CLEO

Cleo

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS GONE

I take the north exit out of the West Fourth Street subway station, then walk toward Washington Square Park instead of heading back to my dorm. In case someone's following me. I still didn't see any sign of that car or those men outside when I left my mom's law firm the second time, but it didn't exactly calm my nerves that Jules hadn't responded to any of my follow-up texts asking for an explanation. But then again, maybe that's proof that she's having some kind of episode.

I feel a little better inside Caffe Reggio, smooshed safely into the far corner at a tiny round table. I order a cappuccino, waiting for my heart to slow. I give a start when the door opens a second later, but in comes a thin kid with oversize glasses and an overstuffed backpack—cool-nerdy. I jump again when a phone vibrates on a nearby table. I really need to calm down. I stand up and head over to the window, watch the people headed this way and that, minding their own business. No men. No car.

"Excuse me?" The skinny guy is sitting right below me. I've been hovering over his table in the window. "No offense, but could you not keep standing there?"

"Oh, sorry."

I make my way back to my little table and sit there staring at my mom's closed laptop. I want to check and see if any of the men she was dating have responded to the messages I definitely shouldn't have sent. But another part of me feels sick at the thought, so I place the laptop on the table and dig out her journal instead, buying myself a little time.

November 28, 1992

Silas put a dead rat in my bed! Stuck to a glue trap, tucked it right in between the sheets. I had to throw out my fucking top sheet because there were RAT GUTS all over it.

December 1, 1992

There are only three of us left who Silas hasn't messed with. We're all thirteen or younger. Maybe thirteen is his cutoff. If so I'm running out of time. My birthday is in two weeks. Sometimes when Silas walks by he whispers in my ear, "Tick tock, tick tock." Maybe it's Silas who I'll kill first.

Did he end up doing something to her? I flip to the end of the book. The last entry.

December 26, 1992

Director Daitch has had me locked in this room for thirty-eight hours—at least I think that's how long it's been. It's hard to keep track when you're stuck in a windowless tile box. I've been in lockdown before, enough times that I've learned a few tricks—like the fact that they walk rounds every thirty minutes, and they serve meals at exactly eight, one, and six. It marks the time. But when it goes past a single day, you still lose the thread.

Of course, those other times I was in here weren't my fault. They were just Silas being the sick jerk he is.

This time, though, I deserve to be locked away.

The cold is making it hard to think. It's always freezing—this dumb old building with steam radiators that hiss and pop and clang so much, I know they're going to explode someday.

But there's no radiator in here. Only me. And I already exploded.

She may have explained more in another entry, but there are about ten pages ripped out after that date, and all the rest are blank. I leaf quickly through the journal and notice that other pages have been torn out throughout the book. Holes in the story. But did my mom tear them out, or did someone else? I snap the journal shut. Press my palms down against it. I can feel my hands trembling.

My mom did tell me some things about Haven House. Stories I could have listened to more closely. Openings for me to ask about her life, her own childhood. And it wasn't that I was scared or freaked-out—the truth was, I didn't really care. I never saw my mom as an actual person separate from me. And now that she's a person who's missing, I may never have the chance.

I close my eyes and I'm back at the beach. That day when my mom said I should get in the water and stop being such a baby. But, no, she hadn't actually said that, had she? Those were only the words in my head—me talking to myself—as I stood again at the edge of the ocean later that same day, my skin tight from the sea air, the cold water licking at my toes, hating myself.

"Sorry, we can't all be like fish from birth, like you," I said, shooting her a look when she hadn't even said a word.

I remember the way my mom winced as she looked away and into the sun.

"The first time I saw a pool was in college," she said. "I didn't learn to swim until law school. And it wasn't easy."

I turned then toward the laughter I heard from the beach. Sitting with Janine and my dad in a circle of striped canvas chairs, Annie looked so happy and carefree. She, of course, could swim in the ocean just fine. And the sun was sinking lower now. I was running out of time.

I waded up to my shins. "You'll have to come in with me. And make sure nothing bad happens. The whole time."

"Okay," my mom said without missing a beat. "I will." And the thing is, even as angry and frustrated as I was, I didn't doubt for a second that she would.

My mom held my hand as we marched out and over the waves and then as we treaded water beyond them. My mom made me—helped me—stay out there until I'd calmed down, until I could let go of her hands. Until I stopped begging to return to shore. Until I finally learned how to swim in the ocean. And when we made it back to the beach, I raced away and up the sand without looking back. Because I wanted to tell my dad.

