Part 8 (1/2)

Avery hung up and went to her mom and knelt beside her, pulling her robe closed and then easing her into a stiff hug; her mother had turned mannequin, unfeeling.

Right then a reporter reached the front porch, trailed by a camera guy, and said, ”Tell us your story. Why do you think Max is the only one who didn't come back?”

Avery used her foot to push the door shut and pictured the days ahead. The endless news coverage, the weird-sad looks she'd get from neighbors and everyone at school next week. She'd be famous, but not in the right way. Mannequin Mom would end up in the hospital again, quick-sanding into depression, and Dad would act like there was nothing wrong when everything about Mom-about all of them-was wrong and had been, probably, since the day Max disappeared.

After a minute, there was a gap in her mom's crying and, in the silence, Avery had a weird feeling of wis.h.i.+ng she'd never stopped talking to Ryan-one of the only people who had ever understood-or started things up with Sam, who was too nice for her, or too simple or something-or given up hoping that her brother was still alive.

s...o...b..-Doo, where are you?

”We'll find him, Mom.” Avery stared at her worn flip-flops and wondered when the new ones she'd ordered would arrive. ”I promise.”

Scarlett

”I need clothes,” Scarlett said.

”And a toothbrush and . . .”

Hairbrush.

Shoes.

Makeup?

Phone.

Purse.

Deodorant.

Wallet.

Lip balm.

Socks.

Underwear.

Bras.

Pajamas.

Swimsuit.

Tampons?

Driver's license?

What else?

”. . . everything.”

The woman-her mother-was on her fourth cigarette of the morning, the first three having been consumed while two detectives-one old, one young-asked Scarlett questions and got annoyed at her answers.

They asked about Max.

And whether any of the others had violent tendencies.

They explained about the accident.

Lucas's father.