Chapter 7
I didn't put on shoes. I grabbed the flashlight from the junk drawer and pulled the front door toward me, and the cold hit my bare feet before I even stepped over the threshold.
The porch boards were damp. It hadn't rained, but the night air left everything with that thin, clammy film. I swept the light across the mat and my breath caught.
Lily's pink jacket was there.
It was folded, not dropped. That was the thing that made my stomach turn. Someone had taken the time to lay it down neatly, sleeves crossed, hood tucked, like she'd meant to come back for it in a minute. The fleece was faded pink with the little white stars on the cuffs. I'd seen it a hundred times on the sidewalk when Lily and Emma raced scooters. Next to it, in the gray film of dew on the concrete, were prints. Small sneakers, pointed out toward the steps, then down to the sidewalk. One set going away.
I crouched. I didn't touch the jacket. The flashlight beam shook a little in my hand.
"Lily?" I whispered, and hated how thin my voice sounded.
No answer. Just the street quiet, the hum of Daniel's power lines, a dog barking two houses down.
I stood and turned left toward the Hendersons'. Their porch light was off. Same model house as ours, but their entry was darker, their hedge overgrown. I hadn't even put on my robe properly, the belt hanging loose, my hair still damp against my neck. I walked off my porch and onto the sidewalk. The concrete burned cold under my feet with each step. I didn't run. I told myself not to run, not to make noise that would wake the whole block, but my heart was beating so hard I could hear it in my ears.
The Hendersons' steps were three up. I pressed their doorbell and heard the dull chime inside. The flashlight was still on. I clicked it off, suddenly self-conscious, and shoved it under my arm.
A light came on upstairs. Then the entry light. The door opened six inches with the chain on. Mrs. Henderson, Karen, stood there in a navy robe, her hair flat on one side, blinking at me.
"Maya?" she said. "What's wrong?"
I tried to make my voice even. "I'm so sorry to wake you. Is Lily — is she home?"
Karen frowned, pulled the door against the chain, unhooked it. She opened it wider and looked past me toward my house, then back at my face, my bare feet, my robe.
"Lily's been asleep since nine," she said. Her voice was still groggy but sharpened. "She went down right after reading. Why? What happened?"
I felt the relief and the embarrassment come at the same time, hot in my chest.
"Her jacket's on my porch," I said. "I found it just now. I thought — I saw prints. I thought she might be outside."
Karen's eyebrows lifted. She turned her head and called over her shoulder, keeping her eyes on me. "Lily? Honey?"
Nothing for a second. Then a small voice from upstairs, muffled. "Mom?"
"Are you in bed?"
"Yes," Lily called back, annoyed and half-asleep. "I'm in bed."
Karen looked at me again. "She's inside, Maya. That jacket's been missing since Tuesday. I told her she left it at your place after their playdate. The girls were doing chalk on the driveway."
Tuesday. I remembered it then — the chalk, the pink dust on Emma's knees, Lily shrugging out of her jacket because she was hot and tossing it on our steps. I hadn't picked it up. Daniel had stepped over it. I'd meant to text Karen.
I swallowed. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry I woke you."
"Are you okay?" she asked, and I could hear she wanted to ask more.
"We're fine. False alarm. Night stuff." I took a step back. "Go back to sleep. Tell Lily sorry."
She nodded slowly, but she kept watching me until I turned around.
The walk back to my house felt longer. The cold had sunk into my soles. The pink jacket was still exactly where I'd left it, a soft bright shape in the dark. The little sneaker prints led away from it and then faded where the concrete dried under the eave. Not fresh tonight. Just smudged by dew.
Inside, the hall was warm again. Emma stood where I'd left her, but she'd sunk down to sit against the wall under the photo collage. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, her socks pulled up, and she was shivering despite the heat. Sophie was still on the stairs, hugging the railing.
Emma looked up when I closed the door. Her eyes were red.
"Was she there?" she asked.
I knelt in front of her. I put the flashlight down on the wood floor and it rolled a little.
"No, baby," I said. "Lily's in her bed. She's been there all night."
Emma's mouth pressed together. She stared at the jacket in my hand — I'd picked it up without thinking.
"I thought she was waiting," she whispered. "She said she'd be outside if I was brave. I wanted to show her. I thought if I unlocked it fast she'd see me and know I wasn't scared."
The words came out in a rush, then stopped. She started crying, quiet, shoulders shaking.
I didn't raise my voice. I put my hand on her knee. Her skin was cold.
"Oh, Emma," I said softly.
"I didn't see her so I came back," she said. "I didn't know what to do so I left the jacket. I thought she'd come later."
May you like
I pulled her toward me. She leaned her forehead against my shoulder. Sophie came down the last two steps and sat beside us, small and silent.
It wasn't a rendezvous. It was an idea Lily had left in a voice note and a jacket left on a porch, and Emma had filled in the rest with the kind of faith kids have that other kids will be exactly where they promised, even at 2:26 in the morning.
