CLEO

Cleo

SEVENTY-ONE HOURS GONE

The book is shaking in my hands as I stare down at the inscription—the looping handwriting, the slant of the words. God gives the gift to few. It's like an echo from very far away. A ghost. And then I remember: the inscribed copy of Leaves of Grass that was given to my mom all those years ago. I look up from the book, down the hallway. The hall bathroom door is ajar, but the light is off. I can hear water running, though, from farther away—the little bathroom … way back in my mom's office. A bathroom you'd never—

I jump when my phone rings … Vivienne.

"Hello." My voice sounds like it's underwater.

"I haven't had any luck with the blackmail yet. That number you gave me is a burner and to trace those you need a contact in law enforcement willing to cross some shady lines." She's talking fast. "But I did end up closing the loop on that Reed Harding guy. I know you said it wasn't relevant anymore, but it was bothering me. People don't usually up and vanish. Guess where he ended up?"

"Dead." I'm still staring down toward my mom's office and the little bathroom: God gives the gift to few …

"Nope. I mean, he did change his name more than once, which for some reason none of the half dozen colleges he worked for seemed to care about. But Reed Harding is Will Butler these days—an assistant professor of English at NYU. Poetry. That seems like an awfully big coincidence."

The ground shifts underfoot. I grab the counter.

The boy my mom tried to kill isn't dead after all. He's a grown man now. A man in my house. He was in my bed.

I cared for him. I trusted him. This is my fault.

I look toward our front door. A way out—to safety, the police. I need to run out that front door while Will—Reed, whoever he is—is still back down the hall.

My mom would want me to do that. To save myself.

But if I run, that will be the last I'll see of Will. He'll know that I've figured him out. What if he's holding my mom somewhere right now? She could be running out of time.

I see her face that day on the beach when she taught me how to swim. Afterward when I was racing back toward my dad and Janine and Annie up on the sand.

"Cleo," she'd called out, and when I turned, she was smiling in the late-day sun. "You did it," she said, holding a thumb up in the air. "You did it all on your own."

But so much of it had been her. It always had been. I know that now.

And so I open my eyes, drop my phone. And run.

Toward him.

Run. Keep running.

The hallway telescopes in my vision as I race down it, like the bathroom is getting farther and farther away the faster I run. I can hear the water running, louder and louder as I get closer.

Will is at the sink, washing his shirt. Time slows to a stop as I lunge for the door. He turns. Eyes wide. Mouth open.

"Cleo, wha—"

I slam the door closed and turn the key, yank it out and back away as he tries the knob again and again, slowly realizing that he is trapped inside.

As I back out of the room, the pounding starts. "Cleo! What's going on? Open the door!"

I turn and run down the hall. This time toward the front door, the way out. I don't look back, not once. Even as I hear Will start to yell. Especially not then.

"Cleo, what the fuck!"

I can't feel my legs as I reach the front door. Can't feel my hand on the knob. But then a gush of fresh air and I'm outside, headed down the front steps.

"What's going on?" someone shouts.

It's George, looking alarmed. It's only then that I realize I've left my phone inside, dropped it with Vivienne on the other end. "George, I need you to call the police."

George scowls at me, looks up the steps toward my front door. "No," he says, then starts to head back inside his house. "No police."

"George!" I scream. "What the hell are you—I need to use your phone! It's an emergency."

"No. I gave my word."

"To who?" Did Will see George on his way in and say something? Threaten him? "Who told you not to call the police, George?"

He shakes his head and backs toward his door protectively. "No."

"Is there somebody in your house?"

"No, no—no one," he stammers. "She's not in there."

She.

"George, let me come in."

"No," he says. "You can't do that."

George is an old man, but quite large and not all that frail. I need to get past him, though. I need to see for myself what he's hiding. Then I notice George's trash can. His empty trash can. George has got a thing about those cans. I reach over, grab the handle, and throw it as hard as I can over his fence and into his neighbor's yard, where it smashes into the shrubs and sends dirt flying.

"What are you doing!" George shouts as he rushes out of his gate and toward the neighbor's front yard.

And just like that, I am at the door. And then inside George's house.

"Hello!" I yell as I run through the labyrinth of long halls and small rooms. "Hello!" It smells vaguely of mildew, and orange-scented air freshener. The ancient kitchen appliances were once a bright yellow, the linoleum black-and-white-checked. There isn't a dirty dish in sight. I startle at a sound in the corner, but when I look, it's only a cat with bright blue eyes.

I hear the front door open. George is coming. I race to check upstairs.

I freeze on the landing at the top of the steps. Through a doorway, I see the end of a bed. And feet. They're not moving. I hurry down the hall, stop short in the doorway.

She's there. My mom is right there, laid out in George's bed.

Her eyes are closed. But there is color in her face and a bandage on her head.

"Mom?" I move closer. Reach out. Put a hand on her arm. She's warm to the touch.

George is behind me in the doorway now. "Why didn't you tell someone she was here?" I ask him. "It's been three days."

"No, I don't think—One day. It's been one day …" George says, squinting toward the windows like he's checking to see if it's day or night. He shakes his head a little. "And she asked me not to. Every time she woke up she said it: Don't tell anyone ." he says. "Over and over again. She kept saying that. And so I did what she wanted. But I said thirty-six hours was the limit. Then I was calling an ambulance. And only because there were no signs of internal bleeding. I checked. I did the best I could."

The doorbell rings. Blue and red lights strobing down the hall. Wilson. It must be.

"George, can you go let the police in? Tell them we need an ambulance."

"But I don't—"

"George, please! It's been three days. She needs to go to a hospital."

"Mom?" I ask again as George disappears downstairs. I shake her leg a little.

Her eyes flutter open. She stares at me for a moment. I can't tell whether she's even seeing me. But then her lips curve into a smile.

"You're here," she says finally. "You came."