CLEO

Cleo

THIRTY-SIX HOURS GONE

It's early when I slide carefully out of bed, not even 6:00 a.m. But I've already been lying there with my eyes open for what feels like forever. I don't want to wake Will, don't want him to leave, not yet. I feel so much better with him here.

But it is light now, reality creeping slowly back. The disturbing texts I stumbled upon on my mom's laptop last night are all I can think about. I'm trying to wrap my head around the idea of my mom doing something terrible. Because between her journal and the texts and her eventually agreeing to turn over the money, it seems like she definitely did something.

It was the picture of the cars that got my mom to agree to pay up. But why? I reach for the laptop, lean back against the bed, and prop it open on my knees. I click back on the thumbnail photo near the top to take a closer look. When I expand it, I recognize my dorm in the background. And there in the back of the frame, that's me, isn't it? Headed through the front doors at a distance. After that came the first demand for money. They hadn't only been threatening my mom. They'd been threatening me.

I close my mom's texts and start searching for information about Haven House and an incident years ago, something bad. I try every variation of my mom's name and then only "female" and "girl." But there are no reports of specific incidents involving any kind of violence or crime and a teenaged girl back then.

What I do find, though, is a rabbit hole of information about Haven House. It's still up and running, seemingly well funded now—thanks to a generous grant from the Gladys Greene Foundation. It has a decent-looking website and even a virtual tour. But then I find the exposé, published in Connecticut Magazine five years ago: "Horror House: Rampant Abuse of Girls by Doctors and Staff Persisted for Years at Haven House." Apparently, a director, Robert Daitch, who ran the facility from the early eighties through the end of the nineties, failed to supervise staff, and buried complaints of sexual and verbal harassment of female "residents"—as if any of the girls had chosen to live there—in order to preserve Haven House's "stellar reputation" and procure a lucrative position for himself at a private boarding school. He served as a beloved headmaster at Sloan Prep until his death in 2012. Daitch was dead by the time the story was published and even more victims' stories started flooding in, so there could be no criminal prosecution.

"Hey," Will murmurs sleepily. "What are you doing on the floor?"

"Reading my mom's texts," I say. "Somebody was threatening her."

"Threatening?"

"Well, asking for money," I say. "Blackmail."

"You saw this, just now?"

"I didn't realize they were on her computer."

"Blackmailing her about what?"

Will raises himself up in bed, leaning back against my wall with all my favorite quotes taped up—about love and hope and freedom. I think of my mom all those years ago, so young, doing something bad enough that she could be blackmailed for it. There must have been a reason. I've learned a lot about her that I never would have thought was true, but she's not a bad person. I know she isn't.

Will snaps his fingers in front of my face. "Hey, you okay?"

"Oh, sorry, yeah," I say, feeling irritated by the snapping, overly so. I'm wound so tight. "Blackmail about something she did. But it doesn't say what."

"Who are the texts from?"

"I don't know. My mom didn't know, either, I don't think. Somebody who knew her in that place she grew up in." I try to ignore the heavy feeling in my chest. "I think I need to go up there and ask around."

"Are you sure?" Will looks worried. "That sounds … kind of dangerous."

Do I want him to offer to go with me? I don't know; maybe. But that's not a good idea.

"I'll be careful."

He laughs. "Cleo, come on. How can you be careful? You have no idea what you're walking into."

This isn't untrue, unfortunately. But that doesn't make it any less annoying.

"I don't really have a choice."

"Of course you have a choice, Cleo," he says, his voice softer. He reaches out a hand and lays it on my cheek.

He's bare-chested and beautiful as always in the pale morning light. But—and I don't know if it's his being in my little bed or maybe the way I am looking up at him from below—all those quotes I have taped up look so young now. And naive.

"There was something that happened back there to my mom, or with my mom. Something she did," I say. "I need to find out what it was before I can involve the police. Otherwise, my mom could get in trouble herself."

"But none of that will matter if something happens to you, Cleo. And I care about that," Will says. "I care about you. Don't go, please."

Will's tone is still sweet, his hand warm as I gently remove it and close the laptop. And maybe he's right that going up to Haven House is a crazy idea. But my shoulders feel tight. I need him on my side.

