Page 9

8

VIOLET

When Violet thought about her father, which she tried not to do very often, she felt a kind of unpleasant heat come up from her center. Sometimes there was a rushing sound in her ears. Always there was a kind of tension, like she was holding her breath for too long.

Memories of him could surface suddenly, taking her by surprise. Like the smell of burnt toast made her remember the time they tried to make a surprise breakfast for Mom and the smoke detectors went off. Or the scar on her knee reminded her of the day he taught her how to ride her bike. She fell, and he carried her back to the house, where her mom bandaged the wound and they both kissed it better, while Blake cried because he thought she was really hurt. She’d gotten good at batting those memories away, making herself hard inside and swallowing the tide of feelings they brought up.

Dreams she couldn’t control. In her dreams, her dad pushed her on the swing set in the backyard of their old house, the one they couldn’t afford anymore. He sang her silly songs horribly out of tune, until she nearly peed her pants with laughter. Helped her, always patient and encouraging, with her math. You can do this, little V. And when she woke from a vivid one—like now—she might be crying or laughing. She might be reaching for him to take her into his arms and swing her around.

The familiar shadows of her room took shape—her dresser, her big purple beanbag chair, her backpack slouched by the door waiting for morning—as the image of her father baking cookies, which he had never done in real life, faded. She grasped for it, but it slipped from her consciousness like sand through her fingers.

Then she remembered. They were alone, Blake sleeping down the hallway. She was in charge.

She reached for her phone and checked her mom’s location. Adele’s red dot pulsed in the middle of a green dot, in the middle of a wide blue nothing. Violet felt some measure of relief, though of course, all it meant was that Adele’s phone was on and charged. But there was no dot on any electronic map for her father for Violet to watch, to know he was somewhere, probably okay.

He was gone.

It was four in the morning. Her mom called it the witching hour , the time when you woke and were most likely to stay awake worrying about everything and nothing until morning. She lay a moment, listening to the darkness.

Before bed, she’d checked every door and window lock, dutifully set the alarm. Had there been a sound? Something that woke her?

She listened longer. Nothing.

Finally, she slipped from the warmth of her covers, bare feet hitting the hardwood floor, the cool air on her skin raising gooseflesh. She kept her dad’s old baseball bat by the door. Just after he’d disappeared, there’d been threats, people calling at all hours; once, a woman turned up on their doorstep holding an infant on her hip.

He ruined us , she’d shrieked at Adele through the door she wouldn’t open. We’ve lost everything .

I’m sorry , Adele said through the glass. So have we.

Blake had clung to Violet, his arms around her waist. “Who is she? Why does she hate us?”

She hadn’t known how to answer.

Violet grabbed the bat before stepping into the hallway. Blake’s door down the hall was ajar, the faint blue light of his various electronics glowing. She moved down the stairs, careful not to step on the one that creaked, gripping the gritty, taped handle of the bat.

She’d never said so to her mother, but there were things she liked about this house better, even though it was small, not grand with high ceilings and big glittering chandeliers. There was no pool or game-slash-music room with a pool table and Dad’s drum kit, no giant U-shaped sofa in front of the home-theater-sized television. Her room was not even half as big. But in that house with its endless hallways and poured-concrete floors, her parents had seemed so far. Their bedroom suite on another level from Blake’s and Violet’s rooms. Here, they were close to each other. In the night, she could hear her mother talking on the phone or punching the bag in the garage. Blake and all his annoying noises—his allergic sniffles, his unexplainable grunts and groans, the creaking of his gaming chair. She liked knowing where everyone was, what they were doing. There couldn’t be any secrets this way, right? Her mother couldn’t be one thing and then suddenly be something else.

Violet stepped into the open-plan kitchen, eyes sweeping the space. Her mom’s whiteboard calendar with all their various activities color-coded—purple for Violet, red for Blake, green for Adele—hung next to the refrigerator. Violet kept everything clean, just like her mom did. No dishes in the sink, every surface wiped to a shine. The coffeepot was set to brew at six o’clock—not that either of them drank coffee, but Violet liked the smell.

