with two strips of turkey bacon and half a grapefruit.
I could call him, see if his excitement and joy are strong enough to clamp down my fear. But then I’d have to speak the word that, so far, has only appeared in steely letters on a screen. I’d have to taste it on my tongue. Hear its buzz in the air.
Ted’s fingers are picking up the pace. He’s onto something and I have to get out of here. Get away. Even if just for an hour.
The cover of Astrid’s book glares at me from the nightstand—that naked bulb; that bright red door. The longer I look at it, the more solid the door seems. Like if I touched it, I would feel the rough grain of real wood.
Is Astrid behind that door again? Did her abductor drag her all the way back to Foster? Is she in a dark corner, hunched up and hopeless, because—this time—nobody saw her?
I bang the heel of my hand against my head. It’s all in there somewhere, tightly and agonizingly entombed—how, exactly, my path crossed with Astrid’s; why I can’t stop seeing her with that arm around her waist.
I consider the origins of what I’ve remembered. Astrid’s photo on the news is what triggered my truer dream. The father saving his daughter is what led me to the arm. So I need something else. Something tangible I can stare at until I remember. Something identical—or at least very close—to something I’ve seen before. And now, shoving the pregnancy test deep into my bedside drawer, I know exactly where I’m going to go.
five
The coffeehouse is rooster themed. I find it on the road that runs through the center of Foster. The parking lot is gravel and the roosters are everywhere—metal ones whose rear feathers are pinwheels; ceramic ones lining the ramp to the entrance; a rooster wreath that crows when I open the door; and inside, roosters on mugs and walls and napkins and aprons, all printed above the café’s name: Cock-a-doodle Coffee.
Small-town New Hampshire loves a good theme, especially when the town is so close to a tourist destination like Edgewood Lake, but this one is a little much. Waiting in line, I jolt as the door opens and the rooster wreath crows again. I think about leaving, getting back in my car, and driving until I find what I’m looking for, but I left Ted’s in such a rush that I need a moment to stop. Get my bearings. Get a coffee and a plan.
When I reach the front of the line, I’m about to order a latte, but a lingering wave of nausea freezes me midsentence. Are pregnant women allowed to have caffeine? I don’t know the rules. I don’t know the first thing about carrying a baby. About being a hospitable home to something that is, right now, probably smaller than a coffee bean itself. Behind the counter, someone turns on the coffee grinder and my stomach clenches. I order a bottle of water and a plain croissant.
There’s an open table by the window, where the sun floods in so hot that I begin to sweat as soon as I sit down. I pull out my phone, log in to the café’s Wi-Fi—password “FowlPlay,” according to the sign on the wall—and do a search for “Astrid Sullivan Foster New Hampshire.” I came to Foster for one reason only: to trigger memories. The problem is—other than crossing the town border, I have no idea where to start. The whole drive over, I kept telling myself that if I can recover more images—or put the ones I have into context—I can make better sense of what I might have seen. Then maybe I can help the police find who’s taken Astrid now.
I’m scrolling through search results—the Wikipedia page I’ve already read, the Amazon listing for her book—when the name I’m reading over and over is suddenly spoken aloud. Looking up, I register the TV mounted to the wall, and my lips part as Astrid’s face fills the screen. The freckle beneath her eyebrow is faint beneath the sun’s glare, but it’s there. It’s there.
“Hey, Chelsea, can you turn that up?” A woman standing near my table gestures to the TV and the barista picks up a remote. The volume crescendos and the customers fall into a hush as they angle their heads toward the screen.
“… that it’ll be soon, but police say their tip line is still open to anyone who can