Saturday, 9:43 a.m.
Until Leyna’s public attack on Adam, Olivia had cared for Leyna more than she should have.
The elder Clarke girl had been the one most people noticed first. She was bolder, louder, quicker with a witty remark. Nearly four years older than Leyna, she’d gotten the icy-blue eyes, the waves of strawberry-blond hair, the growth spurt at fourteen. Leyna never could catch up. It hadn’t surprised Olivia that Grace had mesmerized both her sons—especially Adam.
Leyna, in contrast, was quiet. Earnest. Olivia had loved the girl from the moment she’d shown up at age five with a bucket of mud and worms, asking Olivia if she’d like to play.
One of the hardest things Olivia had ever done was turn Leyna away when she’d come to her door at twelve seeking solace. In that way, Leyna had broken Olivia’s heart too. But Meredith and Grace were black holes, the pull of their gravity so strong that even light couldn’t escape. What hope had there been for sweet, gentle Adam? Olivia wouldn’t have anyone else in her family pulled into that cold, lightless emptiness. After Leyna’s tirade in front of their home, Olivia knew she’d been right to cut off the girl.
“Thea,” she repeated now, still standing in the bedroom doorway. “Time to go home.”
Thea hopped off the bed and moved toward the door but didn’t leave. “I didn’t find Goose.”
“Goose will come back. He always does.”
Thea made a face and Olivia expected an argument from her, but instead Thea waved at Leyna and whispered to her as she left, “Don’t forget about the lock.”
Olivia meant to follow her daughter from the room, but she found herself unable to move. Leyna had her own gravitational pull.
“Why were you talking to my daughter?”
“I’m looking for Ellie Byrd.”
“Oh? I wasn’t aware you’re a deputy now.”
Leyna’s expression stayed neutral, but Olivia knew she’d caught the sarcasm. “I’m not.”
“Haven’t seen you around in a while,” Olivia said, trying not to sound prickly but failing.
Leyna pushed herself off the bed and leaned against the wall. “So we’re doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Making small talk. Pretending you don’t hate me.”
“I’ve never hated you.” Hate was too strong a word, though in her darkest moments, she’d come close.
Leyna’s face gave away nothing. “How’s Richard?”
It was Olivia’s turn to slip behind a mask. “Great.”
“And Rocky?”
“Good, I think.” She instantly cringed—I think. Before what happened to Adam, she’d been certain of everything. Favorite food? Ecuadoran dumplings made with mashed plantains and filled with pork and cheese because they made her think of Richard. Favorite season? Spring, because it was a time of renewal. Politics, music, books—she had easy opinions on it all. Always, she chose the movie and booked the vacations, and she never answered a question with I think or I believe.
Now, she could no longer stomach dumplings because they’d been Adam’s favorite too, and spring was the season of fresh grief. And Olivia used qualifying language, because how could she be sure of anything when the world had stopped making sense sixteen years before?
Olivia grew aware of Leyna staring, and she thought that maybe the young woman had asked another question.
Thought. Maybe. Two more.
“Why so curious about my family?” Olivia asked. “You know how that went for you last time.”
Leyna flinched, telling Olivia her barb had hit its mark.
“Why did you come back, Leyna?”
Leyna tilted her head, that intense gaze of hers assessing. “Dominic wanted to talk about Ellie Byrd.”
Olivia grimaced. Dominic’s first weekend at home in months, and he’d brought Leyna in his wake. Her next question fell from her mouth before she could stop it. “Have you heard from Grace?”
Silence stretched between them, and for a moment, Olivia thought Leyna might have news to share. Then she shook her head, and Olivia’s chest tightened with disappointment. Leads were hard to come by these days.
Then Leyna said, her voice almost a whisper: “We both know I’ll probably never hear from her.”
The implication landed like a punch, and Olivia said, nearly in a hiss, “Adam didn’t kill your sister.”
Angry tears formed, but she kept them from breaching. Progress. Maybe in another sixteen years, her eyes would remain dry when someone mentioned Adam or accused him of murder. Maybe she wouldn’t flinch at every trill of the landline or chime of the doorbell.
That terrible day in early March, Olivia had been alone in the house, though she hadn’t known it. With Richard away on business and Dominic at college, it had been just her and Adam.
And then just her.
