CLEO

Cleo

THREE HOURS GONE

The first time I finally stood up to my mom I was ten. It was the summer before fifth grade, and we were at the beach at Jacob Riis Park. My mom was standing next to me at the water's edge, the sand damp and cool under our feet, my dad back up at the umbrella with Annie and Janine, who'd tagged along with us as usual.

I could swim in a pool fine, but I'd been terrified of the ocean ever since I'd sprinted in headlong when I was little and gotten knocked out by a wave. A lifeguard had performed CPR on me. To this day, I remember it only in flashes—the burn of the water in my lungs, the pain of my skin being torn by shells and stones, the terror.

"How about we try that swim now?" my mom suggested, nudging me for the second time that day. For years, she'd been harassing me about swimming in the ocean, basically every time we'd been to the beach since my accident. Of course, she was an annoyingly strong open-water swimmer, and the way she obsessed about the whole thing made me want to scream.

But that day I'd finally had it. "Can you shut the hell up, please, like for once? Shut up and think about what I want? Instead of trying to control everything!"

She looked like I'd slapped her. And I was glad.

"Cleo, that's not—"

"You're supposed to love me no matter what, you know."

And then I stormed off, away from the waves, waiting for guilt that never came. The truth is, I still feel like I was right that day. My mom was always pushing me to be someone different. When all I wanted was for her to love me as I was.

For an hour we've been sitting in the living room, watching the police work. They've looked around, taken pictures, swabbed for DNA, lifted fingerprints—from the front door, from the unbroken glass on the kitchen island. The water in that glass is still cold, a wet ring underneath. No coaster. From the living room couch, I stare at the glass. Whoever left it there, it was definitely not my mom. She'd never leave a ring on that Carrara marble.

"We'll run fingerprints and any DNA we've found, but I'm not optimistic," says Detective Wilson, the one in charge. "Thank you for your samples. It will help with exclusion."

She's short and solidly built, neatly dressed in trim navy slacks and a blue button-down, the sleeves cuffed carefully. She's pretty, too, with large, deep-set eyes, dark brown skin, a small tattoo on the inside of her right wrist, another on her left forearm, barely visible beneath her sleeve. She carries a fancy pen and a yellow-lined notebook, spiral-bound at the top, and her hair is in a high ponytail, which highlights a delicate jawline and great cheekbones. She's no bullshit in the way you'd expect from a Brooklyn cop; not especially friendly, either. I like her immediately.

"Not optimistic?" my dad asks. "What does that mean?"

He gestures with his favorite mug. It says Screams Internally, with a little cartoon of a howling Earth. My dad ordered a case of them last year to give out to random friends or funders or whoever if conversation turns to his environmental documentaries. Of course, manufacturing and shipping the mugs leaves a larger carbon footprint than gifting one could ever fill. I've never pointed that out, though. My dad is big on heart, light on logic. But he means well.

"I'm sorry—I wasn't referring to your wife's well-being." Wilson shakes her head. "I meant not optimistic with respect to the fingerprints on the door. There's no doubt we'll find dozens. Every delivery guy, service person, family friend who's been here. But we'll have no idea when any of the prints were left, so they're next to useless. Now the glass is a different story …" She points at it. "That's got temporal relevance. It was used around the time of whatever happened here. If your wife had a guest and he or she used that glass, that's somebody we want to talk to … Of course, that person would also need to have prints or DNA in the system for an ID to be possible. Lots of bad people haven't been caught."

"She could have gone somewhere for work, right?" I ask my dad, but he avoids eye contact. I turn back to Wilson. "My mom works all the time. She's got meetings and calls at all hours. She's a partner at a big law firm. Maybe it was an emergency, and she didn't have time to call anyone."

But even I'm not really buying it.

"I don't think so, Cleo," my dad says, motioning toward the kitchen, the broken glass on the floor, the blood—which is not as much as it seems, apparently, according to one of the techs. "You'd be surprised how much people can bleed from a non-life-threatening injury," he'd said. "Like shocking amounts of blood." This was supposed to make me feel better, I think.

"Something happened here. There's no question about that," the female detective adds, eyeing me firmly. "Now, that doesn't mean we're not going to find your mom, and that she won't be fine. We've got some blood, not a dramatic amount, but enough. Signs of a struggle, burning food, and your mom isn't in any of the area hospitals. You can't reach her, and her phone is off. Her disappearance is suspicious—full stop. But let's take this one step at a time. And the first step is for you two to stay calm and opti mistic. I realize that's not easy when you come home to broken glass and your house almost on fire."

At last my dad looks up, forces a smile. "We can definitely stay calm and optimistic, right, Cleo?"

The detective is focused on my dad. The husband, it's always the husband—that's what she's probably thinking. And he sounds stiff and awkward. He's just uncomfortable, but it seems like he's lying. Don't waste your time, I want to tell her. They never even fight.

"What happens now?" I ask instead. "What are you all going to do?"