"I know, I get it," I say. "But I have to go. I should, um, get ready. It's a long train ride."

"Ah, okay. I can take a hint." He looks wounded as he gets out of bed and starts pulling on his clothes.

"I'm sorry, I'm …" And maybe it's only because I know he's right, but I really do want him to go.

"It's okay," he says. But he seems a little pissed off. "I am only trying to help, Cleo. Because I care about you."

When the door closes behind him, I brace myself for a wave of regret, for the urge to race after him. But there's only me, alone again in my quiet, empty room.

The Uber driver is full of questions on the ride from the train station to Haven House: Where am I from? What am I doing in New Haven? What do I think about this new thing where they want to charge you for bags at the grocery store? Why does no one in New York City say hello on the sidewalk?

"Because there are too many people," I offer as I stare out the window at the bleak downtown. "You'd be saying hi all the time."

I'm trying not to think about the text I got from Wilson on the train. I think we should talk, Cleo. I've got some concerns—about you.

I didn't reply. I don't want to know about her concerns, not when I've got so many of my own. Starting with the decision to go to New Haven by myself. I do feel I need to be there—like I said to Will. But that doesn't mean I'm not nervous, or that I haven't had second thoughts about not telling Wilson. I did take screen shots of those threatening texts my mom got. And I did think about sending them to her.

We're a world away from Yale's stone and ivy as we sail down empty streets past boarded-up houses and abandoned cars. The area around Haven House is even more grim. I can't imagine a place like this exists still, but growing up there? I've taken so much for granted.

"Never too many people on a sidewalk to say a simple hello," the driver goes on. I don't jump to the city's defense like I ordinarily would. He can criticize, as long as he keeps talking. I can almost pretend everything is normal so long as I'm not alone with my thoughts.

But when Haven House finally comes into view, I nearly tell the driver to turn around and take me back to the station. The faded brick building is massive and menacing against the gray sky. Angry-looking fencing rings the roof. A prison. My mom grew up in a prison.

And for the first time, I feel more than nervous. I feel scared. Really scared. I send Wilson the screen shots of the anonymous texts my mom has been getting. It's not the same as telling her I'm up here and might need help—but it's not nothing, either.

I regret not asking the Uber driver to wait as I enter the building. It's cool inside and cavernous, with stone floors and tall arched windows, not unlike an old church. It even has that church cardboard smell. Except it's steeped in foreboding.

"Forget about it!" an angry voice calls out from behind me as the doors close with a menacing thud.

When I turn, there's a woman with curly red hair and a full round face seated at a small desk on the far side of the doors. She's wearing a turtleneck under a light blue cardigan that makes her seem at least two decades older than she is.

I hold up my hands. "Oh, I just—"

"Let me guess: You're here to see our girl Claudia, aren't you?" She crosses her short arms and pushes out her lower lip, which makes her look like an unhappy toddler. "You look like her type."

"I don't think—"

"Claudia doesn't think, either. She goes into town and finds somebody she likes and convinces herself that she can invite a girlfriend over, like this is her own private bachelorette pad." She shakes her head. "That girl's got a bunch of screws loose. If I were you, I'd steer clear."

"I'm not here to see Claudia," I say.

"Well, whoever … it's none of my business. I'm not trying to intrude on anyone's sexuality. There's a whole mess of people here who do think that way, but not me. He, her, them, they. What do I—"

"I'm here about my mother," I say, cutting her off. "She lived here years ago."

The woman's eyes narrow. "What about her?"

"She's missing," I say.

"Well, she's not here." She snorts. "We don't house adults. And we don't have, like, reunion weekends."

"I know. But I think maybe whatever happened to her now could have something to do with when she lived here," I say. "It was back, you know, when there were all those problems?"

"Well, don't look at me." She holds up her palms. "That was way before my time."

"I have a few questions. Is there someone who might be able to answer them?"

She stares at me for a long moment, like she's trying to see if I'll take it back. Finally, she sighs dramatically. "Go down the hall to the registration office and ask them if you want. But I wouldn't get your hopes up."