She walked through the cozy living room, everything plush with big pillows, photos and Violet’s and Blake’s framed artwork. In the old house, everything had been digital: pictures on the screen saver of the television, on frames that changed every few minutes.

She peered out the door to their fenced-in backyard. Just the table and chairs, the grill.

It wasn’t until she walked down the short hallway to the front door that she knew something was wrong. The alarm pad that glowed red when it was armed was green. The front door was ajar. She froze, lifted the bat. Her throat went a little dry, her shoulders hiked.

Call the police. That was the first thought.

And before , she wouldn’t have thought twice. Of course when there’s trouble you call the cops. Because they were the good guys, and their job was to protect you. But that was before . There was a certain look that people got after —the police, the FBI, people who used to work for her father. It was the stern, hard look of disapproval, of judgment. And it was a kind of violence, a look that made Violet shut down, want to run away and hide. Because that look, it was a closed door. It was the look of people who wanted to hurt, not help. Like Agent Coben, who pretended to be nice but really just wanted to arrest her father, could take her mother away, too, if he wanted to.

One thing she knew for sure since her dad disappeared: Violet, Blake, and Adele were on their own.

She steeled herself. Be brave, be wild. That’s what her mother told her when Violet was worried or afraid. Violet crept toward the door, mind racing. If the alarm had been disarmed, someone knew the code. If the door was ajar, was there someone in the house? She gripped the bat so hard that her knuckles ached, the tape abrading the skin on her palm. Outside the door, a shuffling sound. Was that the sound of an engine?

The door opened slowly.

She ran toward it, bat high, issuing a warrior yell, which she hoped would scare whoever it was and wake her brother. A lumbering figure filled the door.

“Violet!”

She swung the bat and missed, went whipping around with the force of her own thrust, the bat flying into the kitchen, crashing against the kitchen island. There was a shout, hands on her.

“You could have killed me. Are you crazy?”

She stared, the face before her coming into focus.

“Oh, my god!” yelled Violet. “Blake, what are you doing?”

The sound of an engine had her running past him, just in time to see a pair of taillights disappearing up the drive.

She turned back to her brother. “Who was that?”

“No one,” said Blake, picking up the bat. “None of your business.”

“It’s definitely my business,” she said. “Did you sneak out? Where did you go?”

“You,” he said, picking up the bat from where it had fallen, “are not Mom. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Blake held up the bat, gave her a look, and then stuck it in the closet. “Why would you be walking around with that thing?”

She grappled with the situation. Who was that? Where did Blake go? He didn’t have a single friend except all the other gamer dorks on Red World , and most of them he’d never met in real life.

“Fine,” she said, her heart rate slowing, hands still shaking. “I’ll tell Mom that you snuck out.”

“You won’t.” Blake moved into the kitchen. “Because if you do, she’ll come home. She’ll lose the game. And then we’ll be in worse shape than we are now.”

She stared at him. His face was blank, unreadable. Adrena line abandoned her, leaving her vaguely nauseated. He was right. She wouldn’t tell Mom.

“Just tell me.” She sounded dangerously close to begging.

Blake opened the refrigerator, casting himself in a buttery rectangle of light. He took out the pizza they’d ordered for dinner last night, grabbed a slice, and stuck it in his mouth, practically inhaling it.

“Whose car was that?” she pressed.

No answer. He took a seat at the kitchen island, opened his laptop, his back to her. Finally, without looking around, he answered.

“I just went out, okay? With Gregg. We just drove around.”

“Who’s Gregg?”

“He’s a senior at Lake Forest. I met him on Red World . You don’t know him. He got a Bronco for his birthday, so we just tooled around. Did you know the McDonald’s in Chester is open twenty-four hours? We didn’t do anything.”

She didn’t believe him.

“What’s his Photogram ID?”

