Someone knocked on the door, and we froze.
"Stay calm," she said, standing and walking to the door. When she opened it, she immediately crossed her arms over her middle and took a step back. "Milo."
Mr. Mason stepped in, taking one look at Elliott and then turning to his wife. "What is he doing here?" he whispered, his lips barely moving.
"He came to see Catherine. She'll be staying here awhile."
"Are you insane?" Mr. Mason said. He tried to keep his voice low but failed.
"We can hear you," Elliott said.
Mr. Mason continued, "The Brubakers went to the hospital after the Youngbloods left. They're trying to talk Owen's parents into pressing charges. If they do, they'll be looking for Elliott."
"Who will be looking for Elliott?" Mrs. Mason asked.
I stood, taking Elliott's hand in mine. He squeezed, his palm damp. He was scared, too.
Mr. Mason looked at us, sympathy weighing down his face. "The police. They'll take this opportunity to question him further on Presley's disappearance. They have no other leads. They're going after him, and then"--he looked to me--"they might come after Catherine."
"No," Elliott said, stepping in front of me as if Mr. Mason was there to take me. His fingers dug into mine. "We didn't do anything! How many times do we have to say it?"
Mrs. Mason sat at the table, her palms flat against the dark wood. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and then nodded. "Okay. Nothing has happened yet. Let's not worry until there is something to worry about."
"Becca, he shouldn't be here," Mr. Mason snapped.
Mrs. Mason looked up at her husband. "And neither should you."
Mr. Mason fidgeted, clearly hurt by her reply. He had lost weight since the first day of school, biceps beginning to bud from his arms, the flab beneath his shirt nearly gone. He wore clothes that reminded me more of Coach Peckham than the usual short-sleeved button-downs and boring ties Mr. Mason was known for.
He started to walk out but stopped by the tree, peering down at the presents. All were green, red, and silver foil but one: a small rectangle wrapped in the same shade of purple that was painted on the walls in my room. "Becca . . ."
"You should go, Milo."
Mr. Mason pointed at Elliott. "He's staying?" When Mrs. Mason opened her mouth to argue, he stopped her. "He's a suspect, Becca. He shouldn't be left alone. He shouldn't have any moment unaccounted for."
"Then I'll follow him," Mrs. Mason said.
Mr. Mason looked at Elliott and sighed. "I'll do it. I don't want you girls driving back here alone at night. Not with Presley still missing. And not after you've pissed off Mrs. Calhoun. No offense, Catherine."
I shook my head and shrugged.
Elliott turned to me. "He's probably right. If the cops stopped me on the way home, Mr. Mason could tell them where I've been at least."
"You'll see her in the morning at school. My office. Eight o'clock," Mrs. Mason said.
Elliott nodded, then bent down to kiss my forehead, letting his lips linger for a while. "See you in the morning."
He hugged me tight and then grabbed his jacket from the closet, his keys off the table, and then passed through the open door Mr. Mason was holding.
Mr. Mason's eyes were full of conflict when he met his wife's gaze. "The back door is locked? The windows?" She nodded, and he sighed. "This was reckless, Becca. I wish you'd talked to me first."
She folded her arms across her middle. "I would've done it anyway."
He breathed out a laugh. "I know. Be sure to lock the door when I leave. Enable the alarm."
Mrs. Mason nodded, closing the door behind her husband and twisting the bolt lock.
She pressed a few buttons on a white, square display and then looked over her shoulder. "I need a four-digit number. Something you're familiar with."
I thought about it for a moment.
She pressed the code and then another button. It beeped twice. "You just press in your code and then hit this button to both arm and disarm the alarm when you're leaving or coming home. This one to arm if you're staying home. Get in the habit of arming it every time you walk in the door. I won't always be here."
"Okay, Mrs. Mason. I will."
"Becca," she said with a tired smile. She stretched and then rubbed the back of her neck, looking down at the nearly empty pizza boxes.
"I'll get it." I went to the table, gathering the plates, and took them to the kitchen, rinsing the dishes and breaking down the boxes.