"Well, given the suspicious circumstances, this does qualify as an official missing person case, which is helpful because it means we can move forward immediately on all fronts and dedicate maximum resources. We'll get Katrina's description out there, send the relevant alerts, and we're already canvassing the neighborhood. We'll collect camera footage, run her credit cards. We found her laptop on her office floor, and I'll send the techs back to do a forensic analysis on the desktop in there, too, though that might take a day or two. Computer Crimes has been backed up." Then she seems to realize how that sounds, like my mom is an administrative problem. "We will do everything we can to find her as quickly as possible."

She's choosing her words carefully: We will do everything we can, not we will find her. The blood on the floor, on her shoe—it's sinking in. My mom's blood. You'd be surprised how much people can bleed. I look away from the detective when my eyes start to burn.

"Is there something we can do to help?" my dad asks. His hand is shaking as he puts the mug down on the coffee table. He is more freaked-out than he's letting on.

"You just came in on a flight, Mr. McHugh?" The detective is watching his shaking hand. Then she glances around the room. "No bags?"

He shakes his head. "Day trip to Boston. For work."

"I see. What kind of work is it that you do?"

My dad looks up at her, his eyes kind of panicked. I want to nudge him and tell him to pull himself together, but the detective is looking right at us. "I'm a filmmaker. Documentaries."

"What's in Boston?"

My dad smiles sheepishly. "One of those fake sustainability companies," he offers with a shrug. "Working to greenwash City Hall up there. I had a meeting with the mayor's press secretary, Gail Stevens. You can check with her if you want."

"Okay," Detective Wilson says, seeming marginally satisfied by this answer. I can tell she doesn't like my dad, though. He needs to be careful. He's not used to not being liked.

"Honestly, I don't think there's even a story there. It was pretty much a waste of a day."

"Uh-huh," the detective says, looking over at the other officers, who have started to pack up. Detective Wilson chews her lip. The thought of her leaving floods me with unease.

"But—so what's … what exactly is next?" I ask. She's an exhausted New York City police detective. She sees some of the worst shit on the planet. This situation, my mom, it's probably another box for her to check. But I need her to care. To really care. "She's my mom." It's all I can think to say.

"I know she is." Her face softens as she meets my eyes. "I know she is."

The detective looks from me to my dad and back again, like she's checking one last time to see if he will spill something incriminating.

"If either of you remember anything else, anything at all you think could be useful, call me immediately. Day or night." She pulls a business card from her pocket and hands it to my dad. "That's my personal cell. If I don't answer, leave a message or send a text. Better yet, do both. I'll get back to you as soon as I can. And if Mrs. McHugh does show up or if you hear from her or otherwise learn she's not missing, please let me know. People forget—they're so relieved the whole thing is over—and days later we'll still be out there searching for someone who's been found."

"We'll call you, for sure," my dad says, rising to his feet. He seems glad to be getting the detective on her way.

He really is not good with stuff like this. My mom may be controlling and judgy as hell. But, man, is she good at handling shit. She doesn't freak out at the first sign of trouble, but she doesn't just sit back and wait for the other shoe to drop, either. In other words, she is the exact person you want in an emergency. Too bad she's not here. My mom would be so good at finding herself.

"Wait!" I call after the detective as she approaches the front door. My voice is too loud; I'm practically shouting. "Can't we do something? I mean, instead of waiting. Like, I don't know, put up signs?"

My dad gives a little laugh. "She's not a cat, honey."

The detective shoots him a look. "Actually, signs aren't a terrible idea, Cleo." She turns back to me. "You can do that. But the absolute most important thing is to talk to anyone you can think of who might know something—friends, colleagues, tennis partners. People we might not come across in a neighborhood canvass but who might know something about some small thing that was going on in your mom's life, some incidental detail. Maybe something or someone will stand out—a petty grievance, someone she was supposed to meet. To be clear, I don't love families getting involved. Even with the best of intentions, it can be easy to corrupt an investigation. But the priority right now is to find your mom. So I'll take all hands on deck." Maybe this detective does care. "But the second, and I mean the second, you get any sense you've found something remotely relevant, you need to stop everything and call me. Period." She eyes me and my dad. "Understood?"

"Understood," we both say quietly.

Detective Wilson's eyes narrow. "I'm serious. We could lose valuable time and critical leads if you guys are in there turning up dust. Oh, and do either of you have her passwords for social media? She was logged in to the computer already, so we're okay there, but social media can be the mother lode."

"I'm sorry, I don't," my dad says. "I know Kat has a Facebook account, but I don't know the password. She wasn't big into any of that stuff, though. I can't imagine it would be very helpful."

The detective turns to me before he's even finished. "What about you?"

I shake my head. "I don't know them, either."

She looks from me to my dad like, What's wrong with you people? And you know what I think, even now with her missing? Trust me, my mom's not so easy to live with. You'd give her a wide berth, too. I regret it immediately. But it's not untrue. I cross my arms tight across my chest. It doesn't do anything to stop the burning in my lungs.

