Angela Castillo sat at work, tapping
her pen against the desktop. The news of
Gray’s disappearance had haunted her over the past three days. She thought of the chat room conversations
she’d eavesdropped on, as well as her conversation with Leslie and Gray. She was sure they’d been hiding
something. Plus, when Mr. Matheson
called he’d also thought Leslie was lying to him. Something had happened—this war, or whatever
it was, had gotten out of hand. What if
Gray had disappeared because she had been so intent on delving into the mystery
of Gray’s surroundings without influencing it that her closed-mouth approach
had let something happen to him?
The workday was over. Everyone else had left the office, but still
Angela lingered. Her hand reached for
the phone on her desk, but she stopped.
She needed to explain what she knew to Mr. Matheson and apologize for
not telling him sooner. A phone call
wouldn’t do it justice—this was something she had to do in person. With a sigh, Angela pushed back from her desk
and stood. She grabbed her purse and
left.
On the drive to the Mathesons’
house, Angela mulled over what she would say.
How could she explain the visits from the fake FBI agents, the talks of
war, mentions of Gray and a fabled scroll, without coming off as being drunk or
hallucinating? She debated turning back,
but kept going. It was her
responsibility to keep foster children safe, and her silence had compromised
that.
A police roadblock blocked the
highway. Angela frowned, staring at the
flashing red and blue lights and blue sawhorse blockades, but she turned on the
nearest intersection. She’d have to
reach the Mathesons’ house by back roads.
By the time Angela arrived at the Mathesons’ it was dark.
Angela knocked on the front door,
even at the last moment uncertain of what she would say. Mr. Matheson opened the door moments later,
as though he was waiting just on the other side of the door. His face was haggard and pale, and his suit coat
hung on him like a black kite stuck on the limb of a tree. Angela tried to cover her surprise.
“Mr. Matheson, I’ve got some
information about Gray that I think you
need to hear,” she said.
“Does it include information about
my daughters?” Mr. Matheson asked eagerly.
“No,” Angela said, startled, “why?”
Mr. Matheson rubbed his face with
both hands. When they came down Angela
noticed his eyes were bloodshot from crying.
“Leslie and Savannah never came home.
Leslie’s car was found across town wrapped around a light pole. The police think it was stolen. Both of my daughters are missing.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Angela. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Mr. Matheson tried to smile, but
failed. Something behind Angela caught
his eye, and he peered out into the night.
“What’s that?”
Angela turned around. A figure walked through the night, carrying
something on its back. It stayed out of
the light of the street lamps, and it was only when it came close that Angela
could make out what it was. A young woman
in a brown shirt and matching pants walked barefoot towards the Mathesons’
house. She carried a girl on her
back. The girl’s loose black curls fell
over the woman’s right shoulder.
“Savannah?” Mr. Matheson gasped. He stumbled forward.
The young woman walked into the
light streaming through the house’s open doorway. She was covered in dirt and blood. Savannah lifted her head and looked blearily
at her father. A tourniquet was tied on
her left arm, and her shirt was covered in blood. The woman looked up at Angela and Mr.
Matheson. “Excuse me,” she murmured.
Mr. Matheson and Angela stepped out
of the way. The woman entered the house
and lay Savannah on the living room couch.
One of Savannah’s legs stuck out at an odd angle.
“Savannah!” cried Mr. Matheson. He ran forward and knelt next to the
couch. “What happened? Where’s Leslie?”
“Dad?” Savannah said weakly. She looked away, towards the wall. “I have to tell you something.”
* * *
The End
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