Every light in Emily’s house must be on, as if all that light could shine out to tell her it’s okay to come home. I’m surprised when Mr. Carbonel answers the door. He hasn’t stepped foot in the house in months. He must have driven from Seattle as soon as they decided Emily was missing. It must be really bad if both of Emily’s parents are willing to be in the same room together.
Shay gives him a hug, patting his shoulder like he’s a kid. She’s known both Carbonels for years, and I think she’s even closer to Emily’s dad than her mom. Emily’s mom is something of a head case.
We walk into the living room. I’ve never actually sat down in the living room before; it’s just a pass-through on the way to the kitchen for Emily and me. It doesn’t invite lounging, anyway. There’s a 1950s-style orange couch that looks toxic, and a coffee table shaped like a surfboard. Mrs. Carbonel painted one of the walls violet and another wall pink. It doesn’t work.
Mrs. Carbonel sits on the couch. She’s perched on the edge, as if the phone will ring any second and she’ll need to answer it. The phone is lying right next to her on the cushion. Even though it’s almost midnight, everybody is still dressed, down to their shoes.
A stranger is sitting in the only comfortable chair in the room, an armchair upholstered in maroon leather. He rises when we come in. Mrs. Carbonel introduces him as Detective Joe Fusilli. He has a big nose and dark eyes that don’t seem to have any expression at all. The bags underneath them look like suitcases packed for a six-week trip.
I get a quick flash from him. Sometimes this happens. I get sadness from him, sadness that lies buried underneath everything that’s inside him that has to do with the job. I see him bending over someone, someone he loves, who stares blankly out the window.
Shay nods a hello. I think she might have smiled at his name if the situation had been different. It isn’t often you meet a detective named after corkscrew pasta.
Shay and I sit down on the couch. Mrs. Carbonel leans forward, her hands clasped between her legs. Every so often, she catches them between her knees and squeezes. Mr. Carbonel sits on the other chair. He’s a stocky man with big shoulders and arms and a silver beard. I’ve met him maybe four times, and each time, I’ve picked up waves of guilt when he looked at Emily. Now I notice that he never looks at his ex-wife.
The worry in this room is like a heavy blanket on a warm day. I can feel it pressing against me, and I want to kick it free.
“Gracie, did Emily seem upset today?” Mrs. Carbonel asks.
I remembered her face as she walked away. “No.”
Joe Fusilli’s dark eyes are on me. I decide to break my usual habit and tell the truth. It seems called for.
“Well, I wouldn’t say she was really upset. But she wasn’t happy when I wouldn’t go to town with her. It was too hot.”
“Do you think she went by herself?” Mrs. Carbonel continues.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Carbonel’s mouth twists, and she looks away.
Detective Fusilli speaks up. “Gracie, do you remember what Emily was wearing?”
“Sure. A white T-shirt and yellow capri pants. They have tiny pink flowers on them. And brown sandals. The kind you can hike in. Merrell’s.”
Mrs. Carbonel nods at the detective like a good student, as if that’s what she’s told him, too. As if we all give him the right answers, he’ll find her.
He writes in his notebook. “Did Emily seem to have anything special on her mind?”
“Nothing in particular,” I say.
“What did you talk about?”
“How hot it was, basically,” I say.
“What about other times?” Detective Fusilli asks. “Did Emily ever talk about running away?”
“No.”
I was sure of that. No matter how much she trashed her parents, she never talked about leaving.
“How about a boyfriend?”
I shake my head.
“A crush?”
I shake my head again. “Emily never talked about boys.”
Detective Fusilli looks skeptical. “Oh?”
“Really,” I say. I’m seriously annoyed now. I want to tell him to think about it a minute. Doesn’t it occur to him that Emily and I might have other things on our minds? Like the fact that her parents are flakes and I don’t have any?
“Did Emily ever mention having a Net buddy? Someone she met on the Internet?”
“She e-mailed some people, sure,” I say. “I don’t know who they are, though.”
“Do you think she’d meet one of them without telling you, or her parents?”
I think about this. One thing about Emily, she follows the rules. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Mrs. Carbonel squeezes her hands between her knees again. “We can’t find her laptop,” she says to Shay. “She took it.”
“Did she have the laptop when you saw her, Gracie?” Detective Fusilli asks.
I shake my head. So Emily must have gone home to get it.
“Is anything else missing?” Shay asks.
“No. No clothes or anything.” Mrs. Carbonel starts to cry. “She was upset that she didn’t get to go to that camp…” She looks at Mr. Carbonel for the first time. “If you would have agreed to exchange summer for school breaks—”
“I did agree,” Mr. Carbonel says. “You wouldn’t agree to Christmas—”
“You know we were planning a trip to Arizona!”
“I was going to send the check!”
"After the deadline!” Mrs. Carbonel’s voice rises sharply and ends on a sob. She looks at Mr. Carbonel as if she hates him, and I guess she does. The anger between them could fill up six houses. No wonder he had to move out. There’s no room to live in this house. I’m finding it hard to breathe. Had all this anger squeezed Emily out, too?
“Let’s try to calm down,” Detective Fusilli says. “She’s only been gone eleven hours. She could come home.”
I know he doesn’t believe it. I can see the dread. It is his enemy. It is lead in his bones. The feeling is familiar to him, it is part of the job, but he hates it.
“It’s midnight and she’s out there somewhere,” Mrs. Carbonel says. “Can’t you do something?”
“We’re on alert,” Detective Fusilli says. He stands up. “What that means is that every cop in the state is looking. If you think of anything, call me. If she gets home, call me. If you remember anything, call me. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”
“You’re leaving?” Mrs. Carbonel asks, her voice rising in panic. “You’re just going to leave?”
“I’m going to get to work and find your daughter.” The detective’s voice is soft now. He feels the dread moving up to his throat, and he wants out of here, he wants to find the kid, and he’s saying, Please, let her be alive.
Mr. and Mrs. Carbonel nod. I can see they want to believe in Detective Fusilli’s competence so badly. Mr. Carbonel rises and shows the detective to the door.
We all stare at the carpet. “Why don’t I make some tea?” Shay asks. No one answers, so she goes in the kitchen. I hear her filling the kettle.
“We did this to her, Rocky,” Mrs. Carbonel says. She doesn’t sound angry anymore. She sounds worse.
“Yeah,” Mr. Carbonel says. “I know.”
It’s like I’m not in the room.
Joe Fusilli left some of his dread behind. I can feel the weight of it settle inside me, anchor me to the chair.
Emily’s parents feel guilty. But they weren’t the one who could have stopped her.
I was the one who could have done that.
I was the one who saw her future.
I was the one who let her go.