Pretty Girl Thirteen (2 page)

She picked up the bag and peeked at a collection of completely strange clothes. A sick feeling replaced the emptiness in her belly. Her head felt floaty, disoriented, disconnected.

Angie’s eyes traced the houses around the cul-de-sac. Everything there was familiar, thank God. The cars in the driveways looked right, which was reassuring, until she caught sight of Mrs. Harris, pushing a stroller, just entering her garage. Mrs. Harris didn’t have kids.

She broke into a run, feeling for the first time the blisters on her feet, the ache in her legs. Home, she had to get home. Of course. She’d been lost, in the woods. Now she was home.

She felt under the woven grass mat for a key and opened the red front door. “Mom!” she yelled. “Hey, Mom, I’m home!” She stepped through.

Tumbling down the front stairs, feet sliding, face a screaming mask of disbelief, her mom burst into tears. She engulfed Angie in her arms, speechless, gulping.

“Mom!” Angie said into her hair. “Mom, I can’t breathe.” She dropped the bag of clothes with a small thump. She brushed a wisp of hair from her lips. Silver threads mingled with Mom’s loose brown curls.

“Can’t breathe … can’t breathe?” Mom let go enough to hold Angie at arm’s length and devour her face with her eyes. “Can’t …” She laughed, a tight, hysterical bark. “Oh my God. Oh my God. A miracle! Thank you, God. Thank you.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Thank you,” she said again.

Upstairs, a toilet flushed, and Dad’s voice called down the stairs. “Margie, what’s all the commotion?”

Mom whispered to Angie, “Oh, your father … He’ll just …” She couldn’t speak. Her face was white. Too round and white.

Dad’s tread on the landing filled the pause. For a moment, he stood there, his hands plastered to his cheeks. His eyes met Angie’s and filled with tears. “Angela? Are you really …” His voice choked off.

Angie looked back and forth between the two of them. “Um, yeah. I’m really … What’s going on?” It wasn’t just her. Something was wrong with her parents, too. A shiver passed across her shoulder blades.

“Angel?” Dad whispered the word. He stood on the landing, frozen in weirdness. His black hair was completely gray. His damp eyes looked a hundred years old.

Angie’s heart began to race, and her feet tingled like they wanted to take off running. “You guys are totally freaking me out.”

“We’re freaking you …?” Mom’s hysterical laugh broke out again. “Angie, where … where have you been?”

“You know.” Angie’s stomach squirmed. “Camping?”

The way they stared and stared at her made it hard to breathe. “Camping,” she said again, firmly.

Dad started down the stairs. “Camping,” he repeated. “Camping?” His voice rose in pitch. “For three years?”

Angie locked the bathroom door and pressed her back against it. Her familiar towel set, cream with roses, hung on the rack, just where she’d left it. It smelled like Tide. She’d never been so happy to see a towel before. It was perfect. It was right. Unlike her parents.

Were they kidding? Were they crazy? She couldn’t have been missing for three years. That wasn’t the kind of thing a person would … just forget.

She turned on the sink first, then glanced up at a face that looked back at her with clear gray eyes. In that moment of utter surprise, she forgot how to breathe.

The girl in the mirror could have been her older sister, taller, thinner. Her cheekbones were sculpted, where Angie’s were soft and round. Her face was pale, where Angie’s was tan from a summer at the pool. The girl had long, dirty-blond hair, where Angie’s was highlighted and bobbed. The girl had serious arm muscles, gray skin, healed-up scars, and another thing that made the girl in the mirror a stranger. She had a curvy shape—breasts. Angie dropped her eyes to her chest. What the hell. Boobs? Where had those come from?

She fingered the top button on her shirt, scared to look.

A wooden pounding startled her. “Angela! Angela, for God’s sake, don’t do anything.” Her father’s voice sounded panicked. “Don’t … don’t …”

Angie turned the lock and opened the door. “I … I wasn’t,” she said. Her face flushed with guilt. For what?

Dad’s face was drawn with tension. A bead of sweat stood out on his forehead. Angie was mesmerized by it. She realized only half his chin was shaved.

His gaze slipped to the right, avoiding her. His voice was low and hoarse. “Detective Brogan will be here in fifteen minutes. He said not to touch anything that might be considered evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” Angie asked. The sound of running water filled the heavy silence while Dad hesitated over his answer. His attention darted to the sink.