Finally, I open the laptop; there are responses from every one of the men I messaged. Hey! And a Great to hear from you! And a Wow! How have you been? But beneath all those pleasantries there's Randy. And Randy seems pissed.

So I guess you're not dead. I flinch.

I study Randy's profile. A lawyer who lives on the Upper West Side. In the first of his profile pics, he's standing on a boulder at the top of a tree-covered peak. Fit and attractive-ish … maybe. Or at least not totally unattractive. It's hard to tell for sure. He's got on a baseball hat and sunglasses. In the second picture, he's still in the hat and glasses, standing on a boat, holding a large fish—that he's … caught? In the last photo, he's ditched the hat and sunglasses, a small curly-haired dog next to his completely hairless, cartoonish face. I'm not sure what he's trying to accomplish. I only know that it's not working.

Ugh. Mom, you could do so much better than Randy.

Is it possible she doesn't know that? I mean, she's gorgeous. People say we look exactly alike, but that's only from a distance—the same jawline, same facial structure. Up close there's only one truly beautiful one: my mom.

Any chance you could come by Caffe Reggio? In the Village? I ask Randy. Would love to see you. I'll be here until 6:00 p.m.

Three dots appear and disappear, then appear again. As long as you promise to actually be there this time!

My mom must have ghosted Randy. Good for you, Mom.

I'll be here!

Of course, now I realize that I have no strategy planned for once these men show up. Find out if they know anything—that's the point. "People don't have to admit the whole truth to reveal the part that matters," I remember my mom once saying.

I'd rolled my eyes at the time. Everything to her was a teachable moment. "And you're like some kind of expert on this because you're a lawyer?"

I was listening, though. I'd recently learned that Annie was talking about me behind my back at Beacon. She'd denied it, but I had to get to the bottom of it. I was willing to take any tips I could get.

"I guess, in a way," my mom had said.

"Fine, then explain it."

"There are two keys to getting the truth out of someone: the power of silence," my mom said with a knowing smile. "And the art of the open question."

Eventually, she dropped the Yoda act and explained exactly what she meant, even gave examples. And it had worked with Annie. She admitted she had said something mean behind my back. There's a good chance it will work with Randy.

Still, I should have someone else here, for backup. Not Detective Wilson, obviously. I could call Mark and ask him to come sit with me, though, or Lauren. But I'm pretty sure they'd shut the whole thing down, too. Because meeting with strange men who might have hurt your mom is a terrible idea.

I wish I could ask Will to come. He'd be able to make me feel safer, without interfering. But I can't ask him to miss his Eliot seminar, which starts in ten minutes. I send a text instead.

I read my mom's journal.

Ellipses right away, and my heart does a stutter step. It still does every time I hear from him.

Did she say something about your dad?

It takes me a moment to realize what he means.

Oh, no, no. It's a journal from when she was a kid. She grew up in a home. There's so much sick stuff in there.

Part of me feels terrible spilling my mother's secrets so casually. But I'm beginning to think maybe she didn't really want them to be kept hidden.

What kinds of stuff?

Rats. Sex abuse. Things I don't even want to think about.

That's terrible.

And I never knew. Because I'm an asshole.

It's not your fault she never told you.

Maybe she tried and I wasn't listening.

You have to stop beating yourself up … I'm so sorry, but I have to get to class. Come by later?

That would be great.

Hang in there. xx

I focus back on my mom's computer, on the other men who've replied to my message—William, Jack, and Cory. All pleasantly surprised, polite responses. Within fifteen minutes, I have all four on their way to Caffe Reggio, at appropriately staggered times.

"Hey." When I look up, there's Annie. I slam the laptop closed. "Wow, that was subtle."

"What do you want, Annie?" I snap. I am out of patience with her and whatever this is.

"You need to call my mom," she says. "She's called you and texted, and you haven't responded. And now she's totally worried. It's rude and selfish. You showed up at our house asking for help, remember?"

I look around in an exaggerated fashion. "Did you stalk me here to tell me that?"

Annie snorts. "Actually, I came here with my boyfriend to study." It isn't until she motions behind her that I see Geoff at a table by the window. He glances once in our direction, then looks away.

"You're dating Geoff?" I ask. With a tone: Geoff, the drug addict. I can't help it.

"Like you're one to judge anyone's boyfriends," she says. She must know about Kyle from Geoff. "Anyway, how is it your business?"

