CLEO

Cleo

SEVEN HOURS GONE

I sit cross-legged on my bed, chewing on my cuticle as I stare at my mom's closed laptop. I felt so determined leaving the house with the computer in my bag. But as I rode the F train back to Manhattan, the fear crept back in. The blood, the broken glass—what, exactly, do I hope to find on her laptop that would make that any better? I think about the dating that I know nothing about, the profile picture that looks like a version of my mom I've never met. And behind it all, this new hideous stuff about her life at that hellhole Haven House … Was it really just bad luck that she'd been so old when Gladys adopted her?

With the clock closing in on 1:00 a.m., the laptop feels like it's dragging me down to a dark place rooted in one awful truth: that whatever I find will inevitably lead to proof that she might already be—that the worst has happened. And so I'm left hoping that I will find something on my mom's computer and hoping that I will not.

Turns out my mom's Facebook log-in is saved in this computer's browser, no need for that password. I feel a little twinge of guilt: Detective Wilson wants the social media passwords. But what I said to my dad is true: I'll turn the laptop over as soon as I'm sure there's not something important on there.

My mom's Facebook profile isn't exactly a treasure trove of information anyway. Barely active, she has only 196 friends. Those 196 "friends" include the moms of my friends and my coaches and people at my old dance school. And my dad's family. So, it's a padded 196. I have four thousand Instagram followers, almost all of whom I consider friends. Not good friends, of course not. Okay, maybe friends is even the wrong word. But I do know all of them. Who knows only two hundred people?

But all my mom does is work. She's always been totally obsessed with her job, which is one of the things I actually respect about her. And when she's not working … well, I've never really thought about it. She hangs out around the house, I guess. She's always been kind of an introvert, a few-close-friends kind of person.

I study my mom's Facebook profile picture. Mainly it's of me at five or six, riding piggyback on her in Cape Cod. I'm looking at the camera, laughing with my mouth open, but her face is barely visible under a big sun hat. Like I was the most important part of her.

I look away from the picture and swallow a burn that blazes up the back of my throat as I start scanning her page. Maybe she was selling something and someone came to pick it up? Although that sounds like the last thing in the world my mom would have time to do. And anyway, she hasn't posted to her account in almost a year, and before that it was only requests for renovation recommendations—contractors, flooring, electricians. All the posts start with Hi, everyone! as if she's writing a letter. Oh, Mom, so cringe.

Scrolling back even further, I spot some posts about me and college—looking for a college counselor, essay help, SAT tutoring. Back even earlier—way earlier, but it doesn't take much to get there because my mom hardly posts—there's a message saying a "friend" is looking for a therapist who specializes in sex and relationship education for teens. I check the date. Sure enough, it was right after I told her I'd had sex with Charlie. My cheeks flame. But I'm not embarrassed—I'm mad. No, not mad. Mad would be easier. I'm hurt. That my mom saw me as a problem to solve.

At least she hadn't returned to the Facebook well more recently to ask for drug counselor recs. Of course, when it came to Kyle, she was way more right than wrong in the end. Not right to threaten me; that was out of control. But right about how dangerous Kyle was. Dangerous enough that I need to face the possibility that he's responsible for what has happened to my mom. Like he did something to her as some kind of sick way to get back at me. Except why now? It wouldn't make any sense.

I should tell Detective Wilson about Kyle, just in case. I will, too. But I am afraid of admitting out loud that my own stupid choices might have something to do with this. Unless it was her bad choices. Online dating?

"Where are you, Mom?" I whisper, staring at the screen. "Where the hell are you?"

I close the Facebook window and switch back to the dating site, which I've been careful to leave open in the browser. And there, once again, are all the little pictures, all those chats with random men, all so pathetic. So beneath my mom.

The second chat at the top, below the surfer Oscar, is with someone named Peter. My mom opened with a "Hi!" And he responded with a "Hiya, how are you today?"

The exchange goes on, awkwardly, and yet my mom, for some psychotic reason, hands over her number at the end. There are no further messages between her and Peter after that. They ended about a month ago. All the dating exchanges did. Maybe some had turned to texting. I don't have any way to know. We don't have her phone.

