The Twenty-Three 3 (Promise Falls) Read Free

had to be doing something.
    They’d been back to the police, too, who were finally starting to take this more seriously. On Thursday, they sent around a detective named Angus Carlson. He sat down with the parents and Cassandra, made notes. He even took Cassandra aside later, said he wondered if she might know anything about her brother that she wouldn’t want to say in front of her parents. Something that might help him find George.
    “Well,” she’d said, “he likes to break into people’s garages and look for stuff.”
    “Do your parents know about that?”
    Cassandra had shaken her head no. Said maybe she should tell them.
    Carlson had made a note.
    And now here it was, Saturday morning. Hillary and Josh in the kitchen, Cassandra upstairs in bed. Hillary had been down here since five, making a pot of tea, and then drawing up a list of things they should do today in their search for George.
    The list, so far, read:
    • call Detective Carlson, update
• call friends again. D. Cutter
• check places George might explore, abandoned factories, Five Mountains park, drive-in disaster
• make flyers with George picture, put up around town, call printer
     
    When Josh entered the room, Hillary had turned on the kettle to make another pot of tea. She showed her husband the list.
    “Okay,” he said wearily. “I’d been thinking about Five Mountains. I could imagine him looking around there, now that it’s closed down. It’ll probably be all locked up. I could call the management, or maybe get the detective to do that.”
    “George would find a way in, even if it was locked. You know what he’s like. He’s always sneaking into things.”
    Josh hesitated. “About that. Cassie told me something, last night.”
    “Told you what?”
    “Sometimes . . . sometimes George breaks into places. Not like a school or something, just goofing around. He looks for unlocked garages, gets in, takes stuff.”
    “He does not,” Hillary said angrily. Her face had become flushed, and beads of sweat had sprouted on her forehead.
    “I’m just telling you what she said. I think . . . at first I didn’t want the police brought in, in case George had done something stupid, but I’m past that. We should ask them if there have been any break-ins. Of garages. Maybe that would be a lead to finding out what—Hillary, are you okay?”
    “Seriously?” Hillary said. “I’ve had three hours’ sleep this week. Now you’re saying my son is a thief, and you ask if I’m okay?”
    “I’m just saying, you don’t look good.”
    “I can’t sleep, I’m worried sick about what’s happened to my baby, I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack, and—”
    Hillary’s cell phone, which was on the table next to her cup of tea, vibrated. A text.
    “Oh my God, maybe it’s George!” she said, and dived for the phone, snatched it up, looked at it with puzzlement. “It’s Cassie.”
    “Cassie?” Josh said. “She’s upstairs.” He hesitated. “Isn’t she?”
    Hillary, her face crumpling, turned the phone to her husband.
    The text read:
    I think I’m dying
     
    • • •
     
    Ali Brunson said, “Hang in there, Audrey. You’re going to be fine. You just have to keep it together a little bit longer.”
    Of course, Ali had said that many times in his career as a paramedic, and there were many of those times when he hadn’t believedit for a second. This looked as though it was turning into one of those times.
    Audrey McMichael, age fifty-three, 173 pounds, black, an insurance adjuster, resident of 21 Forsythe Avenue for the last twenty-two years, where she lived with her husband, Clifford, was showing every indication of giving up the fight.
    Ali called up to Tammy Fairweather, who was behind the wheel of the ambulance, and racing it to Promise Falls General. The good news was, it was early Saturday morning and there was hardly anyone on the road. The bad news was, it probably wasn’t going to matter. Audrey’s blood