Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,31

in.”

“I know.”

“So I heard from Julie, and she says she hopes you come to the baby’s party.”

“Oh, does she now? Interesting turnaround.”

Julie, my dad’s sister, and her husband Rick always had a special connection with Billy, never having had any sons of their own. Rick, Dad, and Billy went hunting every November as soon as Billy could hold a rifle.

At the funeral she managed a limp condolence hug for me, and the rest of the time glared and whispered. Rick couldn’t even look me in the eye.

“They were grieving, too,” Mom says now, as if that makes it all fine. “They know it’s not really your fault.”

“Not really but kind of? Thanks for the ringing endorsement.”

“Edna, honey, that’s not what I meant, of course we don’t blame you.”

They may not have blamed me, but I do remember my mother grilling me for every detail of that night, and how she focused an awful lot on the fact that I talked my brother into coming to the party, and the reason he started fighting in the first place.

“Whatever, they could barely look at me back then, and now they want me to show up? Why, so they can gossip about me some more?”

“Maybe they want to make it right.”

“Sure they do. Well, tell them—”

The front door swings open. It’s Angel.

“If you care, Dad has some clues about Dylan.”

“I gotta run,” I say, and “Love you, Mom” because even when we fight I say it, considering. You just never know what the future brings.

I walk back in, and Jewel wrinkles her nose. I know I’ve come in with waves of stench. I can’t smell it myself, I’m immune, I think, but I see it in other people’s faces.

“Go ahead,” I say, while I dampen my cigarette with water before I drop it in the kitchen trash, hurrying back to the front room.

Michael looks like a schoolteacher, still in his work clothes, standing up in front of the fireplace while everyone else sits. Jewel is cross-legged on the floor. Angel and Mallory sit like double vision on the couch. I take the uncomfortable wooden rocking chair.

“Well. This is what we’ve found. He’s been writing this Tiffany girl for months now. From what I can tell, they met on Facebook. They think they’re in love, and they decided to run away together.”

I sneak a look at Mallory. She’s staring with intensity at Michael, and worrying a thumbnail in her teeth.

Michael goes on: “It would seem they picked today to run away, and they’re trying to get to New York City.”

“And how did they think they were going to get there?” Mallory asks now, prompting, since she must already know the answer herself.

“They’re taking a bus. I think they dealt with specifics over the phone, though, because the messages get more vague as they get more recent.”

“Her number’s disconnected now, though,” Mallory says with a wave of her hand as I open my mouth to ask if they’ve tried to call it.

“So our next step,” Michael says, “is to call the police, because it seems that two minor children are alone somewhere out there on buses trying to get to a huge, dangerous city.”

Mallory leans back on the couch, pulling her knees up to her chest, toying with the sleeves of Michael’s big sweater. “He was smart enough not to hitchhike, I’ll give him that.”

Jewel pipes up. “So he’s okay, then.”

Mallory answers, “You bet, J. The cops will find him at a bus station somewhere, and then we’ll tar his butt as soon as he gets back home.”

Michael swallows hard and then folds the printouts carefully, running over the crease with his fingers again and again. “I hope you feel better now, kids. It’s getting late, Jewel, you should probably get ready for bed.”

“Awwwww, Dad!”

“Mike, you told them they didn’t have to go to school tomorrow. What difference does it really make?”

Michael’s jaw goes tight, and he walks out abruptly. “I’m going upstairs to call the police station.”

“Mom?” Jewel asks. “Can we make popcorn? The old way, on the stove, with butter?”

“Sure, baby! You got it.” Mallory bounces off the couch and takes command in the kitchen. Jewel trails after her, talking to her about dinosaurs and alligators.

Angel remains on the couch, eyes fixed on the floor. She looks washed-out, her face blending into her pale hair.

I sit down on the couch, close enough to be considered next to her, but far enough not to be invasive, so I hope. I’ve never gotten good at