"It's my business if you told Geoff I grew up across the street from you. And he went to my house and got into it with my mom."

"Nope," she says. "We both actually have better things to do with our time than deal with the members of your degenerate family."

"My degenerate family ?"

"Your mom is an okay person, I guess," she says.

"Gee, thanks, I mean considering that she could be bleeding out somewhere, that's awfully generous."

But it's like she's not even listening. "It's the rest of you who go around doing whatever you want. No matter who it hurts."

"Right," I say, because I want Annie to go away.

"Anyway, my mom actually, genuinely cares about people. And she's always been nice to you." Not that Annie exactly sounds happy about this. "And here she is checking in on you and being nice and you don't even care that she's worried. You're selfish. And so is your dad."

Annie turns and heads back to her table. I watch her say something to Geoff as she sits down across from him. He leans in, then turns to look over at me. I nod, stupidly. Janine has texted me a few times. I don't know how many. It was rude to ignore her. But she seemed so worried in her messages. I was afraid it would make me more worried if I talked to her.

I'm so sorry! I text her now. I'm fine. Didn't mean to scare you.

Oh, I'm so glad to hear from you, Cleo! Janine responds instantly. I've been so worried! I know you have your dad, but some situations call for a mom! Has there been any news?

Not yet, nothing.

Try not to worry. I know that's probably impossible … let me know if there's anything I can do. Anything at all.

My cheeks flush. All I need to do is start bawling while Annie is watching from across the room.

I will let you know. XO

The bells on the door tinkle as it swings open. It's a dad-aged guy wearing a baseball hat, T-shirt, and deliberately ugly sneakers. He takes off his aviator shades. Randy.

As I raise my hand, he looks around, like he's checking to see if I'm really waving at him. He looks me up and down as he makes his way over to the table, and I'm pretty sure I see a revolting flicker of excitement cross his face.

"Randy?" I ask with a smile, or what I hope is a smile. It may be more a baring of my teeth. "You're here looking for Kat?"

I extend a confident hand and maintain strong eye contact, the way my mom always told me to. I've locked eyes and done that confident handshake countless times. But never before have I thought of her.

"And you are?" he asks as I yank my hand back from his clammy grasp.

"Her daughter," I say, motioning to the chair across from me.

Randy looks perplexed, but still hopeful. "Ah, that explains the similarity," he says slowly. "Am I in trouble? This like the middle-age version of getting a talking-to from somebody's parents? The kid comes instead." He lifts his hands and laughs like a donkey. "Whatever it is, I didn't do it, Officer."

"My mom, Kat, is missing." Open questions. Only open questions.

"Missing from where?" he asks.

"From everywhere. She's missing from everywhere."

He frowns. It's a weird answer.

"Interesting," he says eventually. "That seems out of character."

"Out of character how?" Didn't he barely know her?

He shakes his head. "Well, of course, we only met a couple of times, but she just struck me as a responsible person."

"Yeah."

"I mean, maybe not so great setting boundaries with her ‘work.'" He hooks the word in air quotes.

"What does ‘that' mean?" I mimic his air quotes.

"I don't know—it seemed like something weird was going on with her job," Randy says. "Maybe weird is the wrong word. It was intense. She canceled our first date like four times for work reasons. I could never tell if there really were all those emergencies or if she was lying for some reason. I mean, what corporate lawyer has that many emergencies? Something didn't add up." Probably because she couldn't figure out why she was going out with you and had a moment of actual clarity —though this seems not to have occurred to Randy. "And then when we did meet up," he goes on, "she took a call—said it was a client, but she was pacing outside the restaurant, talking on the phone for like twenty minutes! Your mom is lucky she's a babe!"

I nod. "Right."

Randy chews on the end of his sunglasses, in thoughtful, full sleuthing mode now. "If she really is missing, you might want to look into that woman she was talking to that night. The call seemed pretty … heated."

"Did she mention the woman's name?"

"No." He looks away. "But she did leave her phone to go get a glass of water. You know, the place had a setup like that." He motions to the big jug and paper cups on the nearby counter. "Anyway, I inadvertently saw a text come in: Don't fuck this up or I'll kill you. " He raises one eyebrow.

"Holy shit," I whisper.

"I know. Nice, huh?"

"Did you see a name, who the text was from?"

"I did, in fact," he says with an impish grin he tries, but fails, to hide. "Vivienne Voxhall. It's not exactly a name you forget."