The Good Son by Carolyn Mills (free e reader txt) 📗

I lost sight of her momentarily when she turned onto Lindell Drive, but as I came around the corner, I saw her again, walking up to a light blue car that was parked between our houses. As soon as I saw the car, my throat constricted with a spasm of disappointment because it meant that Darius was over and he and Ricky were probably going somewhere. I wanted to show Ricky my turkey, too, because I’d put his name on my pinky finger and I thought it would make him happy. But then Amy pulled open the back door of the car and climbed in and I was flushed with the momentary relief that it wasn’t Darius after all and that Ricky would get to see my turkey.

Except when I walked into the house, Ricky wasn’t home. It was just my mom, setting out a snack for me. I handed her my special turkey and waited. She glanced at it without saying anything, then stuck it to the door of the fridge under a real estate magnet that covered more than half of the turkey’s body. She asked about my day, absentmindedly, while peeling potatoes at the sink. I don’t know if she even looked at what I’d written on those turkey feathers.

I decided I would point them out to her later, when Ricky was back. Then Mom would smile and tell me how sweet I was and I would fall asleep that night with her words brushing against my skin like a soft blanket.

After I’d had my cup of milk and a cookie, Mom sent me outside to play. The air was warm and still. I sat on our front step with my baseball glove in my lap hoping that when Ricky got back he’d agree to play catch. It wasn’t often anymore that he spent time with me, but the afternoon was so nice, the weather so dazzlingly perfect, I thought there was a chance it just might happen.

It sickens me now to think about how much I prized those snatches of time spent with my brother, about how much his attention mattered. Especially how, even if it was just briefly, I considered him something to be thankful for.

Lindell Drive was particularly quiet that day as I sat outside waiting for my brother. Even old Mr. Lowell, who I usually saw out walking after school, whacking anything that was in his way with his cane, was nowhere in sight. He once sent my Hula Hoop sailing right into the middle of the road. “What’s this thing doing here?” he’d yelled. “Waiting to trip me up? Keep your blasted toys off the sidewalk!”

Because the afternoon was so perfect, I expected more people to be out. Mrs. Kinzie, perhaps, pushing her stroller. Someone sweeping their steps. Mr. Lowell, definitely, shuffling along with his cane. Yet, on that particular Tuesday, it seemed there was no one outside but me. When Mrs. Nessor came out of her house calling Amy’s name, it rang out loud and clear down the empty street.

Her call was met with silence. Spying me on the front step, my ball glove balanced on my knees, Mrs. Nessor walked over.

“Have you seen Amy?” she asked.

“She went in a car.”

“She went in a car? What car? What do you mean?” Mrs. Nessor’s eyes squinted in confusion.

“I saw her — I saw her get in a car,” I repeated.

“Today? You saw her get in a car today?”

I wanted desperately to stand up and go inside. Mrs. Nessor’s questions were too sharp and quick. I could feel tears springing to my eyes. “When I came home,” I whispered.

“What?” Her eyes widened in alarm. Many of the details that followed have blurred over time, but I remember her eyes. Her frightened eyes searching my face, silently begging me to unsay what I’d seen. Her hands began flailing at her sides as she looked wildly up and down the empty street, and I watched her fingers as they fluttered then fell. “Zoe, what are you talking about? When did she get in a car?”

The front door opened and suddenly my mom was standing on the porch behind me. “Is everything okay, Janet?” she asked. I stood up quickly and tried to sneak past her into the house, but she stopped me with a firm hand on my shoulder.

“No.” Mrs. Nessor’s voice came out high-pitched and shaky. “I can’t find Amy. And Zoe says … Zoe said she saw her get into a car.”

Mrs. Nessor had moved her hands to her face now, where they rested on her cheeks as she stared at my mother helplessly. Fear wafted from her eyes and mouth, furling around my feet, rooting me in place.

“Okay, okay,” Mom said, and her voice sounded so calm, so confident. “Don’t worry. We’ll find her.” Then, turning to me, she asked, “What did you see?”

LATER, AFTER THE POLICE HAD asked me over and over again to describe the car, to explain how exactly Amy had climbed into it — Could I remember anything about the driver? — and long after Mrs. Nessor had been escorted back to her house, I heard Ricky come home. I had told the police everything I remembered, except for one tiny detail. Not once did I mention, that for the briefest of moments, I’d been convinced that the car I saw belonged to my brother’s best friend.

CHAPTER SEVEN

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I SIT ON THE WOODEN chair in my kitchen for a long time, trying to sort out my emotions about Amy Nessor’s case being re-opened. What new information could possibly have come to light all these years later? When my phone rings beside me, I ignore it. I don’t even look to see who it is.

Eventually, I start moving again. I put away the eggs and the peppers and the cheese that I took out for my omelette. I handwash the paring knife and the cutting board, drying them slowly and methodically. The knife doesn’t seem any worse for wear after