“Oh God, Angela. You didn’t wash anything yet. Right?”

She held up her filthy arms, dirt so embedded in her creases and pores that she had turned gray. “Evidence?” she repeated. “Of what, Dad?”

Dad’s mouth twisted around for a few moments. The sweat rolled lower. “Evidence of whatever, wherever, or whoever.”

Angie looked at him in confusion.

His forehead creased with lines. Dark hollows circled his eyes. “You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

Angie felt stupid. He expected something from her. She didn’t know what, but she could feel his anger simmering. Something stirred inside, and she walked to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her head came up to his chin. “I love you so much,” she said. She felt him stiffen and pull back. She must have done the wrong thing. Her arms dropped. She turned cold, inside and out.

“I—I have to finish shaving,” he said randomly, his head turned away from her. “Shut off the water. Go wait downstairs with your mother.” He walked down the hall and closed the bedroom door behind him.

Angie had this vague idea that it might be a good idea to cry. But everything was tangled and frozen inside, seized up like the giant breath before pain arrives. She thought about chewing a fingernail, but it was dirty. And “evidence.” Her stomach clenched again. Evidence of what?

The unusual ring on her left hand caught her eye. Why couldn’t she remember where she’d bought it? The question made her strangely nervous, and the single warning throb of a headache coming on poked her temple. She twisted the silver band loose and placed it in the soap dish. The pain passed. It was probably Livvie’s, or Katie’s. Better not to think about it too hard.

The sound of Dad’s razor hummed as Angie hurried down the top flight of stairs. She stopped halfway, her feet pinned to the landing. She hovered like a lost child, halfway between Dad upstairs and Mom downstairs. Her pulse beat the passing seconds. Someone was coming. A detective, Dad said. She watched the front door until the frosted glass darkened with shadow.

Mom flew from the kitchen to answer the double knock.

A tall, ginger-haired man stood framed in the doorway. Mom threw herself into his arms with a muffled sob. He patted Mom’s back with one hand and looked over her head to the landing, where Angie still hesitated.

The man’s eyes went wide. “Angela,” he whispered. “Welcome home.”

He separated himself from Mom and held out his right hand, palm up, half an invitation, half a handshake. “Please,” he said. “Will you come down?”

Dad had called him a detective, but he was wearing blue jeans with a tear starting in one knee. The sleeves of his dark plaid shirt were rolled to the elbow. He looked casual, comfortable. He looked—amazed.

Angie took the four steps to the bottom and reached for his outstretched hand. It was huge, and hers disappeared as he pressed it between both of his.

“L.A. County Sheriff’s Department. Detective Phil Brogan,” he said. “Sorry to appear like this. I was gardening, and I didn’t waste a moment when Mitch called.” His hand was rough and calloused, but he held hers like a newborn kitten, with care and tenderness. He tilted his head and studied her face with a tiny smile.

Angie’s tension began melting away, her chill warming, until the moment he ruined it.

“This is incredible,” he said. “I feel like I know you already.”

She instantly felt stripped, exposed. A complete stranger who knew her. Her breath caught in a gasp. She caged the sob before it could escape. If she let it start, she might never stop.

“Lord, I’m sorry, Angela,” he said immediately. He let her hand slither away. “Mitch told me on the phone there might be memory issues. That you aren’t sure how long you were gone or where exactly you were. Disorientation. That’s not unusual.”

Was that true? Angie tried to decipher his eyes. Blue, kind, honest. She didn’t read a threat there. Okay. So maybe what was happening to her wasn’t unusual. She felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he could actually help her figure this out.

She nodded, and he smiled gently. “Come.” He gestured to the family room with his head. “We don’t have to stand here like bowling pins.”

A clunk sounded upstairs, and Angie imagined a giant ball rolling down the stairs, knocking them all off their unsteady feet, but it was only Dad. The corner of her mouth twitched. The detective caught it and smiled back with his eyes. Fascinating eyes. Orange specks dotted the dark blue irises. She’d never seen anything like them.

Dad walked ahead without sparing her a glance and clicked on the fire with the remote. “She looks cold,” he offered as explanation. Of course, the heat from the gas fire, locked safely behind glass doors, was too weak to reach her.