But that morning belonged to another time. She’d spent the first hour outlining a communication strategy for a major client, a beverage company—a woman claimed she’d found a syringe in a bottle of their orange juice—as if that were the most urgent crisis she’d face that day. Then she’d scrambled half a dozen eggs, unaware the boy she scrambled them for wasn’t home to eat them.
Eggs done, Olivia had turned off the stove, taken out the container of mixed berries, and popped two slices of bread into the toaster. Grief still smelled to her like overcooked eggs and toasting bread. Then she’d headed to Adam’s bedroom, knocked—two quick raps—and called through the door, “Adam.”
Not yet worried, world still intact. Still thinking about syringes and orange juice and phrases like brand reputation.
When Adam didn’t respond to her repeated knocking, she called to him a second time with words guaranteed to pull him from his bed: “Breakfast is ready.”
The void on the other side of the door swallowed her voice, giving nothing back.
She knocked again, reluctant to enter. What if he was listening to music on his headphones? Or what if he was sleeping so deeply that even the promise of breakfast didn’t wake him? From what Olivia had observed over the past few weeks, he and Grace had been having a hard time. Not that he’d shared any details, but Adam was a sensitive child. She could always tell when he was hurting, even if she didn’t always know the cause. It was part of the reason she’d made breakfast. But maybe this morning Adam needed sleep more than eggs and toast.
Still, she stood rooted outside his bedroom, the first seed of worry starting to sprout. The sulfur scent of cooling eggs turned her stomach. From the kitchen, she heard the toast pop up, ready for the apricot jam Adam liked so much.
She leaned her ear against the door, which seemed less intrusive than entering. When she couldn’t hear anything, she closed her eyes to better focus. She told herself she was being stupid, but the worry grew more insistent, and her instincts started screaming.
No longer concerned about her son’s privacy, Olivia shoved open the door. No Adam. Sheets rumpled, blanket half on the floor. But that meant nothing. He was a teenage boy who seldom remembered to make his bed.
She shouted then. “Adam!”
Checked the bathroom. Every room in the house, his name trailing behind her. She fought to keep the fear out of her voice, even though there was no one to hear.
She called his cell phone. It went straight to voice mail.
She ran to the Clarkes’ house. Pounded on the door. Meredith was slow to answer, and when she did, she gave the illusion of having just come from bed, still in her pajamas and robe, hair mussed.
But Meredith always woke early, and the slow blinks and stifled yawn seemed performative.
“Have you seen my son?” Olivia asked, her pitch rising with her panic.
“Which one?” was the reply, though Meredith knew damn well which one Olivia meant.
“Adam.” Her throat sore with saying his name. “Have you seen Adam?”
Meredith smoothed her hair and tightened the sash on her robe. “Not since last night.”
But the hesitation set Olivia on edge. “Let me talk to Grace.”
“You can’t.”
“Adam isn’t home, and the last time I saw him, he was heading over here. To see your daughter.” Her fear had morphed into rage.
“She’s—”
“I don’t care if she’s sleeping. Go get your damn daughter.”
Meredith winced at the uncharacteristic expletive, and judging from Meredith’s expression, Olivia imagined she looked how she felt: feral, every muscle in her body tensed, every nerve raw.
Meredith stared at her for several long seconds, abandoning the pretense of drowsiness, and each silent breath only made Olivia grow more terrified of what she might say.
Finally, Meredith exhaled, sounding as bone-weary as Olivia felt.
“Grace isn’t sleeping,” Meredith said. “She’s gone.”
In the hours that followed, the police came. They talked to Olivia and Meredith. They seemed to believe Meredith’s story—two runaways in love.
Odd, though, that Meredith hadn’t called when she’d first noticed them gone. And if that was her story—that the kids had left voluntarily—then why did her voice break when she spoke of it?
Olivia pulled herself from the memory and instantly felt a presence behind her. Dominic. She hadn’t heard him arrive, but she recognized the weight of him without turning her head. He rested a hand on her shoulder, and her breathing steadied.
She thought of all the times she’d invited Leyna to her house over the years. If things had been different, Olivia had some day-old scones she might’ve offered her now, and she had raspberry tea. When Leyna was twelve, that had been her favorite—raspberry tea with honey and a splash of milk. Did she still like that?
But Olivia would never again invite Leyna into her home.
You can’t be here, Leyna. Not today. Not anymore.
“Stay away from my family, Leyna,” Olivia said. Then she turned away, just as she had sixteen years before.