I brace myself for another unwelcome reception, but when the very, very old lady inside the registration office looks up from her desk, her face lights up. Like she's been waiting all day for me to walk through that door.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" She is stooped and frail; I try not to stare at her bony arms beneath her floral-print dress as she makes her way over to the counter. She leans in closer, squints. "You look so familiar."

"My mom used to live here. We kind of look alike."

"Oh my." She brings a hand to her mouth. "You look exactly like her! It's uncanny."

And for the first time in my entire life, the suggestion doesn't flood me with resentment.

"Her name was—" My voice catches.

"I know, Katrina Horning. She came here when she was nine and left when she was fourteen. I remember exactly. Of course I do." She smiles. "She was adopted by Gladys Greene, I believe. I'm Rose, by the way, and I haven't been here quite as long as this place has, but nearly."

"Cleo," I say, pointing to myself.

"Well, I have been surprised by a lot of things in my time here, but Gladys …" She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "That one … she was very sweet. But a few cards short of a full deck, if you know what I mean. For years she came up here every Saturday. Like clockwork. Had a driver who would bring her. She'd spend some time with the girls, read to the younger ones, bring games and books and clothes. Like she was visiting grandchildren, or maybe more like puppies at the pound. But she got real fixated on your mom, kept saying how she reminded her of her little sister, who'd died young. You ask me, Gladys thought your mom was her sister. Anyway, I didn't think they'd ever let her actually adopt anyone, but shows what I know. And Gladys did give money to the school afterward. I always did wonder … worried a little, even, about what became of your mom. But hard to see how staying here would have been much better. Things aren't necessarily perfect now, but back then …" She makes a clucking noise, then forces a smile. "Anyway, I guess it must have all worked out. Because here you are, beautiful as your mom."

"Yeah—I mean, thank you—except … my mom is missing now. And I think it might have something to do with her time here."

"Missing?" She blanches. "What do you mean?"

I press my lips together until I feel steady enough to speak. "She's gone, and the police think something bad happened to her. They don't know what yet. But someone from her past—from here, I think—has been threatening her."

Rose charges with surprising force from behind the tall counter through a little swinging door. She grabs one of my hands in hers, a tiny, bony vise. "Come sit down here and tell me what is going on." She motions to a bench along the wall, where we go and sit side by side.

"That's just it: I don't know. I found some texts. They mentioned something bad that had happened while my mom was here. Do you know what that might have been?"

"I'm afraid there were a lot of bad things that went on here once upon a time."

"It sounded like this was something she did …"

" Your mom? Do something bad?" she asks. "Oh, I can't imagine that … I have sympathy for any girl who finds herself here, but we have had plenty of troublemakers. Your mom was never one of them. Let me check her file. If there was an incident, it would be in there." She stands and heads to a long row of wooden file cabinets on the opposite side of the room. "Ten years ago, we put everything online. But the older files are still here."

"Thank you," I say as she pulls open a drawer.

"Horning, Horning. Looks like someone decided the H s came after the I s. Here it is. Oh, that's …" Her voice drifts as she turns around, flipping open an empty folder. "The records must have been … misplaced."

"Misplaced?" I ask, stepping closer, even though there's nothing to see. "Does that happen a lot?"

She stares down at the empty folder for a long time. "No. But Director Daitch … there were things he wanted to go away. And so away they went."

"What about someone named Silas who used to work here?" I ask. "I know that it was a long time ago, but his name is kind of—"

"I know Silas." She lifts her gaze to mine, holds it for a moment before looking away. "There were times I worried that working here might be, in a way, condoning the things that went on. But then I thought maybe leaving would be worse. At least if I was here, there'd be one person the girls could go to … I did make an anonymous report to the police more than once. Nothing was ever done. They'd call, ask some questions, decide everything was okay … Daitch was friends with everyone who was anyone—police chief, mayor, head of the hospital. Gave him way too much power, you ask me."

"Do you maybe have a phone number or a forwarding address for Silas? I need to try to find him."

"Oh, you don't need an address," she says. "Silas is here. Upstairs right now, as a matter of fact. The new director is better. He did clean house, fired a whole bunch of the old-timers. But Silas and a few others threatened to sue for wrongful termination. I guess the lawyers must have decided he had a case, because here he still is."

