Lisa Unger - Fragile

Maggie looked back at Melody, not far from where they stood. If she heard Britney, she didn’t make any protestations. She had her head in her hands, was rocking slightly back and forth.

“But he’d never touched her before?”

Brit shook her head. “He said things to her-like, told her that she looked good, in a dirty way. Or he’d come into her room wrapped in a towel after his shower. Things like that. That’s what she told me.”

Maggie was aware suddenly of a terrible tension in her shoulders, a clenching in her stomach. She realized that Melody had never answered the question she’d asked on leaving the car.

“The stepfather thing is not always cool, you know, Dr. Cooper.” Britney had lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned in close to Maggie. Brit was remembering her own stepfather, Maggie knew, Denise’s second, very rich husband. There’d never been any hint of abuse, just a sense Brit had that he didn’t want her around, that she was a nuisance in his marriage to her mother. But Denise had divorced him years ago, never married again. I have money; I don’t need a husband , Maggie remembered her saying. I just want to be myself for the first time in my life .

“Was she here tonight, Britney? I need you to be honest with me now. Have you heard from her?”

Denise had joined them again. “No one’s going to be mad. Okay, Brit?”

Britney looked at her mother. Denise’s beauty was maturing-fine lines and a softening around the jaw didn’t diminish her prettiness; Britney was blossoming-her face narrowing, losing its childish fullness, her prettiness becoming something more luminous. Maggie could see their closeness as Denise snaked an arm around Brit’s middle and the girl rested her head on her mother’s shoulder.

“I got a Facebook message from her earlier,” she said finally, pulling away from her mother. “I’ll show you.”

They walked through the house, Britney and Denise leading the way to the computer room, Maggie and Melody close behind. The long hallway was a photo shrine to Britney-the little blond cherub morphing into a fairy princess, at Disney, in Paris, climbing on a jungle gym, on her grandfather’s shoulders at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade-the privileged life of an adored child.

“What did you and Charlene fight about?” Maggie asked Melody again.

“What don’t we fight about, Maggie?” It wasn’t an answer. Maggie detected a stall. But she didn’t press; Melody was getting a glassy, haunted look that Maggie didn’t like.

Brit sat at the computer, and her fingers started dancing expertly on the keyboard. Some low music came from the monitor, and Maggie leaned over Brit’s shoulder.

“She updated her Facebook page. So I got an alert, but that’s it. She hasn’t called or sent me a personal message. So I don’t know where she is right now.”

“What does it mean that she ‘updated her page’?” said Maggie. She was annoyed with her own ignorance on this subject. Ricky had been urging her to get more current, even to create a page for herself. You could connect with your old friends , he’d said. I’m too connected to them as it is , she’d countered. Your patients will think you’re cool. I don’t need my patients to think I’m cool .

“There’s a box on the top of your page where you can type in what you’re doing at the moment. Like mine says, ‘Brit is studying for her biology exam and wishing she was watching American Idol !’”

“What does Charlene’s say?” Melody asked.

Brit pointed to the list of status updates on her page. It read: Charlene is getting out of Dodge. Finally.

“I sent her a message to ask her what she was talking about.” She clicked over to her mail page and showed them the message: What’s wrong??? Call me!!! They were all looking over her shoulder; Denise had put on a pair of glasses. Melody was squinting at the screen.

“But she hasn’t answered,” Brit went on. “She updated at 7:09, and I sent her a note at 8:04. I tried to call her, but the call went straight to voice mail.”

“Is it unusual for her not to get back to you right away?” Maggie said. It was something Jones might ask.

Brit nodded, gave a slight shrug. “A little.”

Melody started to cry again. Then there was a loud, authoritative knock at the door, followed by an urgent, staccato ringing of the doorbell. Denise startled at the sudden sound and went quickly toward the door.

Maggie found herself following. As she moved from the hallway into the grand foyer, there was an odd, disconnected moment where she took in the triple-height ceiling, the marble beneath her feet. A round table stood in the center of the space, topped by a gigantic vase of flowers that gave no noticeable scent.

What had seemed opulent on entering suddenly felt disturbingly fake, the studied and purposeful display of wealth. She detected an emptiness beneath the beauty, a new-money cluelessness about taste; rooms chosen from a catalog or choreographed by a decorator but not reflecting the true style of the owner. But it was just a moment that passed and was forgotten when the room filled with cops, Jones first in the crowd, looking grim with purpose.

“What are you doing here?” she found herself asking her husband. But of course he would be there. There was a missing girl; she’d said the words herself. He was head detective at the Hollows Police Department. She didn’t hear his answer, but when they locked eyes over the escalating noise, she saw something foreign on his face, a look she’d never seen before and couldn’t name.

It was 12:32 A.M.

It’s nice of you to do this,” she said. Her voice caught in her throat, and she sounded like she was crying. But she wasn’t, not anymore. There was a heavy scent in the air, cigarettes and something else unpleasant. Her sinuses were swelling, her head starting to ache from it.

“I want to.”

“Most people wouldn’t. It’s a long drive.”

“I’m not most people.”

She looked at him and smiled, but he didn’t take his eyes off the road to look back at her. She nodded.

“Well, thanks.”

She dug through her purse for a pressed powder to fix herself up. She knew she must be a wreck. She found it and popped open the mirror. Even in the scant, intermittent light from the passing streetlamps, she could see that she had raccoon eyes, her eyeliner and mascara making dark, wet smudges.

“I’m a mess,” she said, digging for a tissue and then wiping away the makeup. The white Kleenex came away black.

“You’re beautiful, Charlene.”

He was looking at her now. She gave him a weak smile.

“You’re sweet,” she said. Something about his gaze made her squirm.

She saw his jaw clench at that, eyes back on the road. He was a weird one, always had been. But what did she care? He was her ride out of this life, once and for all.

Gotham waited. She felt a clench of excitement mingled with an unexpected fear. Hadn’t she been waiting for this? Didn’t she have plans? A place to stay? She wasn’t some clueless runaway.

She was sorry about Rick, about standing him up and leaving him behind. But he was such a baby in so many ways. Such a mama’s boy. For a while he’d acted like he might take off with her, not go to college, try to break into the music business with her. He was a good drummer, could be great if he devoted any real energy to it. But in the end, he’d balked. He looked cool, like a punk rebel. But on the inside, at his core, he was a good boy. And she was not a good girl. Most definitely not. They were wrong for each other. She’d take him places he didn’t really want to go. He’d hold her back. They’d wind up hating each other. He was a Hollows boy, just like his father. Or just like his mother. He’d leave to go to college, but eventually he’d come back. Charlene was never going back. She couldn’t. Not after tonight.