Shimmer
“No, I’m not—no, she can’t come to the—no comment.” The phone rings as Mom slams it into the socket.
“Same?” Dad says. Mom nods. An awkward atmosphere lingers after her late-night implosion. Mom herself looks waxen, her normally perfect Rachel haircut a disordered mop.
I pour myself a glass of water. The powder-chemical taste lingers at the back of my throat. I listen for the media scrum: mingled voices, bleeps, shutters, trucks rumbling up the drive. I hear nothing but the wind and a bird trill. My stomach churns with dread.
Dad turns on the radio.
“—declined to say whether the two girl’s disappearances are related to Katheen’s—” Mom slams a cabinet drawer. Dad turns the radio off.
“Fix your hair,” Mom says, not looking at me. “You look like you just woke up.”
“I did just w