Outside the second-floor community room, where Rose has determined that Silas should be supervising the art club, I stare at the closed doors for a moment, listening to the voices on the other side. I think of what Detective Wilson said: You think this person will be happy if and when you do find them? I didn't in a million years think I would; I guess that's the bottom line. But now Silas is right there.

The room on the other side of the doors is nearly the size of my high school cafeteria, with the same linoleum floor, high ceilings, and institutional chill. But it's way dingier here—dull lighting, a grayish film covering everything. Two dozen teenage girls are seated at the round tables at the far end of the room, the low couches nearest the doors empty. Standing at a set of doors opposite are a grim-faced man and woman, mid-twenties maybe, only distinguishable from the teenagers because of their gray uniforms. They glance my way, then go back to talking. There's a much older man seated at a table with the girls, chatting as he draws. He's a grandfatherly hipster type, wearing one of those cable-knit fisherman's sweaters, jeans cuffed high, stylish slip-on sneakers, and a plaid scarf tied expertly at his neck. The girls with him are laughing, seemingly hanging on his every word.

Silas? Not at all what I expected. But he's the only person who seems old enough.

"Who the hell are you?" The voice behind me is deep and unfriendly. Shit.

"Oh, hi," I say as I turn. "I'm sorry, I'm a friend of Silas's." I gesture in the direction of the art table.

I'm now facing a much older, much more intimidating man, also in a gray uniform. He's taller than my dad—six foot three, maybe even four—and heavy with muscle. His face has a weathered, beaten quality, including a noticeable scar on his right cheek, and he's older than his body would suggest—sixties maybe.

"A friend of Silas's, huh?" He looks me up and down, eyes lingering inappropriately in a way that makes my skin crawl.

I glance in the direction of the woman in the gray uniform by the doors. She's looking right at me, her face tight, and I think, Phew, she's going to help. But then she turns away; I'm on my own here.

"Yes," I say. He's close enough now that I can feel the heat of him. He smells medicinal, like menthol. He definitely could be Silas. He's old enough. "Unless … I'm guessing you're …"

"What do you want?"

"I know about your texts," I manage to say. This is my chance, my only one.

"What texts?"

"To Kat McHugh—you were blackmailing her, and now she's missing."

He glares at me. "Kat who ? What the fuck are you even talking about?"

"I mean Katrina Horning—that was her name when she used to live here. Like thirty years ago. She was adopted away by a rich lady, Gladys Greene, after she reported you like a dozen times for messing with her? And then, all these years later, she starts getting angry texts looking for money. She's my mom. She looked just like me?"

He squints at me, then grunts in recognition.

"I didn't send any fucking text. But I should have gotten paid for keeping my mouth shut after what she did."

"And what's that?" I ask, like I don't believe him.

"I don't know exactly. I didn't want to fucking know." He laughs. "Daitch was freaking out and so I did as I was told. Because I wanted to keep my job. Tossed a bunch of bloody clothes. And Katrina Horning walked out of here a couple days later, safe and sound. So, wasn't her blood … Wait, why am I even talking to you?" He motions to the doors. "Get the hell out of here before I throw you out."

"Okay, but then I'll go to the police. Tell them you sent the texts."

"Search my phone if you want," he says, digging it out of his pocket and holding it out to me. "You aren't going to find any fucking texts."

"What does that prove? Come on, you'd use one of those secrecy apps to send them or a burner or something," I say. "What if I tell the police you admitted it? Who do you think they're going to believe?"

The anger in his eyes is frightening. "What the hell do you want from me?"

"I want to know what happened that night. Where did the blood come from?"

"I. Don't. Know."

"I'm not kidding about going to the police. You must know something. Did she get into it with another kid here? Sounds like the girls were pretty rough."

He glares at me. "All I know is it was a lot of blood. Somebody else would have shown up hurt. Besides, she snuck out, that's what Daitch said."

"Snuck out where?"

"Fuck if I know, probably to see that college prick. Did tutoring here. You ask me, those two spent way too much fucking time together."