as I’m concerned—as far as we’re all concerned—she brought this on herself. God, in his heavenly wisdom, knows what to do with disobedient children. So he brought in an outsider that day, and when Astrid chose to leave her parents’ party, she became a temptation for that man. And the man was wicked, of course—but Astrid has wickedness in her, too.”
For several seconds, I don’t say anything. I can’t even conjure some words to speak. I breathe shakily through the silence, and by the time I’m able to attempt a response, she’s already hung up.
I drop my head into my hands. Rub my temples until they throb.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard something like this. The news reporter in Foster said residents believe Astrid made herself a target. But this woman—she believes something even worse: that Astrid’s kidnapping was a punishment from God. A punishment Astrid actually deserved—for being defiant, for being disobedient, for having wickedness inside her.
Astrid wrote nearly the same thing about herself in her memoir. Just this morning, I went back and read that passage so many times I have it memorized: My throat became raw with screaming, but the discomfort was something I believed I deserved. I had made my promises to God. I had committed myself to his teachings and commandments. But I did not honor my mother and father. And he had seen fit to punish me. My eyes watered when I read that. It reminded me so much of my students, the kids who blame themselves for the wounds someone else inflicts. Astrid was fourteen when she had these thoughts. Still very much a kid herself. But the woman on the phone—how could she think that too?
She brought this on herself, the woman said. As far as I’m concerned As far as we’re all concerned. She hit hard on that all, drawing out the vowel, and I wonder if she was referring to Father Murphy. If he, too, believes that what happened to Astrid was a righteous act of God.
And if he does, would he even take seriously his responsibility to the police? Would he scour his memories for every detail he might have previously overlooked? Or would he think, It’s in God’s hands now—just like that woman? What’s done is done.
* * *
The trees blur by as I head back to Ted’s. My breath comes out in huffs. I learned nothing at Rusty’s, apart from what I already knew: it’s up to me to find Astrid.
But these phone calls to literary agents, to churches with priests who have washed their hands of it all—I’ve only been wasting more time. While I sat at Rusty’s desk, staring at the crumbs between the letters of his keyboard, Astrid was in a basement somewhere. Or a dim room. Or behind a red door.
If she’s even still alive.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. I can feel the frantic ticking of my pulse, that wire connected to my heart. It’s getting faster and faster, and if I don’t figure this out soon, I’m going to explode.
I’ve read the chapters about Lily, I’ve spoken to everyone I can think of, but I’m no closer to remembering what will help me find Astrid.
I squint at the street ahead, as if I’ll find those memories laid out on the road. And in a few more seconds, I see him. The drifter. He’s in that dark outfit again—black on black on black, every inch of him covered.
Who would wear that in the summer?
Men who don’t want to be seen.
Who would prowl these streets without a destination?
Monsters who search for prey.
My foot slams against the gas pedal, my car rockets ahead, and I skid to a stop at an angle in front of him—all before he has the chance to react. To scamper off into the woods like the cowards that monsters probably are.
It’s the most reckless I’ve ever been, and he seems shocked by the near miss, his muscles stalled.
I roll down my window. “Who are you?” I shout.
There’s another moment in which he doesn’t move. The air is hot as I breathe it in. Then he takes a step toward me.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” he asks.
His voice is scratchy, as if he’s gone too long without speaking. Without water. As if he’s been living off cans of Sprite. His face is shadowed by the hood of his raincoat, but I can see some creases in his skin. He isn’t young.