"Okay, well, might not matter, as you said, but if you come across the passwords, that would be helpful. Be sure to look around the house again, too. We did our search, but you know her better than anybody." She doesn't actually sound convinced, though. "You might see something important that we overlooked. But don't go chasing down leads. You come across anything useful, you pick up the phone. Immediately."

"Of course." My dad walks pointedly toward the door. Wilson eyes him but doesn't follow. Instead, she turns to me.

"You can also call me anytime, Cleo. Yourself. For any reason." She holds out one of her business cards and doesn't release it until I meet her eyes and nod. "You okay with that plan?"

I still don't want her to leave. Because the police leaving feels like a door closing, and I'm afraid to be locked outside with my mom still gone.

But I am also pretty sure that begging her to stay will make me feel worse. "Uh, sure." I try to keep my voice steady. "Thanks."

My dad and I stand in silence for a while, staring at the closed front door.

"What a mess, huh?" he says, then drops down onto a kitchen stool. "I'll start calling around. I've got most of your mom's friends and work people in my contacts already. You want to look around upstairs, make sure they didn't miss anything?"

He's got his phone out and seems focused and determined. Could be I'm underestimating him. I hope so. "Yeah, sure."

I stand in the doorway to my parents' room, staring at their sleek low bed with its crisp white bedding, neatly made, as always. The bureau drawers are hanging open, and so are the closet doors and bathroom cabinets. I wonder what the police thought they might find in those drawers. Proof of a robbery or some sign my mom took off on her own? I step forward and look into my mom's side. Her clothes are all there, folded Marie Kondo–style, ready to spark joy. She didn't pack up and run away—of course she didn't. God forbid she do anything that might—

Wow. There I go again, kicking her while she's … whatever she is. But if I were the one missing, she'd probably be doing some version of the same thing, thinking about how all of my "reckless choices" had brought on whatever had happened to me. Or at least I think she would.

We are just nothing alike, my mom and I, no matter how clearly I see her face staring back at me every time I look in a mirror. We have the exact same eyes, which shift from blue to gray to green depending on the light, identical jawline and cheekbones, the same long, thick black hair. But that's where any similarities end. To say she's type A is putting it mildly. And it's not only my clothes and makeup she's obsessed with controlling. A single dirty dish in the sink or a stray pile of crumbs on the counter and she freaks out. It's like she can't handle any sign that humans actually live in our home. Once, when I was little, she tried to ban Play-Doh. Even she eventually realized that was over the top. Meanwhile, I love messy things. I am a messy thing. Messy and confused and irrational and overemotional. But at least I feel things. I feel everything.

I start with my mom's drawers, run my hands through her clothes, underneath and on the side. Nothing secreted away, of course. No sex toys or weed. Then my eyes snag on my dad's middle drawer of the bureau—it's empty. When I look down, his other drawers are all empty, too. My dad went to Boston for the day. Where the hell are his clothes?

I head over to the walk-in closet, flip on the light, and look around. Sure enough, my mom's clothes are hanging where they should be, but my dad's side is completely bare. Even his tuxedo and premiere-night suits are gone, and every single pair of his shoes.

Okay, something is not right here. My dad needs to explain. I'm almost at the bedroom door when I hear him on the phone downstairs. I can't make out the words, but he sounds worried. He's on with one of my mom's friends, I think. She doesn't have many, but the ones she does have—like Lauren from law school—she's very close to. Way closer than I am with any of my friends. They talk and text constantly.

I creep to the top of the stairs.

"Calm down?" I hear him ask. And he's angry. Really angry. "All I'm saying is that we have a fucking problem. You and I both. "

A fucking problem? What problem?

I bump into my parents' bed behind me. I didn't even realize I was backing up, away from the anger in my dad's voice. Somebody from his work, it must be. As laid-back as my dad is, he gets really frustrated with incompetent assistants and annoying bureaucracy, and there's a lot of that when you're making a movie. But his voice was so … I press a hand to my chest, but I can't get my heartbeat to slow.

I drop down onto the bed and land on something hard. I pull back the comforter and there it is: my mom's laptop. Her personal laptop. The police must have taken her work one. It looks like my mom accidentally made the bed over it.

I open the lid and enter my mom's password. I do know the one to her home computer. It used to come in handy when I wanted to order stuff on Amazon. When I was little, I'd always ask first, and my mom would always say yes to that new notebook or another cool set of gel pens. After Virgingate, I started buying stuff to piss her off—goth makeup and the teeny-tiniest tops and that big, blingy jewelry I knew she hated.

When the laptop comes to life, it actually takes me a minute to figure out what I'm seeing frozen on the screen: photographs of men lined up in little squares, twelve of them, like playing cards. "Your matches," it says. I squint at the screen. A dating site?

The profile is definitely my mom's, too, a photo I've never seen before. Taken outside, with her hair down, her face soft. She looks almost like another person—younger and more beautiful. Light and relaxed. Happy—she looks so much happier than I've ever seen her.