Peter is not objectively unattractive, but he's also not remotely in the same league as my dad—much shorter, much less hair. Glancing at the other profiles, none of the other men can compete, either. My dad really is very good-looking, especially considering he's ten years older than my mom. He's also in great shape. He's got a whole aging Brad Pitt thing going on. Like people have actually said it to him on the street—I've seen it. And yet here my mom was choosing these other idiots. Or maybe she wasn't choosing them. Maybe she was choosing not to be with my dad.

The next two chats ended without the exchange of a phone number, only with my mom's silence. A small "Your Move" banner encouraging her to reply. A third guy opens with "Hey, Sexy" and a smiley face with hearts for eyes that makes me want to puke. At least my mom didn't answer. Still, I can't stand the sight of that emoji, sitting there assaulting her in-box. I go to tap on "Unmatch," but I stop myself just in time—what if that guy is the guy? I shouldn't erase suspects.

I want to do something, though. Maybe I could reach out and say hello. See what happens. If this guy is the guy, maybe I'll be able to tell by his response, or by his not responding. As my hands move toward the keys, there's a knock at my door. I look up, hoping I imagined it. But then it comes again—pounding now. Jennie from across the hall? Everything with that girl is some kind of emergency.

"Jesus! Hold on!"

I jerk open the door, and Geoff is standing there, shoulders hunched, hair a mess. He looks pissed off, wild-eyed. Not exactly what you want to see in a drug addict.

"There you are!"

"Geoff … What are you—what's … up?" He doesn't live in my building or particularly near it. "It's, um, one a.m."

"I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Me?"

"Kyle cut me off, because of you."

Shit. This wasn't supposed to be happening anymore. That was the whole point of the two thousand dollars—for Kyle to call off the dogs, also known as my former customers. Or not my customers, Kyle's customers that I delivered to. Since we broke up, he's been cutting them off and blaming me. His form of enter tainment. Most of them have found another dealer. But a few have freaked out and hunted me down, demanding explanations I don't have. That's the problem with a trust-fund drug dealer: Kyle doesn't care nearly as much about losing clients or money as he does about his bruised ego. For a second, he'd actually seemed relieved when I broke up with him, but then his natural pettiness had set in. But the two thousand dollars—the completely random figure he decided I "owed" him to make up for his trouble—was supposed to put an end to it, and yet here's Geoff, totally pissed off at me.

I step back and start to close the door a little. "Listen, Geoff, I'm sorry, but—"

He slams a flattened palm against the door, wedging it open wider. Whoa. This is way out of character for a nerdy bio major, even one addicted to Ritalin.

"You need to call Kyle," he says. His eyes are red at the edges. He's coming down hard.

"That won't help your situation any."

"Try," Geoff says, taking a step closer. He's looming over me now. "Get him to change his mind. Like right now."

"I'm sorry, Geoff, really, but I—"

"You're sorry ?" Spit sprays in my face. "What good does that do me?"

Should I call Kyle? I mean, I could. I can't imagine he'd pick up … But no. I'm not getting sucked back in. No matter what Geoff wants.

"I'm sorry, I can't call him."

Geoff's upper lip curls and I think he might launch himself at me. But then, just as quickly, he deflates.

"You really are a selfish bitch, Cleo." He says this flatly, like he's stating a simple fact. "Annie was right."

"Wait—Annie? What are you talking about?"

"Your old friend. Remember?" He laughs meanly. "Wow, does she not like you."

"Did you—did Annie tell you where I live? Did you go to my house in Brooklyn, looking for me?" Now it's my turn to step toward him. "Did you see my mom?"

If Geoff came looking for me in this strung-out state, my mom would have guessed right away that it had something to do with Kyle. I can only imagine the things she would have said. She might have even threatened to go to the police.

"Sure, Cleo, your mom and I were hanging out. What the fuck are you talking about?" he says. "Listen, I'll try Kyle again on my own. But if I can't get to him, I'm coming back."

When Geoff takes a step back, I slam and lock the door.

I hesitate a moment before texting Will. The situation with my mom has me up in my head, seeing him through her insanely critical eyes. But I need Will right now. And that says something. You awake?

Will replies before my second thoughts have time to take hold. Any word on your mom?