Angie made a full sweep of the room, finding everything familiar and in its place. Soft green cushions on the beige leather sofas. Floor-length drapes with leaf patterns, pulled back to let in the daylight. Old cabinet-style TV with the remote and printed guide on top. Piles of jumbled books in the bookcase on the side wall. There was no way three years had passed in this room. No way. Nothing had moved.

The detective settled into the chair closest to Angie’s corner of the sofa. His expression softened, and he rubbed the palm of his hand across his stubbly chin. “Angela, I’m so sorry. I know this is difficult for you. Very confusing.”

Did he? Angie wondered. Had his reality ever changed in the blink of an eye? She studied her shabby knees. They turned blurry as she squeezed away dangerous tears. Stop.

Brogan placed a featherlight hand on her bowed head. “I imagine all you want to do right now is reunite with your family and be left in peace.”

She nodded a fraction of an inch, grateful for his sympathy. She could tell he meant it—he understood how unstable she was. At least, it didn’t feel like just a police technique to warm her up for questioning.

Beside her, Mom squeezed her hand, and Angie looked up into the detective’s steady gaze. Unexpected freckles dusted his cheekbones. “But …,” she offered, sensing he was leading up to “but.”

“But my job is to figure out whether we have a criminal case to pursue here. Especially if we have a fresh trail. Do you understand?”

Her throat suddenly got the “I’m about to throw up” feeling. She swallowed it down. “Criminal? Did I … Did I do something wrong?”

“Not you, Angie,” Mom burst out, her fingers accidentally digging into Angie’s palm. Angie flinched.

“Margie.” Brogan raised his eyebrows at Mom. “Sorry, Angela. There are just a few questions I need to ask you right now. Then we’ll move on to other procedures.”

“There are a few things I want to know too,” Dad interrupted. “How on earth did you find your way home, Angela? Did anyone help you? Did you walk the whole way?”

“Yes.” The single word escaped her lips, but it didn’t make any sense. From where? Angie had no idea.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mitch,” Mom said, shushing him. “It’s more than thirty miles to where she disappeared.”

“Downhill,” Angie whispered. No one heard her. Where had that thought come from?

“Besides,” Mom continued, “she could have been anywhere. Out of California entirely.”

Brogan stood up and began a slow pace across the room. Angie followed him with her eyes. He’d changed—not a comfortable guy in torn jeans anymore. The soft sympathy face was gone. He was a panther, hunting. A cop, patrolling. She put herself on guard.

His voice changed too—it was flatter, clipped. “Angela. Any idea how long you were gone? Any hint of location? Anything at all?”

“No! I … uh, no. No idea.” Angie gestured to her parents. “They say it was three years. But … I don’t know. That doesn’t seem right. It was just a couple of days.”

“Did you run away on purpose?”

Angie’s forehead wrinkled. “Run away? No. Of course not.”

“No trouble at home? At school? At church? You didn’t need a break? From something? Or someone?” His gaze was probing, encouraging, and scary, all at the same time. He paced and watched and listened.

“No. What are you talking about? Everything’s fine. Was. Fine.”

Mom slid an arm around her. Angie leaned into the hug to prove her point.

Brogan nodded. He spoke slowly and carefully. “Did you arrange to meet someone? Did you visit an internet site and become close to an interesting person?”

“I’m not an idiot! No and no.” What stupid questions. Exhaustion gripped her. What did she have to say to end all of this?

The detective shrugged. “Okay. We didn’t find a trace of that kind of history on the computers you use at home or at school. Still worth asking, though.”

Dad finally quit standing watch and dropped into the other armchair with a loud sigh of relief. What was he was thinking? That she would actually sneak off with someone?

Brogan caught Dad’s eye and gave him a “watch yourself here” look. It was easy to read the detective’s face. “Angela, have you ever experimented with alcohol or drugs? A lot of kids your age have. Answer honestly—we won’t be angry or shocked, and we can get you help.”

“You can tell us, hon,” Mom said. “We won’t judge. I swear.”

Dad looked like he might, though, his elbows grinding a hole in his knees.

Mom patted his arm and said in an obvious aside, “That could explain her fuzziness on the details.”

Angie groaned. “No, I haven’t. I’ve never drunk anything but Communion wine. I’ve never tried drugs. Just a cigarette. Which was completely gross, by the way.”

“May I see your hands?” Brogan asked. It wasn’t a request. It was an order.