“No way. You’re not following him.”

She locked the front door and set the alarm. She’d change the code so that he couldn’t get out again without setting the alarm. Then she sank into the couch, defeated, listening to him clattering on his keyboard.

He wasn’t going to tell her anything else. She decided to drop it, and she’d do some detective work. Gregg from Lake Forest High with a new Bronco. What did a senior want with a freshman? Especially a giant nerd like Blake?

Cruising through the various social platforms, she didn’t find anything about a Gregg, but she saw that her best friend Coral had posted a silly picture of herself up too late studying for their chem exam. Her friend, with her wild, pink-tinged hair and thick glitter eye shadow, clutched a can of Red Bull.

#APchemsucks #thestruggleisreal

Violet watched again the video of her mom arriving on Falc?o Island, riding next to Gustavo, the foliage all around her impossibly green. Violet froze the frame on Adele’s face: she’d never seen that expression before. Her mother looked young, unfamiliar; her features were lit with excitement. Not her mom, who was always kind, loving, but often worried or stressed. The woman in the video looked confident and free, someone on an enviable, postable adventure.

Anxiety thrummed. Mom , she wanted to write. Come home.

Verbally, Violet was all positive vibes and support. Inside, she was not a fan of this endeavor.

She scrolled through Malinka’s WeWatch page and Photogram account, looking at the beautifully curated and filtered images of Enchantments, Malinka’s tent, the lush green forest, and wild blooming hydrangeas. Malinka’s Yes I Can gear was epic—that fluffy sleeping bag, the ruffled hoodie, the purple polarized sunglasses, the glittery fairy lights. So expensive.

Then Violet did a news search on Extreme, just to see what, if anything, other people were saying about the challenge.

But the first link that popped up wasn’t about the game, it was for the podcast Stranger Than Fiction .

“New Leads in the Chloe Miranda Case.”

She clicked and was greeted by the face of a beautiful girl with big dark eyes and a mane of honey curls. She smiled, but there was something distant, something sad about it. She had a delicate tattoo on her collarbone: Mom , written in a looping cursive followed by a tiny black heart. She looked familiar. Underneath the image, some bold type read, Where is Chloe Miranda?

Violet’s mouth went a little dry as she started to read.

Twenty-five-year-old influencer Chloe Miranda went missing last year during a hide and seek challenge hosted by Maverick’s Extreme Games and Insane Challenges.

As we approach the one-year anniversary of Chloe’s disappearance, the Miranda family has raised the reward amount to five hundred thousand dollars for any information leading to the truth about Chloe. Predictably, this has led to a number of calls from around the country from people who have claimed to see her. None of those leads, so far, have panned out.

For those of you new to this case, Chloe Miranda went missing during a hide and seek challenge hosted by Extreme Challenges and Insane Games. A longtime fan of Maverick Dillan and a graduate of New York University, Chloe Miranda signed up to participate in the Extreme Haunted Hide and Seek event at a supposedly haunted site called Eaton House for the cash prize. She hid with the rest of the contestants. And was never seen again.

Wait. What?

“Hey,” she said. Blake turned to her. “Did you know about this?”

She read the passage aloud.

“Chloe Miranda?” Blake answered. “Yeah, of course I knew about it. What are you, living under a rock?”

Violet felt her mouth drop open. “She hid and was never found. She’s still missing.”

Her brother, who was an even bigger worrier than Mom, somehow seemed unconcerned about this. He blew out a breath. “Everyone knows it’s some kind of scam.”

She shook her head. “Who knows that? There’s an actual police investigation. Harley Granger, that true crime guy, has picked up the case. There’s a podcast .”

She kept reading aloud, “‘Chloe had a history of depression and had survived two suicide attempts, one in high school after the death of her mother, one in college after a painful breakup. Her family reached out to Extreme and asked them not to accept her application, but Chloe was one of the chosen influencers for the event.’”