I'm about to say some version of Everything's fine. But everything is so far from fine. I'm afraid of what's happened to my mom. I'm freaked out that Geoff showed up at my door. I'm scared that the two things are connected. I'm scared even if they're not.

I'm not great, to be honest. No word on my mom.

You want me to come over?

Yes. Come. But we both know it's more complicated than that.

That's okay. Tomorrow night maybe?

Yes. Definitely. And if you change your mind …

I add a little heart to his last message. So relieved I kept it together. Nothing reads more desperate than clingy late-night texts.

I reach over and close my mom's laptop. But as my head hits the pillow, I notice her journal sitting on the nightstand alongside my bed. I grab it and flip to a spot after that last awful entry I read earlier.

They're introducing clubs at Haven House!

Clubs. See, like at any other school. There were bound to be some less-than-ideal conditions at a place like Haven House—it wasn't a cushy boarding school. My mom had never hidden that part from me. But there was also no way it was all as terrifying as that one entry. Otherwise, my mom could never be the insane overachiever she is.

Director Daitch introduced the clubs as part of this new "improvement project" he's doing. So Haven House can be less like Rikers Island. There's a rumor that the state has been sniffing around, that somebody who got adopted out made complaints. I hope about Silas. Word is that Director Daitch is also trying to get some fancy new job at a regular school. He wants to show that he can treat us like regular kids. So … after-school clubs.

Of course, we'll never be regular kids. No matter how many books we read or how hard we smile. Some damage can't be undone.

I flip ahead to a dog-eared page. It's written in careful script.

She loved him in that way young girls do, utterly senseless and deeply brave.

It takes me a minute to realize it's the opening of a short story my mom wrote. Where did that version of her go? I feel like she and I would have gotten along.

Okay, so fine—I do like the writing club. I like the kid who runs it, even if he has that Ivy League way about him. All the tutors do—I mean, they go to Yale. But this one tutor guy, Reed (?), at least doesn't look at us like we're pathetic animals. He sees us as we are. Just kids.

It's just after six in the morning when Lauren opens her apartment door. I'm gripping my mom's laptop against my chest like a flotation device. I'm running out of time before I'll have to hand it over. I know that. I'll let go of it as soon as I'm a little closer to shore.

Lauren wraps her arms tight around me, pressing the computer between us. She's got her glasses on, hair back in a headband, wearing adorable but stained Alo Yoga pants and a threadbare Columbia Law sweatshirt. Lauren is gorgeous, with amber-flecked eyes and flawless skin. Always so pulled together, too. There's something comforting about her being a little disheveled right now. Like she's as upset as I am.

"Oh my God, sweetheart," she whispers into my hair.

Lauren lives in an apartment in Tribeca with her husband and their twin girls, who are ten or eleven—or at least way younger than I am. Kid kids. Behind Lauren, I see her husband, Jake, appear sleepily in the hall.

"Everything okay?" he calls out in a whisper.

"I'm so sorry," I say quietly. "I should have called. Your kids must be asleep."

She waves her husband off. "Don't be silly. I'm so glad you're here. Come in, come in."

The apartment is one of those beautiful old lofts with huge original windows. Tasteful and lovely but not obscenely over-the-top. Her husband is a banker but "not the richest kind," Lauren always jokes. As she ushers me into the living room, I can see a peakaboo view of the Empire State Building, the uptown sky turning a pinkish gray behind it.

"Has there been any word?"

When I shake my head, tears flood my eyes. I press my lips together to stifle the sob I can feel in my throat.

"Hey, hey, let's sit," Lauren says. She takes off her glasses and glances at my mom's computer, which I'm still gripping tightly. She pries it gently from my hands and puts it on the table. "Do you want some water or something?"

"No, I'm okay." I shake my head as I lower myself onto the couch. "I wanted to see—do you know anything about the guys my mom has been dating?"

This is what I've come to ask. I need to know if they could be involved. I need to understand why my mom was doing it in the first place.

"Dating?" Lauren asks with an exaggerated frown. She's a terrible liar. Of course she is. She's a prosecutor. Her whole life is about the truth.

"I know they're separated, Lauren. My dad told me," I say. "And I found the dating site." I nod toward the computer for emphasis. "My mom was messaging with people, going out with them. I want to be sure none of them had anything to do with what's happened to her."

