and picket fenced—but stabbed into the front lawn is a For Sale sign, its corners rounded and chipped, as if it’s weathered several seasons.
I pull up behind the van—WKRZ, News Without the Snooze—and roll my window down. The heat barrels into my car. There’s a cameraman and a reporter standing in front of the Sullivans’ house. As the reporter fidgets with her hair, then counts down from five to one, I lean closer to the window so I can hear her better.
“Thanks, Mark,” she says. “I’m standing outside the front lawn in Foster where, twenty years ago, Astrid Sullivan was last seen before she disappeared. The kidnapping, on the afternoon of June 24, 2000, occurred during a party celebrating her Confirmation at St. Cecilia’s Catholic Church. At the time, Sullivan’s father, Jacob Sullivan, told WKRZ, quote, ‘She was right there at the party, until suddenly she wasn’t,’ words that became a warning to parents everywhere that, even in seemingly safe communities like this one, danger can be as close as your own front yard.”
She gestures to the lawn behind her. Its parched yellow grass is a stark contrast to the lawns on adjacent properties. Those have unnaturally green blades that look sharp enough to slice through leather soles.
“But in Astrid Sullivan’s recent memoir,” the reporter continues, “which reached number five on the New York Times bestseller list this week, she reveals that it was only when she snuck away from that party that her abductor was able to apprehend her. Some Foster residents, especially those who attended the party that day, have been critical of this fact, claiming that Sullivan made herself a target by leaving the safety of her family and friends. Now, some of those same people wonder if she recently made another, quote, ‘reckless and immature decision’ that led to her disappearance in Ridgeway, Maine, twelve days ago.”
In a moment, the reporter relaxes and fluffs her hair again. Stuck on this side of the camera, I can only assume that WKRZ is playing footage of an interview, but—reckless and immature decision? Made herself a target? At school, one of the first things I do when working with a student is assure them that, whatever bad thing has happened to them, it’s not their fault. They’ll try to tell me how they cried too loudly when their mother was sick, so she died to keep from hearing them. Or they knew their stepdad didn’t want them in his room, but they snuck in anyway. They’ll be clutching arms with bruises, pulling down their sleeves to cover scratches, and still, they’ll find any way possible to take the blame.
I wonder what my child will blame itself for.
Milk that doesn’t come. Clothes that aren’t warm enough. Turning around for one second in which a man comes along and— No. Not now. I’m here for Astrid right now. Astrid who might have left her own party but did not ask to be snatched. Did not ask to be kept in a basement, terrified and alone. And definitely did not ask to be freed for twenty years only to be taken a second time. It’s chilling—how her town would turn against her.
I squint at the house that looms behind the reporter. I don’t recognize it at all. I’m wasting my time parked along this curb. There’s another car behind me now, and I pull out of the space they’ve wedged me into.
Driving through the neighborhood, I look for something that will snag a memory. I see houses so indistinguishable from one another that I wonder if I’m going in circles. I see swing sets so large they belong at parks. I see children playing at the edges of yards and dogs sniffing at the edges of fences. But I don’t see Astrid. I don’t see a man, masked or otherwise, who grabs her by the waist and drags her away.
Eventually, one of the streets in this labyrinthine neighborhood spits me back onto the road where Cock-a-doodle Coffee was. There are quaint little storefronts lined on either side of me: Gifts & Gardens, Books & Birds, Tom’s Tackle. Foster loves alliteration, apparently, but even with these memorable names, none of it is familiar.
I pass a town green with a gazebo in its center. There’s a sign for an upcoming art fair, and there are kids doing cartwheels, adults with their noses in books. I scour the grass for anyone who looks sinister, but the worst I see is a little boy chasing a