Read The Vow for Free Online Page B

people and chivalry, and at the end, the right thing always happens.
    The crowd thins until it’s the usual weekday evening trickle. Flora leaves for Lucky Lil’s an hour before closing, rubbing the Mr. Twister mustache on her way out. “For good luck,” she calls over her shoulder.
    I nod. I kind of envy her for the superstition. That takes optimism.
    I’ve spent the week imagining talking to Flora about Lena. She must remember her. She’s the only employee still around from seven years ago. But each time I work up the nerve, something happens. She takes a smoke break. Or the place fills up and we’re too swamped to see straight. Or Reed’s there, and I definitely don’t want him to know. Or it doesn’t feel right. I haven’t actually said Lena’s name in . . . I don’t know. Years.
    Why would I? Nobody wants to be reminded of Lena. She’s a symbol of horrific truths—that unthinkable things can happen in our quiet town, that a beautiful girl can disappear and be gone forever. People don’t want to think about that. It’s easier to pretend she just never existed and that there isn’t a gaping hole where she used to be, so big an entire family could fall into it.
    I’ll talk to Flora another time. Maybe tomorrow.
    Closing time comes, Reed flips the sign, and I start wiping things down.
    “How long is swim camp?” I ask, pushing my rag over the countertop in big, circular sweeps.
    Reed holds up a finger. He’s cashing out the register, counting change.
    “Oh, sorry.”
    “It’s okay. If it’s like last summer, it’ll be three weeks of insanity.”
    I nod and keep wiping. I don’t think I came to Mr. Twister once last summer. Or the summer before. Actually, I know I didn’t. Mo hates it, and who else would I go with?
    Not my parents.
    They used to take us to Mr. Twister when there was an us to take. Lena and Mom and I would get cones, and Dad would get a milk shake. Unless we were celebrating something, and then they’d let us order one of the Colossal Twister Towers or a Triple Banana Split Supreme to share.
    Over the years, my memories of Lena have gone from razor-sharp to blurred to nearly vapor, but I do remember her here. In the corner booth. Me sitting next to her, and Mom and Dad sitting across, and all four of us devouring a mound of custard like lions over a kill. Lena let me have the cherry, but I don’t know if it was because she didn’t like them or if she knew I loved them. Seems like I should know that.
    There’s a lot I don’t know. Mom would have answers, but I can’t ask. Was that family trip to Mr. Twister after one of her flute recitals? Or was it a good-report-card event? I can’t remember.
    And her face. I can barely remember that, either. Waves of dark-blond hair, brown eyes, freckles—but the correct elements don’t always add up the right way. It makes me nervous to try, so I don’t let myself unless I’m at home and can stare at the silver-framed picture I keep on my desk. It’s her last school picture. Junior class.
    To my knowledge, Mom and Dad haven’t been to Mr. Twister in eight years, since the night Dad swerved into the parking lot, tires squealing. We were on our way home from my fifth-grade Thanksgiving production. I’d been the perfect pilgrim, but I knew we weren’t stopping for banana splits.
    Dad went inside “to get some bloody answers.” Mom and I waited in the car, as instructed, watching our breath fog up the windows. We didn’t talk. We were like zombies or whatever paranormal creatures have brains and lungs but no hearts.
    It’d been three months already, but nothing had been added to the case since the first day. She was last seen walking on the shoulder of Highway 22, the stretch between Mr. Twister and the library. She’d been going from work to her SAT prep class. It wasn’t too far—fifteen minutes, maybe—but the trees on both sides made it dark. And that was it. The end that we knew.
    The police had stopped coming by the house