"Somebody she met online?" Lauren asks. "I don't think she took any of that very seriously."

"Maybe that's the problem—she didn't take it seriously enough. I mean, these guys, they're pretty bad. I don't know what she was thinking …"

"Whoa, Cleo," Lauren says, sitting down on the couch next to me. "We're not blaming your mom for what happened to her, are we? Because no matter what happened, it's not her fault, right?"

"Um, have you seen the guys?" I snap. "I'm sorry, but given that she felt free to have a whole lot of opinions about the guys in my life, it kind of seems—" Hypocritical. That's what I would have said if my voice hadn't cracked.

Lauren's eyes flutter shut. When she opens them, she stretches an arm across the back of the couch, fingertips resting gently on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry. I know how upsetting this must be. And I know that lately you and your mom didn't always see eye to eye."

"Lately?" I ask. "Try for the past ten years."

Lauren is quiet for a moment. "Listen, I know better than anybody that your mom is wound tight. You should have seen her law school outlines and all their teeny-tiny type. It was like they were written by the Unabomber. And I know she's gotten fixated on some pretty trivial stuff with you—I told her that. She tried her best to dial it back. But you need to know that everything your mother ever did—it's just because she was trying to protect you. She loves you so much."

"That's love, huh?" I mutter.

"Come on, you know it's true." She nudges me. "Your mom worries about you. And by your mom, I kind of mean all moms." She smiles. "Ask my girls. Your mom isn't the only one who can be a little rigid. But with her, sometimes I think what she intends as love doesn't always come across that way. I'm her best friend and I can see that. But I will tell you that your mom loves you more than anything. I think that because of how she grew up … she can't help seeing the world as a place so dangerous, it needs to be controlled."

"And how did she grow up, exactly ?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"I found an old journal of hers about that Haven House place," I say. "First of all, she was there for longer than I realized. And it sounded way worse than she ever talked about. I didn't read that much—"

"Good, don't—I mean, it is her journal. I'm sure your mom wants that to stay private."

"Right, because she excels at respecting other people's privacy."

Lauren shoots me a look. "Okay, well, number one: not the same thing. You're the kid; she's the parent. Number two: We've established that your mom isn't so great at boundaries because she worried. Number three, from what I hear, it sounds like she had good reason to be keeping tabs on you."

Of course my mom would have told her about Kyle. I'm annoyed. But also ashamed. For a split second, my mind jumps to Will. My mom's judgment is easier to dismiss than Lauren's.

"Because I was dating somebody who was—fine—a drug dealer, that doesn't mean I don't have any human ri—" My voice cracks again. And then I'm sinking so fast, I can't breathe.

Lauren wraps her arms around me, and I finally lose it. I tug her big sweatshirt into my clenched fists as I sob. It's a big, messy explosion. When it's over, I lean back and wipe at my eyes, embarrassed.

"I'm sorry."

Lauren squeezes my hand. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"I just want to—I need to do something to help find her," I say.

"Do you think the police aren't on top of it? Because I might be able to make some calls through the U.S. attorney's office and push things along on that front."

"I think they're on top of it. I mean, I guess. There is this Detective Wilson, who seems okay. But if you could double-check, that would be good. I can't sit around and wait for them to find something, though. I think this dating thing … It's—it doesn't seem like her."

"For the record, I was the one who encouraged her to do that," Lauren admits. "I wanted her to realize how great she is."

I make a face and gesture at the computer. "Again, have you seen these people?"

Lauren grimaces. "I'm not saying it was my best idea. Anyway, I really don't think what happened has to do with anyone she dated online. As far as I know, she stopped talking to all of them after she met this guy Doug, whom she really liked. She met him through work. She had been seeing a lot of him lately …"

"And?"

She sighs. "He was killed in a car accident. They'd only known each other a few weeks, but I felt bad for your mom. She was starting to really have feelings for him. And he had a daughter your age."

"That's terrible," I say.

"It was. And for your mom, especially after everything she's been through."

"Was it really that bad?"

She nods. "Worse. Did she tell you about her parents?"

"She said they left when she was a kid; that's it. And that she didn't know where they went."

