Now You See Her Page 0,62
That one over there.” Liam pointed with his chin across the street at a pink house with green trim and a purple front door.
“That’s where she lives?” Pink was Devon’s least-favorite color. Too girly, she’d always proclaimed, even as a child refusing to wear the pink dresses Marcy had bought her.
“Fifteen Goat Street,” Liam said, pulling a scrap of paper out of his pocket and checking the address. “That’s what I’ve got written down.”
Marcy took a deep breath, feeling her legs grow weak.
“Are you all right?”
“I just can’t imagine Devon living in a pink house on a street named Goat.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out.” He stepped off the curb.
“Wait. What if she’s not home?”
“Then we’ll go somewhere for a cup of tea and come back later.”
“What if she won’t see me?”
“We won’t give her that choice. Marcy,” he said patiently, “what is it? What’s the matter?”
“I’m scared.”
“Don’t be.” He took her hand, led her across the street to the red front door. “Do you want to knock or shall I?”
“I’ll do it.” Marcy lifted the shamrock-shaped brass knocker and banged it against the door.
No response.
“She’s not home,” Marcy whispered, fighting back tears.
“Try again. I thought I heard something.”
Marcy put her ear to the door. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Try again.”
Marcy knocked louder.
Still no response.
“What if she looked out the window and saw me?” Marcy asked. “What if she saw it was me and now she won’t answer the door?”
In response, Liam took the knocker from her hand and banged it adamantly against the wood.
“She’s not here,” Marcy said, deflated.
“Wait,” Liam said. “I’m sure I hear someone moving around.”
“She won’t answer. She won’t see me.”
“Just a minute,” a woman’s voice suddenly called from inside. “I’ll be right there. Hold your horses.”
“Oh, God,” Marcy said, holding her breath as the door fell open.
A young woman with short blond hair and wide, questioning eyes stood on the other side. She looked from Marcy to Liam and then back to Marcy. “Can I help you?” she asked.
Marcy opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“We’re looking for Audrey,” Liam said in her stead.
“She in some sort of trouble?” the young woman asked.
“No,” he replied. “We just want to talk to her.”
“What about?”
“Who are you?” Liam asked.
“Who are you?” the girl asked in return.
“My name’s Liam. This is Marcy Taggart, Audrey’s mother.”
The young woman’s eyes shot to Marcy. “Audrey’s mother, is it?”
“Yes,” Marcy said, more a sigh than a word. Then stronger, “I’m Dev—Audrey’s mother.”
“Well, fancy that. Audrey,” she called toward the dark center of the house. “You better get over here. There’s someone to see you.”
“Yeah? Who is it? I’m a little busy at the moment, trying to rescue your muffins.”
“Been cooking,” the girl explained sheepishly, her eyes never leaving Marcy. “The muffins can wait,” she called back. “You’ve got a visitor.”
“Who is it?” Cautious footsteps approached.
“See for yourself.”
A young woman stepped out of the dark hall into a warm spotlight of sun.
Marcy took one look at the girl’s long brown hair and sad dark eyes. Then she fainted in Liam’s arms.
“WE NEED TO talk,” Marcy said to her daughter.
She was standing in the doorway to Devon’s bedroom. Outside, a cold rain was coming down in sheets and a strong October wind was blowing the remaining orange and red leaves off the tall maple tree on the front lawn and splattering them across the windows of Devon’s room.
“I don’t want to talk,” Devon said, plopping down on her unmade bed.
“Then you don’t have to,” Marcy said, stepping gingerly into the room and navigating her way carefully around the discarded clothes covering the beige carpet. Marcy recognized some of the items as recent purchases from a shopping trip she’d taken Devon on, hoping to cheer her up. The clothes now lay crumpled on the floor, their price tags still in place. “I’ll talk. You listen.”
Devon shrugged. She was wearing a pair of yellow flannel pajamas that Marcy had bought her the previous Christmas. The clerk had forgotten to remove the plastic tag filled with dye that stores often affixed to clothes in an effort to cut down on shoplifting, but Marcy had somehow made it out of the store without setting off any bells and whistles. The tag now clung to the cuff of Devon’s pajama bottoms. Devon had never bothered taking them back to the store and asking someone to remove it. Marcy had once remarked that it looked like one of those electronic ankle bracelets the courts sometimes made