The Girl Who Stopped Swimming - By Joshilyn Jackson Page 0,91
a closed course. She had to stop because two small boys were racing a dog straight up the middle of Gaskell Street. They were deep in some pretend, flailing their arms and zigzagging back and forth, and they didn’t hear the Volvo coming up behind them. Thalia leaned on the horn, and they looked over their shoulders and then stopped and sauntered out of the way with such maddening slowness that Laurel, sitting in the passenger seat, wanted to leap out just long enough to spank them. She couldn’t even roll down the window and bless them out; she had Carly Berman’s mother on the cell phone. She’d met the woman about a hundred times at dance recitals and school carnivals and neighborhood potlucks, but now she couldn’t remember her name to save her life.
“No, she hasn’t been here,” said Carly’s mother, sounding completely unconcerned. “Yvonne Feng is over playing, though. Want me to go ask?”
“Yes, please,” Laurel said. She could hear Carly’s mother clip-clopping away, calling, “Girls!” as if the word were two syllables.
In the backseat, David was on the phone with the Pensacola police department, saying, “No, she didn’t leave a note. But you don’t pack a suitcase to go get a Slurpee.”
“Breathe, Laurel,” Thalia said. “Ten to one they aren’t with Stan Webelow. They’re probably at a friend’s house, hiding out and being stupid.”
“I know,” Laurel said. Through the phone, she could hear the high gabble of Carly talking with her mother. “Why don’t we own a gun?”
“I wish you did,” Thalia said. “Hell, I own two guns, and I’m a registered Democrat.”
David said into his phone, “My wife is checking with her friends right now.” Then he put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “Stop saying the word ‘gun,’” in a low, emphatic voice. “The police are sending someone to the house. We need to be there to meet them.”
“We’ll be back at your place in ten minutes,” Thalia said. She turned in to Stan Webelow’s driveway.
Carly’s mother was back. “No, they haven’t talked to Shelby—”
Laurel snapped her phone shut and tossed it on the floorboards. She was out the door before Thalia had come to a complete stop, running for the front door with David hard on her heels. She took the front porch steps two at a time and jammed her thumb into the bell.
David reached around her and tried the door. It was locked. Laurel hit the bell again, and they waited twenty endless seconds. David pounded the door hard five times, in a motion that was somewhere between knocking and punching it with the side of his balled fist.
Thalia came bounding up the steps, saying, “He’s home. His car’s in the garage.”
David pounded the door again.
Laurel took three ragged breaths, one after another, and then said, “Call the police back. Have them come straight here.”
“Screw that,” Thalia said. “You really think she could be in there?”
“We know he had Molly here before,” Laurel said.
Thalia said, “Okay, then,” and stepped back, thinking.
Stan Webelow’s porch was painted crisp white and trimmed in gingerbread. A large window overlooked the yard; Stan still had Cookie’s pair of wrought-iron sweetheart chairs sitting in front of it, one on either side of a matching tea cart. In Cookie’s day, the tea cart had been loaded with potted plants, but it stood empty now. Thalia picked up the closest chair. It was heavy; Laurel could see the sinews shifting in Thalia’s arms as she tested the weight.
Thalia got a good grip, one hand on the heart-shaped curl of the back, one on the base, and then swung the chair hard at the window, feet first. The panes shattered inward, the chair legs sending the drapes swinging, but the frame held. The chair stopped with its base still outside, braced against the wood.
Thalia let go of the chair, and it fell to tilt down at a crazy angle. She leaned in to yell, “Shelby! Shelby Ann!” through the hole.
David took two strides and grabbed Thalia’s arms just below her shoulders. He had them pinned to her sides as he moved her out of the way like more patio furniture. Thalia kicked outward and yelled, “Hey!” But he was already setting her down by the rail.
He swung around to pick up the tea cart in one smooth, fluid motion. He smashed it into the hanging chair, putting them both all the way through into the house, splintering the wooden window frame. The chair shot through and banged into something solid