something shiny five feet to her left and up a bit. She scrambled along the little ledge until she reached it. Shotgun shell, half-planted in the dirt, already rusting, the brass base shining slightly. Abbie tossed it down the hill.
She was turning to assume the crab position when she saw something else. It was down eight or nine feet, a ball of something bluecaught in the root of a scraggly purple flower. Abbie’s brow creased as she walked carefully toward it. She slid, catching plants with her hand to keep her from tumbling down the slope. A yellow-topped weed came away in her hand and she swung away from the hill, feeling herself tip backward. She went with the momentum and turned all the way over, collapsing onto the hill on her back.
“Careful now,” someone cried from up top.
If you were so concerned, she thought, you’d throw down a rope.
Abbie took a breath and turned her head to the left. There it was, rocking slightly in the wind. The glossy blue surface shone in the sun. Paper.
Abbie inched over, her throat dry from the dust. She crouched, her fingers scrabbling in the weeds, inching toward the blue ball. Another couple of inches. Her rib cage felt like it was going to separate at the breastbone. She lunged the extra two inches and felt the thing in her hands. She breathed out, tucked it into her lapel pocket, and began the laborious climb upward.
One of the deputies was waiting at the edge. He bent at the knees and offered her his hand.
“Long way to go for a piece of trash,” he said.
Abbie took his hand and he pulled her up with a strong tug. She vaulted up to the top of the hill and almost went tumbling the other way.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Might be something better than garbage,” she said. “Thanks.”
She pulled it out of her pocket and put her thumbs into the center of the ball, then carefully pulled it flat. A glossy photo, ripped along the left side. A line of rowboats was tied to a pier with dark blue water lapping at their gunwales. A man pulling the oars of a rowboat while a woman leaned back on the front wooden seat, a look of rapture on her face.
“Like I said, trash,” the man said, then walked off toward the Corrections van.
Something far off rang in Abbie’s mind, like a bell. Have I been there, she thought, the place in the picture?
Abbie smoothed the paper out against her palm. The paper crinkled as it unfolded. It was crisp, hadn’t been down there in the weeds for long.
Not a photo. A brochure. And she’d seen this brochure, years before. But what was it for?
“Wherewherewhere …” Abbie whispered.
Rowing a boat on a lake during the summer. She’d always wanted to do that, had asked her father once, but he said it was for the swells. She didn’t get it at the time—“swells,” like waves in the water. And rich people.
Abbie whipped out her phone, clicked on the web browser, and typed in “Hoyt Lake boat” in the search box. A website came up. “See the city in a whole new way!” said the banner headline. Underneath the picture unfolded slowly. The same skyline, the same tied-up boats. The same doofy couple.
Hoyt Lake Boat Rentals
, Abbie read. Hoyt Lake, in the middle of Delaware Park. In the North.
A surge of panic went through her as she stared at the image.
13
Martha Stoltz slammed the front door of her house on Mill Lane, slung her schoolbag onto the leather couch, and headed straight upstairs. Her mother had asked her, no not asked,
ordered
Martha to scrub the tub the first thing after getting home from school. Martha was determined to get it done so she could have a text-storm with Jenn about what happened in Gym that morning. But first, chores. They were studying Italian fascism in History, and Martha had slowly come to the belief that her mother would have fit right in with Mussolini.
The tub had been a problem ever since her mother had ordered it last fall. It had looked white and shiny when the workmen installed it but it was just
She was turning to assume the crab position when she saw something else. It was down eight or nine feet, a ball of something bluecaught in the root of a scraggly purple flower. Abbie’s brow creased as she walked carefully toward it. She slid, catching plants with her hand to keep her from tumbling down the slope. A yellow-topped weed came away in her hand and she swung away from the hill, feeling herself tip backward. She went with the momentum and turned all the way over, collapsing onto the hill on her back.
“Careful now,” someone cried from up top.
If you were so concerned, she thought, you’d throw down a rope.
Abbie took a breath and turned her head to the left. There it was, rocking slightly in the wind. The glossy blue surface shone in the sun. Paper.
Abbie inched over, her throat dry from the dust. She crouched, her fingers scrabbling in the weeds, inching toward the blue ball. Another couple of inches. Her rib cage felt like it was going to separate at the breastbone. She lunged the extra two inches and felt the thing in her hands. She breathed out, tucked it into her lapel pocket, and began the laborious climb upward.
One of the deputies was waiting at the edge. He bent at the knees and offered her his hand.
“Long way to go for a piece of trash,” he said.
Abbie took his hand and he pulled her up with a strong tug. She vaulted up to the top of the hill and almost went tumbling the other way.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Might be something better than garbage,” she said. “Thanks.”
She pulled it out of her pocket and put her thumbs into the center of the ball, then carefully pulled it flat. A glossy photo, ripped along the left side. A line of rowboats was tied to a pier with dark blue water lapping at their gunwales. A man pulling the oars of a rowboat while a woman leaned back on the front wooden seat, a look of rapture on her face.
“Like I said, trash,” the man said, then walked off toward the Corrections van.
Something far off rang in Abbie’s mind, like a bell. Have I been there, she thought, the place in the picture?
Abbie smoothed the paper out against her palm. The paper crinkled as it unfolded. It was crisp, hadn’t been down there in the weeds for long.
Not a photo. A brochure. And she’d seen this brochure, years before. But what was it for?
“Wherewherewhere …” Abbie whispered.
Rowing a boat on a lake during the summer. She’d always wanted to do that, had asked her father once, but he said it was for the swells. She didn’t get it at the time—“swells,” like waves in the water. And rich people.
Abbie whipped out her phone, clicked on the web browser, and typed in “Hoyt Lake boat” in the search box. A website came up. “See the city in a whole new way!” said the banner headline. Underneath the picture unfolded slowly. The same skyline, the same tied-up boats. The same doofy couple.
Hoyt Lake Boat Rentals
, Abbie read. Hoyt Lake, in the middle of Delaware Park. In the North.
A surge of panic went through her as she stared at the image.
13
Martha Stoltz slammed the front door of her house on Mill Lane, slung her schoolbag onto the leather couch, and headed straight upstairs. Her mother had asked her, no not asked,
ordered
Martha to scrub the tub the first thing after getting home from school. Martha was determined to get it done so she could have a text-storm with Jenn about what happened in Gym that morning. But first, chores. They were studying Italian fascism in History, and Martha had slowly come to the belief that her mother would have fit right in with Mussolini.
The tub had been a problem ever since her mother had ordered it last fall. It had looked white and shiny when the workmen installed it but it was just
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