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When 17-year-old Arbor Hayes' best friend turns up alive after a mysterious six-month disappearance, she must piece together the fragments of her story to make sense of what happened. But as clues e...
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Mom stares at me, her back pressed against the kitchen counter, her jaw cemented open at an awkward angle. "I can't believe Emma's alive. Tell me again what her parents said."
We've gone over this half a dozen times. I suck in a breath and try not to sigh. "I couldn't get much out of her mom, but when Mr. Navarro pulled up, he was on the phone with the police. He said Emma was found in Kentucky near a national forest."
"A national forest—is that what he called it?" Mom whips out her phone and types into the search engine. "Does the Daniel Boone National Forest sound familiar? This website says it's federally-owned land within a 2.1 million acres proclamation bounty." She glances up from the screen. "Doesn't that mean it's owned by Native American Indians?"
I shrug.
"And that's where she's been all this time?" Her brows scrunch together. "Is it possible she got lost?"
"What would she be doing out there by herself? It's like an hour away from where her truck was found. Plus, he said she was barefoot. It doesn't make sense." I slide my elbows across the granite island and rest my chin in my hands. "Her parents are on their way to the hospital. They want to be there when the doctors run tests."
Mom stares over my shoulder, her eyes unfocused. "This is unbelievable. I honestly didn't think they'd find her —" She cuts the sentence short, her gaze meeting mine.
"Alive?" I finish for her. My stomach dips at the thought.
She makes a cringey face and shakes her head, the blunt ends of her hair grazing her shoulders. "It's just, when someone vanishes into thin air like that..."
A knot tightens in my chest.
When Emma disappeared last March, I read that 90-percent of missing people are runaways. That's a higher number than I expected. But there's no way Emma took off on her own, she has too much going for her here.
Our town isn't big, but it is well-to-do. From a sociological standpoint, Menteuse is considered upper middle class. It's manicured street after manicured street of haves, not have-nots. The biggest worry most residents have is which restaurant to order take-out from.
Not only that, but Emma was well-liked by teachers, had lots of friends, soccer ... and Smith.
"And she texted you?"
Mom's question pulls me out of my head, and I have to clear my throat. "Yeah. When I was at school. Which, by the way, I'll need a note for. I left without telling anyone."
"Given the circumstances, I'm sure they'll understand." Mom snorts and brushes back her glossy black bob. She's striking to look at, all blunt lines and sharp angles. Same as her architectural designs. "Does your father know yet? He's always had a soft spot for Emma. She's practically a member of our family."
"I'll call him in a few minutes." I stand up and stretch, arching my back until a series of tiny pops release the tension along my spine.
Mom shudders as she moves toward the fridge. "Would you please stop doing that? Your father used to crackle and pop like a bowl of cereal."