“See?” said Blake. “She was like messed up. Mom passed the psych evaluation.”

Violet kept reading, “‘In recent years, Chloe’s podcast and Photogram feed focused on helping people deal with mental-health issues, focusing on self-love, body positivity, and ACT therapy. She was open about her ongoing battle with depression and had earned over three hundred thousand followers. Her desire to participate in the Haunted Hide and Seek Challenge was about “facing your fears, putting yourself out there, and taking risks.”’”

That sounded a lot like Mom, who Violet knew hadn’t just gone for the money. Adele wanted to prove to herself that she could do it. That she could take charge and win. She’d said as much.

Violet kept reading, not sure if Blake was even listening.

“‘Chloe disappeared with the rest of the contestants at the start of the event. But she was never found, even after an exhaustive search of the property. Maverick Dillan claims to have no information about what could have happened to Chloe but declared her the official winner and donated her prize to NAMI, the National Alliance for Mental Illness.’”

“Okay,” said Blake. “But there are plenty of people that think this is just some kind of stunt. Listen to this… ‘Her credit card was used to buy gas at a New Jersey gas station the day after she was declared missing. A woman who could have been Chloe—same height and build, but in a hoodie and sunglasses—was captured on security footage, but the car was not hers, and the plates were not visible to the camera. A series of ATM withdrawals totaling nearly five thousand dollars over the next week, all in the same five-mile radius around the hide and seek event site, indicate that she might have been preparing for flight. Again, the woman caught on the ATM camera sought to hide her face behind glasses and a hoodie. Family members and friends disagree on whether it was Chloe or not.’ It’s a total stunt,” Blake concluded.

“Why would someone do that?” asked Violet.

Blake looked at her, and neither of them had to say anything to know that they were both thinking of their dad.

“Why do people do anything?” he asked. “She wants views. Her followers have doubled since she disappeared. Extreme wants the publicity. Or she wanted to get away, from something, from someone. Maybe she killed herself.”

“Blake!”

He offered an exaggerated shrug. “I mean, who knows?”

Violet kept scrolling through the article. “It says here that during the investigation, it was revealed that Maverick and Chloe knew each other from the extreme-sports circuit. There are rumors they were together, something that Maverick at first denied, then admitted was true.”

“So what if they were dating?” said Blake. “What does that prove?”

How could he be so cavalier about this?

“If you knew about this, how could you suggest that Mom go?” Violet asked, her voice coming up an octave. “How was Extreme even allowed to do another challenge?”

“That’s my point,” Blake said. “If it was real, they would have been shut down, right?”

She used to think that, that there was some force in the world that kept people from doing bad things over and over. But the news of the world proved that it wasn’t so—the opioid crisis, the war in Ukraine, the planet dying, and corporations running amok. The truth was that no one stopped the worst things from happening.

“What if Mom is…in actual danger?”

Blake gave her that blank look he seemed to have perfected. He wore it when he didn’t want to talk, or when he thought she was being stupid, or when he was just being a jerk.

“Mom,” said Blake, “is fine. Mom is badass.”

But so was Dad, she wanted to say. He ran a company. He coached her soccer team. He chased away the monsters hiding in her closet. And now he was gone. Missing like Chloe Miranda. What kept Mom tied to them, especially now that she was off on some adventure, wearing an expression that Violet had never seen on her face? Or what if she wasn’t as strong as she seemed?

But she didn’t say any of those things. Like everything else she was afraid of, she kept it inside. With a last look into the sad eyes of Chloe Miranda, she clicked off the page.

“Mav is going live soon. I just got the WeWatch alert,” said Blake.

She didn’t say anything, the things she’d learned on a spin cycle in her brain. Finally, he grabbed his laptop from the kitchen counter and came to sit next to her.

Usually, she’d push him away, but instead, still feeling shaky and so tired, she shifted closer as his fingers danced across the keyboard. The Extreme WeWatch page came up with a big countdown clock at the top. They were going live in just under ten minutes.