“Mr. Davies, hi,” Wendy said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. She glanced down at the newspaper in his hand. Ashley Ford’s picture smiled at her from the front page.
“Is everything okay?” Mr. Davies repeated, stepping down from his porch. Wendy could only imagine how she looked. Probably like she had just seen a ghost. Mr. Davies looked pale and his eyes kept cutting over to the police car parked in front of their house. He squeezed the newspaper in his hands.
Wendy forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, already starting toward the Arroyos’ house again. “I’ve gotta go, though—I’m late to meet Jordan.”
Mr. Davies blinked. Wendy was usually very neighborly and would stop and chat with him if she had the time, but right now she didn’t have the energy for it.
Her mind buzzed. She needed everything to slow down so her head could catch up. Her own skin felt suffocating. She wanted out. She wanted to run away. She didn’t want to be met with more stares and whispers when she went into town. She didn’t want to pretend she was fine.
But Wendy refused to let herself cry. It had taken so long to board everything up the last time. Wendy didn’t think she could manage it again.
The six months between running off into the woods and being found were just a black void in her mind. When she was in the hospital, the doctors had tried to get her to press against it, to poke and prod and see if she could remember anything, but she couldn’t.
Of course she wanted to remember. If she could just remember what had happened, then she could find her brothers. Those lost memories held the secrets to finding them.
All that she had been left with were horrible dreams that made her wake up in the hospital screaming and left ghosts of images in their wake. Trees, Michael’s smile, John’s shoes, screams of laughter, and a pair of eyes like stars.
CHAPTER 5
The Arroyos
The garage door at the Arroyos’ house was open, revealing shelves of tools and car parts. There were two cars in the garage. One belonged to Jordan—a beat-up sedan with a rusting hood that fit in well with the greasy car parts surrounding it. And then there was Mr. Arroyo’s sleek, silver crown and glory next to it. Any time Wendy had problems with her truck, Jordan and her dad were the ones to help her out. She would need to enlist their services for her dented hood and scratched windshield, but right now, there were more earthshaking matters at hand.
Wendy half ran up to the porch and rang the doorbell. A large knot lodged in her throat.
Jordan opened the door. She stood, shoeless, in a pair of gray sweatpants. One arm stretched above her head, scratching her back and pulling up the hem of her beat-up Red Cross shirt. While Wendy always got up early—both every day during the summer and on the weekends during the school year—Jordan had the sleep habits of a very lazy house cat. Jordan had a piece of toast sticking out of her mouth, a sleepy smile playing on her lips. Her brown hair was a pile of springy ringlets framing her heart-shaped face.
“Hey, you—” Jordan cut herself off, brows furrowing as soon as she got a proper look at Wendy.
Wendy rocked forward onto the balls of her feet, wringing her hands.
Jordan’s arm fell to her side. “What’s wrong?” she demanded through a mouthful of toast.
Wendy opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She felt her lower lip wobble.
In one fluid motion, Jordan pulled her inside. They quickly started down the hall, passing the kitchen on the way. Jordan tossed the rest of her toast onto the counter and Wendy heard Mr. Arroyo say, “？Ay, Jordan! ?Qué haces?” She caught a glimpse of Jordan’s dad, frowning as he picked up the piece of soggy toast and threw it in the trash.
“My bad!” Jordan maneuvered herself to block Wendy from her father’s view. “Wendy just got here. We’ll be in my room,” she said casually.
“Oh, okay, fine— Hi, Wendy,” Mr. Arroyo said distractedly as he wiped up the melted butter with a dish towel.
Jordan ushered Wendy down the hallway before she could attempt a reply. It was lined with pictures of Jordan and her dad at varying ages, all smiling and doing things like fishing, camping, or going to soccer games. There were even a couple of Mrs. Arroyo from when Jordan was a baby, before she passed away.
Wendy’s house didn’t have any family photos like that. The walls were mostly bare, except for a few Monet prints her mother had bought ages ago. Time had faded the vibrant colors to mostly pale shades of blue.
Wendy stepped into Jordan’s room and Jordan shut the door behind them. The four walls were covered in black, red, and purple—a complete eyesore. There were pennants and posters of the Portland Thorns—Jordan’s beloved soccer team—covering the walls, all clad in crimson and black. Jordan’s medals hung on the wall from purple ribbons. The rest of her room was an absolute mess, as always. There was a heap of clothes in the corner and every surface was littered with a combination of magazines, trophies, and actual garbage.