Page 82 of What Happened to Lucy Vale

Eleven

I f we imagine Lucy Vale now, we like to picture her in motion. Sitting on a train, her reflection slurring with the landscape outside her window. Or riding in the back of a Greyhound, headphones in, hoodie up, smiling to herself.

Sometimes, though, she falls unexpectedly through our dreams. Down and down, smaller and smaller, like a star drowning in our imaginations, like a star reflected in the eye of a fish.

Down and down, smaller and smaller, until she disappears into a river’s worth of silence; she is absorbed, at last, into the dark crush of our stories.

If you’re out there, Lucy Vale, we want you to know that we forgive you for burning our mascot. We’re sorry about the photos. We’re sorry for whatever happened to you.

We’re sorry you never got to tell your side of the story.

We want you to know that it’s safe now. It’s safe to come forward. It’s safe to come back.

And if we ever see you—at a gas station, on a wind-whipped corner in Chicago, or standing at the river with sunlight at your back—we want you to know you don’t have to be afraid.

We promise we won’t say a word to you.

We promise to let you go.