were safe. And over there was sweet, dim Cassie, and with her, four others.
Counting my flock took a while, but after some time I reached sixteen. Two Adamses missing—Adam Evans and Sarah Adams.
Only then did I notice the sculpture of the reader in the tree. It sat where it had been, the stylized branches like hands, reaching. But one of the “hands” had caught something. A blotch. A dark bird that had alighted there. Or something else, familiar.
Fabric, bunched, dangling. Woolly and fringed. Black. A winter scarf on an unseasonably warm day.
It looked as ominous as a corpse would have. Full-throttle fear possessed me.
Had it been tossed up onto the sculpture or dropped from above? And where was the boy who was never separated from the scarf? Why wasn’t he retrieving it?
I looked up, heart racing so hard I could barely catch my breath, but the balcony wall was too high. I could see nothing above except the pink reflection of light on its curved ceiling. But I could see the scarf, and something bad must have happened—or why the alarm, and why this mark of Adam here, now?
My pressure-locked fear broke loose. I overreacted. I behaved inappropriately, unwisely, out of panic and protectiveinstinct.
Where was he?
“Adam!” I screamed. “Adam, where are you?
Adam!
”
I don’t know what I’d expected, if I’d expected anything— besides having people stare and back off from me. I turned toward the Philly Prep students. “Have you seen Adam?” I asked. “Do you know where he is? What topic did he choose? Maybe if I knew that, I’d know …”
They shook their heads and shrugged, as well they might. As the ability to think slowly returned to me, I realized how stupid my assumptions had been. Why would I imagine he’d consult with or inform his classmates of his whereabouts? Why would I imagine he’d do the assignment? Do sick people suffer sudden bursts of wellness? Would Adam have had a siege of rational behavior?
I’d asked him what he wanted to do for his project. “About an actor,” he’d said. “An actor maybe in Shakespeare’s time, maybe. Yeah, that’s it—an actor. Maybe. Or Jack the Ripper.” And then he’d sat in a department that had nothing to do with any of his ideas.
Not helpful. But I had to unfixate on him. Sarah Adams, a tiny, vulnerable-looking creature, was also not accounted for. Why not fear for her? Why think of Adam at all? Talking myself down was impossible. Months of worry had etched Adam tracks in my brain. I couldn’t unthink him, unimagine him.
Troy had said he’d heard a monster’s roar. Whatever it might have been, it wasn’t a sound a ninety-pound girl was likely to make. But her attacker might.
I pushed through the crowd, heading for the elevator, wishing there were stairs to the next floor up, the way there were from the ground floor to this level. The elevator doors finally opened, but a man stepped out. “Please,” he said to the ten or so of us who were waiting. “Access denied to the third and fourth floors right now. If you’ll stay where you were, please. There’s been an—” He cleared his throat. “There’s a woman awaiting medical attention upstairs, and we want to keep entry open. The police will need your cooperation,” he continued in a louder voice, “so please return to whatever part of the library you were in and remain there.”
His words were relayed back, across the landing, down the stairs, and into the great solemn rooms ringing us. Echoesand questions came from everywhere—“Who is it? What happened? Police? Why police? Did he say an accident?”
But a woman! How politically correct was he—would he use that term for a diminutive high-school senior? “Excuse me,” I said. The man looked distinctly uncomfortable with his role as traffic cop. “The person up there who needs attention— I’m here with my high-school students, and I can’t account for one of my girls. Is she a redhead? A teenager? Her name is
Counting my flock took a while, but after some time I reached sixteen. Two Adamses missing—Adam Evans and Sarah Adams.
Only then did I notice the sculpture of the reader in the tree. It sat where it had been, the stylized branches like hands, reaching. But one of the “hands” had caught something. A blotch. A dark bird that had alighted there. Or something else, familiar.
Fabric, bunched, dangling. Woolly and fringed. Black. A winter scarf on an unseasonably warm day.
It looked as ominous as a corpse would have. Full-throttle fear possessed me.
Had it been tossed up onto the sculpture or dropped from above? And where was the boy who was never separated from the scarf? Why wasn’t he retrieving it?
I looked up, heart racing so hard I could barely catch my breath, but the balcony wall was too high. I could see nothing above except the pink reflection of light on its curved ceiling. But I could see the scarf, and something bad must have happened—or why the alarm, and why this mark of Adam here, now?
My pressure-locked fear broke loose. I overreacted. I behaved inappropriately, unwisely, out of panic and protectiveinstinct.
Where was he?
“Adam!” I screamed. “Adam, where are you?
Adam!
”
I don’t know what I’d expected, if I’d expected anything— besides having people stare and back off from me. I turned toward the Philly Prep students. “Have you seen Adam?” I asked. “Do you know where he is? What topic did he choose? Maybe if I knew that, I’d know …”
They shook their heads and shrugged, as well they might. As the ability to think slowly returned to me, I realized how stupid my assumptions had been. Why would I imagine he’d consult with or inform his classmates of his whereabouts? Why would I imagine he’d do the assignment? Do sick people suffer sudden bursts of wellness? Would Adam have had a siege of rational behavior?
I’d asked him what he wanted to do for his project. “About an actor,” he’d said. “An actor maybe in Shakespeare’s time, maybe. Yeah, that’s it—an actor. Maybe. Or Jack the Ripper.” And then he’d sat in a department that had nothing to do with any of his ideas.
Not helpful. But I had to unfixate on him. Sarah Adams, a tiny, vulnerable-looking creature, was also not accounted for. Why not fear for her? Why think of Adam at all? Talking myself down was impossible. Months of worry had etched Adam tracks in my brain. I couldn’t unthink him, unimagine him.
Troy had said he’d heard a monster’s roar. Whatever it might have been, it wasn’t a sound a ninety-pound girl was likely to make. But her attacker might.
I pushed through the crowd, heading for the elevator, wishing there were stairs to the next floor up, the way there were from the ground floor to this level. The elevator doors finally opened, but a man stepped out. “Please,” he said to the ten or so of us who were waiting. “Access denied to the third and fourth floors right now. If you’ll stay where you were, please. There’s been an—” He cleared his throat. “There’s a woman awaiting medical attention upstairs, and we want to keep entry open. The police will need your cooperation,” he continued in a louder voice, “so please return to whatever part of the library you were in and remain there.”
His words were relayed back, across the landing, down the stairs, and into the great solemn rooms ringing us. Echoesand questions came from everywhere—“Who is it? What happened? Police? Why police? Did he say an accident?”
But a woman! How politically correct was he—would he use that term for a diminutive high-school senior? “Excuse me,” I said. The man looked distinctly uncomfortable with his role as traffic cop. “The person up there who needs attention— I’m here with my high-school students, and I can’t account for one of my girls. Is she a redhead? A teenager? Her name is
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