Page 41
“Yes.” Cindy clears her throat. “It looks like your card has expired and . . .” Her eyes are moving over the screen, which I can see reflected in her glasses, some red type standing out. It probably says I have library books that are years overdue. It probably says that I don’t have parents. It probably says, Be really, really polite to this girl because we all feel sorry for her. Cindy punches some buttons and the red writing disappears, my lost books and overdue fines and damaged materials washed away in a wave of pity.
There’s a new card in my hand, hard and shiny. I log on to a computer in the corner, one tucked away where no one can see what I’m doing. Where no one can see that I’m googling my parents. The first thing that pops up is a story from the Amontillado Alerter.
That’s a dumbass thing to call a paper. That’s what Cecil says.
No clues in missing couple case
Police are asking for the public’s help in their continued search for Lee and Annabelle Montor, who went missing from their home this past Saturday night. Anyone with information regarding their whereabouts is asked to call the hotline printed below. There are no more details to share at this time.
Not on the Amontillado Alerter site . . . I can just imagine the editor chewing her lip and deciding what she could print and what she couldn’t. The facts were scarce—my mom and dad left home with Felicity in the car, and they never came back. Felicity was found in her nightgown by the riverbank, soaking wet, concussed and bleeding. But she was a minor, and I’m sure the Turnados fought like hell to keep her identity out of the limelight. The editor wouldn’t have been able to print much without wandering into the realm of pure gossip. But it’s a small town and I don’t need the newspaper to get details. There are plenty of those on social media. The Amontillado Block Watch page is particularly helpful.
I heard they found the girl down by the river.
She was still at home. Their daughter is the one that called the cops when they didn’t come back. Dumbass. Don’t spread rumors.
Other girl . . . dumbass.
Page Admin here, reminding everyone to keep it friendly.
He was plenty friendly, if you know what I mean. Came back to bite him in the ass, if you ask me.
Nobody did.
Why the woman? Why kill his wife? You better stop running your mouth before somebody shuts it for you.
Page Admin here, there is no proof the couple in question is dead, and no proof of foul play. Please can we keep to the facts?
What facts? Nobody knows shit. Poof. They gone.
And it’s Lee and Annabelle Montor, Jesus. We all know it. Why bother saying “the couple in question?”
Lee and Annabelle AND Jesus? Things are getting rough around here. ROTFL
You’re making jokes? People are dead. It’s not funny.
WE DON’T KNOW ANYBODY DIED
WE DON’T KNOW THEY DIDN’T
Srsly? Come on, people. They’re gone. Their car is gone. Their kid was left at home alone. The other kid was found on the riverbank, assaulted. They’re effing dead.
Assaulted?!!? Someone touched that little girl???? Why don’t we know about this??? I have kids. I need to know what’s going on!!!!! I have a RIGHT to know what’s going on.
She wasn’t assaulted. My cousin is an EMT. She had injuries consistent with being in a mild collision, and some head trauma.
—You shouldn’t be repeating what first responders say.
—First responders shouldn’t be talking!!!!!
Hey you sicko thought she got touched you’re the one with head trauma
Page Admin here, I’m locking down this thread to prevent further discussion. This is an ongoing police investigation and nothing being posted here is relevant or helpful.
No, it’s not relevant, or helpful. I already knew all these things—and also that Facebook is a shit show. But one phrase does stand out: This is an ongoing police investigation.
It still is, three years later. Nobody knows if my parents are alive or dead, and if I follow both options to their logical conclusions, the answer is ugly. Either they abandoned me, or they’re dead. My throat closes up. These aren’t new thoughts; they’re the same ones that have been bubbling up for years, repeating themselves as I lay curled in my bed—or the stable, if Cecil decided I hadn’t earned the right to come inside for the night.
But there are other thoughts, too, like the fact that Mom would have known I’d end up living with either Cecil or Aunt Lenore, raised alongside wild animals in cages, or growing up in a house that was falling down.
