asked with a little frown. “It’s cold to be outside in your undies.”
He patted his belly self-consciously and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Lots of insulation,” he said. She gave him a flirty glance under her lashes and a quick shake of her head. “You look good to me, cowboy.”
He sat beside her, and she moved into him-so easy, so familiar. He dropped his arm around her shoulder. “To answer your question, I’m great, Wanda. I’m better than I’ve been in ages.”
She gazed up at him and smiled wide. “Me, too.”
In a moment, they were at it again-glass on the table, shirt on the floor. Just before he lost himself in another earthquake with Wanda, he noticed the time: 11:33.
8
There was something about the thumping that communicated to her, through deep layers of sleep, a sense of alarm. Even as she swam through the locks of consciousness, she felt the dawn of panic. A knowing. When she emerged into wakefulness, Jones was already up and pulling on the pants he’d left lying on the floor. The window was open, and the air had grown frigid.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Someone at the door.”
They were parents. Jones was a cop, Maggie a psychologist. They were accustomed to interrupted sleep, the phone ringing at all hours. But this felt different. It was the door, not the phone, first of all. But more than that, the knocking was frantic, not measured and authoritative, as it would be had someone from the department needed to rouse Jones, unable for whatever reason to reach him on his cell or home phone.
Jones was out the bedroom door before Maggie had climbed from beneath the covers. As she was pulling on a sweater over her T-shirt, retrieving a pair of jeans from the floor, she heard him moving down the stairs.
“I’m coming. Take it easy,” he called. Jones was not a man happily roused from sleep. He woke up like an ogre, cranky and groggy. This had better be good, or she felt sorry for whoever was at the door.
Before she followed him downstairs, her first instinct was to look in on her son. She pushed open the door to his bedroom and saw his sleeping form sprawled on the bed, one long leg dangling off the side. He was snoring deeply, had his headphones on.
She could hear the tinny sound of music carrying on the air; she saw the undulating red and green lights on the stereo system beside his bed. There was a surreal quiet to the moment. When she looked back on it, she’d remember a kind of hum in the air. It was the last safe place. The last moment when she could fool herself that any of them had a grip on anything in this world.
After she’d closed Ricky’s door and headed down the stairs, she heard a woman’s voice, talking fast, shrill with nerves.
“Is my daughter here? I’ve been trying to call. The line’s been busy for hours.” Maggie heard an agitated laugh. “I never understood people who take their phone off the hook.”
Charlene’s mother, Melody Murray, was a wreck-her blond hair with dark black roots in a tousle, circles under her eyes, no makeup. Her face was long with worry.
“Come inside,” Maggie said. She reached the bottom of the stairs and pushed past Jones to put her hand on the woman’s shoulder. Jones had been holding her at the door, almost seemed to have been blocking her way with an arm, the door itself opened just a foot or two. Melody looked behind her; she’d left her car running. Exhaust came out in great plumes, glowing and strange in the red of the parking lights.
“We fought,” she said. “Charlene left, and I just assumed she came here.”
There was a flatness to her voice suddenly that didn’t connect with the frightened look in her eyes.
“When was the last time you saw her?” Jones asked. Maggie stepped out onto the porch to stand beside Melody. The stone was cold beneath her bare feet.
“She left the house around six, I think?” Melody used that questioning tone that seemed to be so popular with teenagers and sociopaths. It was a tone that begged permission, understanding, elicited a nod of verification.
“We fought,” she said again. Melody brought her thumb to her mouth and started chewing.
“What about?” Jones asked. Maggie read the expression on his face, his tone-disdain, suspicion. He didn’t like Melody Murray, never had. Maggie suspected that was a big reason why he didn’t like Charlene.
Melody seemed startled by the question, as if she’d forgotten that Jones was a cop, that by coming here she was essentially reporting her daughter missing.
“Melody, come inside,” Maggie said. “Jones will turn off your car.”
She gave her husband a look. He opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut. Then he obeyed like a good husband. As she escorted Melody inside, Maggie saw Jones take the cell phone from the pocket of his jeans while he moved toward the drive; he must have grabbed it when he got up, cop that he was. He was calling it in, a missing girl. Whether she was at a friend’s house or had done something stupid like try to run away, she was, at the moment, a missing minor. Maggie suppressed a shudder.
“This is a nice house,” Melody said, looking around. When Maggie glanced around her own home, all she could see were the flaws-the hairline crack in the ceiling, baseboards that needed dusting, the soda stain on the couch.
“Thanks,” she said. “Come on in and have a seat.”
With a hand on Melody’s shoulder, Maggie led her down the hall to the living room. About halfway there, Melody stopped and turned around.
“Is she? Is she here?” Melody asked. She stared at Maggie with naked hope. In a formless long gray sweater and baggy sweatpants, Melody seemed waiflike and lost.
“No, she’s not, Melody. I just checked Ricky’s room before I came down. He’s alone, asleep.”
The woman visibly shrank, her shoulders sagging forward, her head dropping. “Oh, God. Where is she?”
