Thirty-eight.
Milo was feeling particularly proud of himself. He knew the Hollywood sign was north, he knew his street was in the east of the city and that the soccer place was west of them, and he had successfully navigated himself and Theo all the way to the Palazzo without going wrong once. Beverly Boulevard was too trafficky, so they’d taken backstreets and it had been challenging, but he’d made it. It had turned out to be a whole lot longer on foot than it had been in the car, but still. No wonder he’d gotten his Boy Scout navigation patch.
Of course, he was starting to worry that his parents were going to be upset with him, but he thought he could explain himself to his mom. He couldn’t let Theo go on his own, right? Theo was upset and angry and not at all good at navigation. He wasn’t even a Scout. When they played Minecraft Milo was forever having to teleport Theo back to where he was, even though there was a compass right there on the screen the entire time. He couldn’t have let him go on his own, that was all there was to it. He should have told his mom, though, but he’d thought it would be quicker than it had been, and that Theo’s mom would call her once they arrived.
Theo was sniffling a bit. They had reached the point of the park nearest the entrance to the Palazzo, but now he was balking. Milo was trying to remain patient, and they’d zigged a bit and gone to a 7-Eleven to get candy. Now they were sitting on the wall opposite the entrance and waiting. Milo had noticed a grown-up man sitting a little way along the wall, and he was keeping his eye on him, just in case. The man looked over at them every so often, and once Milo caught him frowning. Milo knew not to talk to strangers; he wasn’t worried.
“Why don’t we just ask the guy at the gate?” he asked Theo.
“What if she’s mad at me?”
Milo rolled his eyes. “You should have thought of that before. We’re here now and it’s taken a long time so we should go ask.”
Theo looked at him. “Will you do it?”
“Yes,” his friend replied, slightly exasperated. It was all very well when you started a plan, he thought, everyone’s all brave then. But when it comes down to it . . . “Let’s cross at the light, though.”
The gate guard lowered his phone and looked impassively at the two ten-year-olds in front of him. “Yes?”
“We’re looking for Anne Porter.”
“Does she live here?” The guard had a list, but as it changed weekly he’d long ago realized there was little point trying to memorize it.
The boys nodded, and the guard reached for the list, licking his finger to turn over the pages. He found the name, and looked at the boys again.
“Shall I call the apartment?”
They nodded. He did so. He let it ring, but nobody answered.
“No answer,” he said.
Milo and Theo looked at him. This was not an outcome they’d anticipated. Theo looked at Milo, who shrugged. “We’ll go wait for her,” Milo suggested.
The guard was about to raise his phone again when a thought occurred to him. “You two are a little young to be out alone, aren’t you?”
Milo nodded. “Yes, but it’s OK.” He looked across the street at the grown-up who was still watching them. “We’re with him.”
“You weren’t sitting with him before.” The guard might look like he spent all his time playing on his phone, but he had some standards. He monitored the environment. He kept tabs. Occasionally they had celebrities at the Palazzo, and he’d proudly thwarted paparazzi several times. “And he’s there a lot lately, but I haven’t seen you two before.”
Milo just smiled at him, and turned to head back across the street. He was good at small talk, for a ten-year-old, because he’d watched his mom a lot, and she could talk to anyone. But he also knew that he didn’t have small talk for this situation, and that a strategic retreat was probably the best option.
So, they went back to the wall and sat there. This time they sat closer to the grown-up, and Milo smiled at him as if they were old friends, and then looked over at the guard. He was watching, so Milo raised a hand and waved. The guard narrowed his eyes, but then his girlfriend texted him a picture of her boobs, and the little boys were immediately forgotten.
Milo sighed and looked at the grown-up, thoughtfully. He looked clean, normal, not like a homeless person. He looked a lot like the teachers at school, and Milo came to the conclusion that it was OK to say hello.
“Hello,” Milo said. “We’re waiting for someone who lives in that building. Is it OK if we sit here?”
“Sure,” said the guy. “I’m waiting for someone, too.”
“Is he out?”
“She,” replied the guy. “Yeah, I saw her leave a while ago. I’m waiting for her to come back.”
“I’m Milo,” the little boy said, reaching out his hand, after checking the guard wasn’t watching.
“Hi, Milo,” the man replied, shaking his hand. “I’m Richard.”
The first TV van showed up on Frances’s block about a half hour after the bulletin went out to the police. Just the local news, of course, but it had been a slow week, and a live hunt for two missing kids was always good for ten minutes at the top of the hour. After the newspeople arrived so did TMZ, the celebrity newshounds: The word was that Sara Gillespie was somehow involved, and celebrities crying was broadcast gold.
When the TV lights had first brightened the side of Anne’s face, where she sat in Frances’s kitchen, she’d just turned away. But Frances had gotten up to see what was going on, and now she turned to the other mom and said, “Maybe we could show pictures of the kids on the news, and someone might see them?”
Anne nodded, and Frances went to get that same Halloween picture. When she stepped outside, the local news reporter approached her immediately, microphone in hand.
“Hi there, I’m Clarissa Romero, Channel 7 News. Any news about the missing children? Do you have a statement to make?”