Mrs. Mason watched me with a smile, leaning against the wall. Her eyes were heavy and red. Being watched by her was like being watched by Elliott, so different from feeling eyes on me at the Juniper.
"Thank you," she said when I finished.
We walked together toward the hallway, Mrs. Mason pausing to turn off lights on the way. She left the Christmas tree plugged in, the soft white glowing brighter.
"Isn't it funny how lights seem so much more beautiful in the dark?" she asked.
"Like the stars," I said. "I use to stare out my bedroom window, down at the lights that lined our street. The city stopped replacing the bulbs when they burned out, and it bothered me until I realized I could see the stars better."
"Always making the best of your circumstances," Mrs. Mason said. "Good night, Catherine."
"Night," I said, watching her go toward her bedroom.
Her door opened and closed, and then I found myself standing in the hallway alone, waiting for the house to breathe, for its eyes to open and watch me like the Juniper did at night. But there was only the faint aroma of Mrs. Mason's apple cinnamon-scented plug-ins and the glow of the Christmas tree.
I closed my bedroom door behind me. One article at a time, I unpacked my clothes. At the bottom of the last bag was my music box.
It seemed old and dusty when I placed the aging pink-and-white cube on the shiny dresser of my new room. All my things--including me--seemed worn now that they were inside the Masons' charming home. I undressed and showered, attempting to scrub the secrets from my skin. Mama being alone and afraid forced its way into my thoughts, and worry for Elliott made the center of my chest feel heavy. Six months ago, the only thing that held value was my loyalty to Mama and the Juniper. How had I so quickly and completely changed my mind?
Water poured over my face, rinsing away the suds from my hair and body, pooling around my feet. The tub was perfectly white, the caulk seal where the fiberglass met the tile wall was mold-free, and the windows kept out the cold wind blowing outside. I looked up at the showerhead, the streams all spitting out water evenly, hard water buildup absent from the metal.
Mama was still trapped in the Juniper with the others, in her own hopelessness and despair, and I was showering in a warm, pristine home that smelled like apple pie.
In fresh pajamas that still smelled like the stuffy air trapped inside the Juniper, I walked over to the music box I'd packed before DHS had come to save me. The lid creaked when it opened, the dancer inside trembling when I touched the top of her tiny brown bun. The notes chimed slowly, reminding me of when Dad did the saving. I wondered if he would've been upset with me for my choice. I could almost hear his stern but loving voice explaining how leaving someone behind was hurtful, and then again telling me I'd done the right thing. But that was hard to believe. Dad would have never left Mama, no matter how many breakdowns or episodes she had.
Althea, Poppy, Willow . . . even Duke were all probably scrambling to help Mama cope. They would stay. The castoffs, the drifters, and the unwanted were all willing to sacrifice to help Mama more than I was.
I closed the music box, cutting off the song before it could finish.
"I'm the guest now," I whispered.
After a soft knock on the door, Mrs. Mason's muffled voice came through. "Catherine? You awake?"
"Yes?" I pulled open the door. Mrs. Mason stood trembling in the hall in her robe and bare feet, clinging to a flashlight, her skin shiny, her hair dripping wet from a shower.
&nbs
p; "I heard something outside my window. I was going to go check."
"Want me to go with you?"
She shook her head, but I could see in her eyes that she was afraid. "No, just stay in your room."
"I'm going," I said, closing the door behind me.
We put on coats and slipped on our boots, then stepped out onto the front porch.
"Should we split up?" I asked. "I go left, you go right?"
"No," she said quickly. "No, absolutely not. You stay with me."
We walked down the steps as Mrs. Mason shone her flashlight in front of us. Our boots crunched against the dead grass, the wind blowing the counselor's wet hair into her face.
She put out her hand, signaling for me to stop. "Hello?" she called, her voice trembling. "Who's there?"
I glanced behind us. The lights in the neighboring houses were dark. The street was empty.