"They left her. Four years old. They locked her in the house with some water and a loaf of bread. The mailman found her days later."

"That's—that's terrible," I say again, and I feel like an idiot.

"Extra hard to be a mom when your own mom did that," Lauren says quietly.

I put a hand on my hot neck. "Yeah. Why didn't she tell me?"

"I think maybe she didn't want the bad things that had happened to her to become part of your story. She wanted you to have a ‘normal' mom—whatever that means. A good childhood." Lauren leans back and crosses her arms. "So, what is your dad saying?"

"You talked to him. What did he say to you?"

"I didn't talk to him." Lauren shakes her head. "Detective Wilson called me. Your dad must have given her my information, but he never called me himself."

"Oh, I thought … I must have misunderstood." But I didn't. My dad lied about talking to Lauren.

"But he told you about the separation?" she asks.

I nod. "He said, ‘No one did anything wrong. We can't be mar ried anymore. But it's all fine and good.' Even though none of it makes any sense."

Lauren studies her hands. "Well … your dad—" she starts.

"What about him?"

Lauren looks up at me like I know full well what she means. "Listen, you know there's no love lost between us. Is he being … helpful?"

"I think so, yes," I say quickly. I know how Lauren feels about my dad. And I'm not feeling great about him right now, either. "I mean, he's not so good with … executing."

Lauren smiles ruefully. "That's one way of putting it …" She's quiet again, traces a line in the couch with her fingernail.

"What?"

"No, nothing."

"Lauren, I can tell there's something else."

"I don't want to talk out of turn about your dad."

"Please. I want to know. I need to."

"I know he and your mom had also been arguing a bit lately about … money."

"Money?"

"Your dad apparently wanted a loan for his latest project? I guess he ran into some financing problems. It was a lot of money. From her inheritance. It would have been nearly all of it. And you know how she feels about touching that money."

Maybe my dad didn't feel like this was relevant. But still I hear my mom's voice in my ear: A lie of omission is a lie all the same.

"I'm sure that was a hard no."

"Last I heard. And your dad was really not happy about that."

"I can imagine," I say.

"There is something else that I think you should know … But it's really not good. It might upset you. Actually, it will definitely upset you."

"Tell me," I say. "If you think I should know—I trust you."

"It makes your dad look … bad," she says, eyeing me point edly. It's a warning—my last one. "I also don't think—I'm not saying—I'm sure it's not relevant to what's happening with your mom right now. But it also doesn't seem ir relevant." She's stalling.

"Lauren …"

"Fine, fine—your dad is having an affair, or at least was, " Lauren blurts out like she's ripping off a Band-Aid.

My pulse is throbbing in my temples. It feels like my head is going to explode. "What?"

"Well, I guess technically it wouldn't be an affair anymore. But it was with one of his students. Okay, former student—she's his assistant now—but still. Bella?"

I press a fist against my stomach. I don't believe you. But Lauren has no reason to lie. And this is obviously not something she even wants to be telling me. Also, it rings true. I've always had a bad feeling about Bella. She was patronizing and arrogant, but it didn't occur to me in a million years that she was sleeping with my dad. It probably should have.

"Oh." My voice is very quiet.

"That's why your mom asked for the separation. If you ask me, she had plenty of good reasons before. But she would have overlooked those—she was overlooking them. And then she saw some texts Bella sent. Once she realized your dad was having an affair, that was finally the last straw."

If this is true—and I don't have any reason to think it's not—my dad lied. Right to my face and quite convincingly. I wait for the wave of anger to hit, the outrage. But I feel only hollow, gutted.

"Cleo?" Lauren asks. "You look … Are you okay? I'm sorry, I didn't want to upset you …"

I'm standing. I don't remember standing up.

"It's okay. But I should, um, go." I start for the door, feeling wobbly. I want to get out of here before I lose it again. I need to keep moving.

"Cleo," Lauren calls after me. "It doesn't mean—I'm sure your dad is as worried as we are."

"I'm sure," I say.

"Hey, Cleo, really …" Lauren catches up to me, places a hand on my forearm. "She's going to be okay anyway. Your mom knows how to take care of herself."

"Yeah, sounds like it," I say as I open the apartment door. "It also sounds like there was a lot I didn't know."