Frances shook her head. “No news. They’ve been missing since this afternoon, but we’re hoping they’ll be found soon.” She handed the reporter the photo, which was quickly handed back to a producer who got it on-screen in approximately twenty seconds.
The TMZ guy jumped in. “And is Sara Gillespie . . . ?”
“Sara’s my son’s aunt by marriage, yes. She’s out looking for him now.”
“And is it true that she and David Rapelli are having an affair?”
Frances looked at the reporter in bewilderment for a moment. “Who the hell is David Rapelli?”
“Her costar in the upcoming feature, A Grander Canyon.”
“No, of course she’s not having an affair. You understand that two children are missing, right?” Frances and the news reporter both looked at the celebrity-seeking guy in the same way a bird looks at a slug: a mix of revulsion and an evaluation of the quickest way to eat it.
“Yes, of course,” replied the reporter, beating a hasty retreat down the lawn.
Frances stared after him for a moment, then noticed Michael, Ava, Charlie, Iris, Sara, and Bill heading down the street toward them. The reporters followed her gaze and immediately scrambled their cameramen. There was an unseemly rush, and the crowd converged in a confusing melee of lights and microphones. Sara was used to it, but the others were alarmed.
“Please get out the way,” said Michael, trying not to lose his temper, and looking around for a policeman to give them a hand. “We’re trying to find our children, not film a reality show.”
“Sara,” said the TMZ guy, who’d been pushed aside by the best and brightest in entertainment. “Is it true that you and David Rapelli have been getting very close on set?”
Sara shook her head and kept moving.
“Is it true that you’re making another movie together in China, and that he’s planning on leaving his wife?”
Sara shook her head again, and added a frown for emphasis.
“Is it true . . .”
Charlie leaned into the reporter’s face. “I’ll tell you what’s true, asshole, my kid is missing. So get out of the way and have some respect.”
The TMZ guy hung on. “Sara, do you have any comment about your missing nephew?”
Sara stopped, finally. “Yes,” she said. “Milo, if you’re out there, please call home and let us know you’re OK.”
Anne spoke. She’d come up behind the reporters and no one had noticed her. “My child is missing, too, Sara.” The cameras turned to see her, and the lights revealed Anne looking pale and lovely standing next to a cop. Ooh, thought the reporters, attractively grieving mother, fantastic, and kept recording.
“I know, Anne,” said Sara. “We’re all thinking they’re together, right?”
Anne didn’t seem to hear her. “Yes. My son, Theo, is missing, and it’s all my fault.”
The local news reporter sniffed a story. “And why is that, Mrs. Porter?” She’d nailed that name, she thought. Thank God for her photographic memory.
“Because I cheated on his father and broke his heart.”
Oh fuck, thought Frances. She’s lost it.
“And why was that?” persisted the reporter. This was so much better than just a missing kid, this was classic entertainment, this was. Drama, pathos, inner pain, outer glamor. The TMZ guy pulled out his phone and started texting.
“Because I am a bad person, and I’m paying for it.”
“You’re not paying for it, Anne. Let’s go inside, OK?” Frances pushed the reporter aside and took her friend by the arm. She lowered her voice. “Keep it together, this isn’t helping us find the kids.”
Anne shook her off. “No. You know it’s true, Frances. You know it’s my fault.”
Frances said, “Anne, let’s not talk about this in the street, OK? You don’t want everyone to know your business.” There was a roaring in her ears that reminded her of when her brother died, a sense that the world was turning upside down in a way that no one else could feel. How were they all standing so still when the ground was rolling under their feet?
Charlie joined them and took his wife’s other arm. “Come on, Anne, let’s go inside.”
Anne looked up at him. “Charlie, you know it’s my fault. I never should have cheated. I never should have let it happen.”
“And cut to husband,” said the producer inside the TV van. This was playing live, and the numbers were terrific.
The husband shook his head. “No, baby, it’s my fault, too.”
The TMZ reporter pushed in. “Did you have an affair, too, Mr. Porter?”
The news reporter turned to Michael. “What about you, Mr. Bloom? Were you involved in this affair? Is that why your child ran away?” She was killing it on the names this evening; she was a reporting machine.
Suddenly Frances Bloom lost her temper.
“No!” she shouted. “My husband wasn’t involved. Neither was I, nor was Sara or Iris or anyone else on the fucking block.” She pointed furiously at Anne, and then at Charlie. “She had an affair, and he behaved like a dick, and now the entire neighborhood is in ruins and why? Why??” Her face was red, her hair was sticking straight up, and she was about to go viral in the worst way. “Because it’s more important for you to feel young and alive and sexy than it is to take care of your family and feed your kids and be kind to your husband and just show the fuck up for everyone else.” She stepped toward the other mother, causing the camera people to zoom out as fast as they could in case she swung back and punched her in the face. “You’re a selfish, selfish bitch, Anne, and if my son comes to any harm because of your affair I am going to rip your head off and piss down your gaping neck wound.”
Then she turned and marched into the house, leaving everyone else standing on the lawn.
“And cut,” said the producer in the van.