The sound of a scuffle in the back of the house made Mrs. Mason jump back. She held her finger to her mouth, the light casting shadows across her face.
"Whispers," she hissed just loud enough for me to hear.
I waited, hearing several people talking in low, panicked voices. I pulled her closer to me. "We should go inside."
The spring from the Masons' back gate whined, and then the wood slammed shut. Mrs. Mason pulled away from my grip, shining her light all over the yard, finally settling on the gate. It was still swaying from being slammed shut but not latched.
"Becca!" I called when she sprinted across the yard. She disappeared through the gate, and all I could think about was how fast she'd run in her clunky boots. "Becca!" I yelled, running after her in the dark.
By the time I reached the gate, she'd slipped back through, locking it behind her.
"Did you see anyone?" I asked. She shook her head. "That was stupid," I scolded.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
"A girl is missing, we hear people in your backyard, and you go running after them alone? What if they took you? What if they hurt you? What would I have done?"
"You're right." She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I just reacted." She stopped abruptly, her light highlighting a bush near the house. It had been trampled.
"Let's go in," I said, tugging on her. "I want to go in."
Mrs. Mason nodded, pulling me behind her. We climbed the steps, and she locked the door behind us. The buttons on the white square on the wall beeped as she reset the alarm.
"I'm going to call the police, just to be sure. You should go to bed. I'll stay up."
"Becca . . . ," I began.
"Go to bed. It's going to be okay, I promise."
"Maybe it was just neighborhood kids," I offered.
"Probably. Good night." She pulled out her phone, and I left her alone.
Even with Mrs. Mason's fear filling the house, it was still warmer and less frightening than the Juniper. I closed the door behind me and climbed into bed, pulling the covers all the way to my ears. Mrs. Mason tried to keep her voice low, but I could hear her making a report to the police.
They would come and ask questions. They would know Elliott and Mr. Mason had been here, and I was worried it would somehow implicate Elliott again.
As my eyelids grew heavier, I heard the whispers from the backyard fill my head: familiar, close, the voices I'd sometimes hear down the hall from my bedroom in the Juniper. Conniving, strategizing, working together to implement a plan or to configure a new one. The guests were like birds, flying in the same direction, turning, landing, and spooking at the same time. They were one, working toward a common goal. Now they were outside, waiting, just like they had always done at the Juniper. I would never be free. Mama would never let me go.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Catherine
Catherine?" Mrs. Mason called from outside my door. A soft knock followed.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes, confused for a moment.
"Um . . . yes?"
"It's the first day of Christmas break, so I made waffles."
"Waffles?" I sat up, inhaling the aroma of flour, yeast, and warm maple syrup mixed with the new odors of paint and carpet and the old smells wafting from my clothes in the closet.
I stumbled from the bed and opened the door, wearing a ratty white T-shirt and gray sweatpants.
Becca was standing on the other side wearing black-framed glasses, a powder-blue robe, pink pajamas, and fluffy slippers. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, brunette strands sticking out.
"Waffles," she said with a bright smile, holding up a spatula. "C'mon!"
We hurried to the kitchen, where she turned a silver contraption, twisted a latch, and then opened the lid, revealing a perfectly golden waffle.
"Butter or peanut butter?" she asked, dropping it onto a plate.
My nose wrinkled. "Peanut butter?"
"Oh my God, you've never tried it?"
"We don't have a waffle maker. It broke last year. But no, I've never even heard of peanut butter on waffles."
She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "You're not allergic, are you?"
I shook my head. "No."
"Here," she said, slathering one half with regular butter, the other with creamy peanut butter. Then she turned the syrup bottle upside down and drenched my breakfast with sugar. "Let me know which one you like best."
She handed me the plate, a fork, and a knife and then stirred the batter, pouring it into the waffle maker. Even when we had one, it didn't look like that. Mrs. Mason gave it a turn and then escorted me to the table.
Orange juice had already been poured and was waiting for me. I sat, then carved into the peanut butter side, shoveling a square into my mouth. My hand instantly covered my lips as I worked to chew the sticky, sugary, creamy goodness. "Oh, wow."
