Past white hawthorn blossoms she walked up Rosewood Avenue. The houses were old and large, and it was easy to spot the Macauley place because Patch had carved a skull and crossbones into the face of the red oak that guarded the yard.
Saint wore faded Nikes and did not hear the buzz of mowers. Mr. Hawes had left his fence half painted. The Atkinson twins’ jump rope lay in the front yard.
Ivy Macauley wore a smart dress cut low on her chest like she wanted to show the world they were decent but did not own the right clothes for the occasion.
Saint followed her inside past wood panels and brickwork paper and sand-colored drapes against brutally florid walls. The kind of mismatch that screamed furnished rental, the cheapest end.
Saint watched the sway in Ivy’s hips and sometimes tried to copy the walk.
“Goddam it, Saint,” she said, and the girl stepped into a hug that smelled faintly of smoke and vodka and perfume.
There was a steady drip from a leaking faucet, like a metronome that scaled up the tension.
“I heard Nix say there’ll be a team come to search the house again,” Saint said.
“Search it for what? You think he stole again?”
Saint shook her head, though knew it had been only a week since Patch stole the gold cufflinks from Dr. Tooms’s bag when he visited the house. She’d ridden with him to the pawn shop two towns over to collect nine dollars.
“Look at you, Saint. How old are you now?”
Saint straightened a little. “Thirteen.”
Ivy broke a smile that was hard and beautiful. Her hand shook as she lit a cigarette. Saint noticed the bulge of Ivy’s hips, the way her skin plumped above each elbow. Sometimes she wondered if she herself would one day turn into a woman, if it would happen more suddenly for her because most of the girls in her class had tits arriving like they’d preordered and Saint had missed the window. Most times she reasoned they could do nothing but slow her down when she ran and climbed, and likely would make snaking beneath the Fullertons’ front porch and searching for quarters near impossible.
“They’ll find him today,” Ivy said, holding the smoke deep. “It’s not…I mean we all know what these men do with the girls. Those girls from Lewis County, and the college kid,” Ivy said evenly, because even Saint knew. “Most men play at appearing decent; the rest aren’t as good at the game.” She blew smoke toward the window. “There’s a lot of them today, down by the woodland?”
Saint nodded.
“It should be that girl missing. The Meyers, they have so damn much.” She caught herself, raised a hand of apology to an audience Saint could not see. “Misty…is she okay?”
“I think so.”
“I want to be there today, but Nix said no. In case there’s a call. What fucking call?”
A little heat crept into Saint’s cheeks when Ivy cursed.
Ivy reached out and settled Saint into the wooden kitchen chair and retied her braid with an expertise Saint could not ever match. Like it was a skill to be handed down solely from mother to daughter.
“He’s alive,” Ivy said. “I’d feel it if he wasn’t.”