Read Forgotten: A Novel for Free Online Page B

I’m okay. I’m home. I’m . . .” My voice trails off. I’m at a loss for what to say, how to explain something I don’t even understand myself.
    “It’s really you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Oh, thank God. We’ve been so worried. And Stephanie . . .” He stops. I listen while he struggles for control.
    “That’s partly why I’m calling. Where is she?”
    “Oh, Emma. She went looking for you.”
    Now it’s my turn to struggle for control. “What? But how could she? How could you let her?”
    “We couldn’t stop her. Not once the travel embargo was lifted.”
    “Have you heard from her since she left?”
    “She called us from London, but we haven’t heard anything since. It says on the Internet that the phone systems there still aren’t working reliably.”
    I close my eyes, thinking of all that twisted metal I saw on the road. “When was she supposed to arrive?”
    “Three days ago.”
    I nearly throw the phone across the room in frustration. Three days ago! Six months apart and a day separated us. That’s not right, Universe. Not right at all.
    “Do you have her cell number?”
    “Yes, of course.” He rattles off the numbers. I write them down mechanically on a square of newspaper. “We’re very glad you’re all right, Emma.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I think Lucy’s a little too emotional to talk right now, but I’m sure she’d love it if you could call later. Right, darling? Yes. Later would be good.”
    “I’ll try.”
    “Thank you, my dear.”
    I hang up and rest my head on my arms. Stephanie’s parents thought I was dead. I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like. Stephanie and I spent so much time together growing up that I had honorary daughter status. And Stephanie, stubborn, loyal Stephanie, is off looking for me. Is that where Craig is too? Are they both searching for me while I’m right where I’m supposed to be?
    “Morning,” Dominic says, shuffling into the room in a pair of khakis and a blue fleece pullover. I raise my head. He looks, if anything, more tired than he did yesterday. Darker circles, wan skin.
    “Hey.”
    “You okay? You look pale.”
    I let the phone drop to the table. “You ever have to call someone to let them know you’re not in fact dead?”
    “God, no.”
    “Yeah, well, I don’t recommend it.”
    He sits across from me. “You have many calls like that to make?”
    “Probably.” I slouch in my chair, the potential of the calls pushing me down.
    “What if you went to see the police? Maybe they could help you get the word out?”
    “The police?”
    “Yeah, you know, maybe that detective who was quoted in the article, the one in charge of your case?”
    I mull it over. “I probably should check in with them. If they really thought I was . . . missing.”
    “Right.”
    I put my hands on the table and push myself up. “I guess I should get on that.”
    He stands and shuffles to the fridge. I watch as he opens the door and reaches for a bottle of orange juice like he belongs here, like this is his home. Which I guess it is now. Which probably means that I need to get out of here. But where am I supposed to go? The only place left is my mother’s house, a place I can’t face yet.
    “Dominic?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Do you think you could lend me some cab fare?”
    He puts the juice container on the counter and pulls out his wallet, looking bemused. He extracts two large bills. “This do you?”
    “More than, and thanks. I owe you one.”
    “I’ll remember that.”
    I wait for the detective assigned to my case for forty-five minutes in a dingy lobby painted public-building green. My nose prickles with the smell of too many bodies and disinfectant. There’s a sad-looking tree in the corner decorated with a silver garland. The piped-in Christmas Muzak must be a deliberate tactic to loosen up suspects’ tongues. I don’t care what I have to confess to, just make “The Little Drummer Boy” stop! Pa rum pa pum pum.
    “Ms. Tupper? I’m