Mrs. Mason grinned, resting her elbows on the table and leaning forward. "Amazing, huh?"
"It's so good," I said, my words garbled.
She clapped and then stood, pointing at me as she returned to the kitchen. "You'll never eat them the old way again."
She yawned as she stood at her post, waiting for hers to cook. The sun was pouring in from every window, making the warm hues inside glow. As inviting as the Masons' house was at night, it was downright cheerful during the day. I couldn't imagine them fighting here, certainly not enough to separate.
"Did you sleep okay?" I asked between bites.
"Pretty good," she said, nodding once. The contraption beeped, and Mrs. Mason twisted it, unlocking the latch and smiling as her waffle plopped onto her plate. Peanut butter and a cup of syrup later, she was sitting across from me.
She hummed as she took the first bite, seeming to savor it. "It's nice to have an excuse to make these again. It was Milo who introduced me to peanut butter waffles in college."
"You've dated since college?" I asked.
"High school." She cut into her waffle with the side of her fork. "Fell in love right here in Oak Creek." She got somber. "Fell out of love here, too."
"It's hard here, I think. There's not enough to distract adults from work and real life. We don't have the beach or the mountains, just hot wind blowing at us like a heater in the summer and the freezing wind stinging our faces in the winter."
She chuckled. "You forget about the sunsets. And the lakes. And football."
"I've never been to the lake," I said, taking another bite.
"Milo has a boat. We will rectify that when it gets warm enough."
I shrugged one shoulder. "I'm not sure where I'll be."
"You'll be here. Until you leave for college. You haven't said much about the applications."
"I can't afford college right now."
"What about a Pell Grant? Scholarships? You're an A student, Catherine. You missed salutatorian by only two points."
I breathed out a laugh and looked down at my nearly empty plate.
"What?" Mrs. Mason asked.
"It just feels so strange to be sitting in this house with you, being served brea
kfast and talking about normal things when everything is so . . . not normal."
"It will take a while to adjust."
"I don't think I should adjust."
"Why is that?"
"It doesn't feel right to get used to it--to being without Mama."
"You don't have to be without her. It's okay to create healthy boundaries and to live out the rest of your senior year in a stable, safe environment." She frowned, touching her index finger to the center of her forehead. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound so clinical."
"No, it's fine. I understand what you're trying to say, but I accept that she needs me. My status as a caregiver won't change after graduation, which is why college is a moot point."
"Don't say that."
"It's not ideal . . ."
"It's not a life."
"It's not her fault."
Mrs. Mason sighed. "It bothers me that you've given up. Your whole life is ahead of you. Being born shouldn't be a prison sentence."
"I don't see it that way."
"Are you happy there? Is that a life you would choose?"
"Of course not, but . . . does anyone choose? Is this what you chose?"
Mrs. Mason nearly spit out her orange juice.
"You know . . . you know his wife left him because he was sleeping with Emily Stoddard, right?"
Mrs. Mason wiped the orange specks from her chin. "I'd heard."
"She graduated two years ago. She would never admit it to her parents or the administration, but she told all her friends."
"Milo said as much."
I sat back in my chair with a smirk on my face. "You didn't believe him. Just like you don't believe me now."
"Actually, I was pretty sure Brad was sleeping with Presley before she disappeared."
"You . . . what?"
"I saw texts from her on his phone. Pretty graphic texts. I stopped seeing him after that."
My eyes grew wide. "You don't think that's something you should've mentioned to the police?"
"I . . ."
"They've been looking at Elliott and me, and you've had reason to believe the football coach was having an inappropriate relationship with a missing student?"
"He . . ."
"Why wouldn't you report it?" I said, my voice louder than I'd meant for it to be.
"Catherine . . ."
"Elliott could be arrested any minute if Owen's parents press charges, and you--"
"Catherine, I did. I did tell the police. Brad was interviewed and polygraphed. He has an alibi. He was here until morning."