Pretty Girl Thirteen. Liz Coley

whoever.”

      Angie looked at him in confusion.

      His forehead creased with lines. Dark hollows circled his eyes. “You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

      Angie felt stupid. He expected something from her. She didn’t know what, but she could feel his anger simmering. Something stirred inside, and she walked to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her head came up to his chin. “I love you so much,” she said. She felt him stiffen and pull back. She must have done the wrong thing. Her arms dropped. She turned cold, inside and out.

      “I—I have to finish shaving,” he said randomly, his head turned away from her. “Shut off the water. Go wait downstairs with your mother.” He walked down the hall and closed the bedroom door behind him.

      Angie had this vague idea that it might be a good idea to cry. But everything was tangled and frozen inside, seized up like the giant breath before pain arrives. She thought about chewing a fingernail, but it was dirty. And “evidence.” Her stomach clenched again. Evidence of what?

      The unusual ring on her left hand caught her eye. Why couldn’t she remember where she’d bought it? The question made her strangely nervous, and the single warning throb of a headache coming on poked her temple. She twisted the silver band loose and placed it in the soap dish. The pain passed. It was probably Livvie’s, or Katie’s. Better not to think about it too hard.

      The sound of Dad’s razor hummed as Angie hurried down the top flight of stairs. She stopped halfway, her feet pinned to the landing. She hovered like a lost child, halfway between Dad upstairs and Mom downstairs. Her pulse beat the passing seconds. Someone was coming. A detective, Dad said. She watched the front door until the frosted glass darkened with shadow.

      Mom flew from the kitchen to answer the double knock.

      A tall, ginger-haired man stood framed in the doorway. Mom threw herself into his arms with a muffled sob. He patted Mom’s back with one hand and looked over her head to the landing, where Angie still hesitated.

      The man’s eyes went wide. “Angela,” he whispered. “Welcome home.”

      He separated himself from Mom and held out his right hand, palm up, half an invitation, half a handshake. “Please,” he said. “Will you come down?”

      Dad had called him a detective, but he was wearing blue jeans with a tear starting in one knee. The sleeves of his dark plaid shirt were rolled to the elbow. He looked casual, comfortable. He looked—amazed.

      Angie took the four steps to the bottom and reached for his outstretched hand. It was huge, and hers disappeared as he pressed it between both of his.

      “L.A. County Sheriff’s Department. Detective Phil Brogan,” he said. “Sorry to appear like this. I was gardening, and I didn’t waste a moment when Mitch called.” His hand was rough and calloused, but he held hers like a newborn kitten, with care and tenderness. He tilted his head and studied her face with a tiny smile.

      Angie’s tension began melting away, her chill warming, until the moment he ruined it.

      “This is incredible,” he said. “I feel like I know you already.”

      She instantly felt stripped, exposed. A complete stranger who knew her. Her breath caught in a gasp. She caged the sob before it could escape. If she let it start, she might never stop.

      “Lord, I’m sorry, Angela,” he said immediately. He let her hand slither away. “Mitch told me on the phone there might be memory issues. That you aren’t sure how long you were gone or where exactly you were. Disorientation. That’s not unusual.”

      Was that true? Angie tried to decipher his eyes. Blue, kind, honest. She didn’t read a threat there. Okay. So maybe what was happening to her wasn’t unusual. She felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he could actually help her figure this out.

      She nodded, and he smiled gently. “Come.” He gestured to the family room with his head. “We don’t have to stand here like bowling pins.”

      A clunk sounded upstairs, and Angie imagined a giant ball rolling down the stairs, knocking them all off their unsteady feet, but it was only Dad. The corner of her mouth twitched. The detective caught it and smiled back with his eyes. Fascinating eyes. Orange specks dotted the dark blue irises. She’d never seen anything like them.

      Dad walked ahead without sparing her a glance and clicked on the fire with the remote. “She looks cold,” he offered as explanation. Of course, the heat from the gas fire, locked safely behind glass doors, was too weak to reach her.

      Angie made a full sweep of the room, finding everything familiar and in its place. Soft green cushions on the beige leather sofas. Floor-length drapes with leaf patterns, pulled back to let in the daylight. Old cabinet-style TV with the remote and printed guide on top. Piles of jumbled books in the bookcase on the side wall. There was no way three years had passed in this room. No way. Nothing had moved.

      The detective settled into the chair closest to Angie’s corner of the sofa. His expression softened, and he rubbed the palm of his hand across his stubbly chin. “Angela, I’m so sorry. I know this is difficult for you. Very confusing.”

      Did he? Angie wondered. Had his reality ever changed in the blink of an eye? She studied her shabby knees. They turned blurry as she squeezed away dangerous tears. Stop.

      Brogan placed a featherlight hand on her bowed head. “I imagine all you want to do right now is reunite with your family and be left in peace.”

      She nodded a fraction of an inch, grateful for his sympathy. She could tell he meant it—he understood how unstable she was. At least, it didn’t feel like just a police technique to warm her up for questioning.

      Beside her, Mom squeezed her hand, and Angie looked up into the detective’s steady gaze. Unexpected freckles dusted his cheekbones. “But …,” she offered, sensing he was leading up to “but.”

      “But my job is to figure out whether we have a criminal case to pursue here. Especially if we have a fresh trail. Do you understand?”

      Her throat suddenly got the “I’m about to throw up” feeling. She swallowed it down. “Criminal? Did I … Did I do something wrong?”

      “Not you, Angie,” Mom burst out, her fingers accidentally digging into Angie’s palm. Angie flinched.

      “Margie.” Brogan raised his eyebrows at Mom. “Sorry, Angela. There are just a few questions I need to ask you right now. Then we’ll move on to other procedures.”

      “There are a few things I want to know too,” Dad interrupted. “How on earth did you find your way home, Angela? Did anyone help you? Did you walk the whole way?”

      “Yes.” The single word escaped her lips, but it didn’t make any sense. From where? Angie had no idea.

      “Don’t be ridiculous, Mitch,” Mom said, shushing him. “It’s more than thirty miles to where she disappeared.”

      “Downhill,” Angie whispered. No one heard her. Where had that thought come from?

      “Besides,” Mom continued, “she could have been anywhere. Out of California entirely.”

      Brogan stood up and began a slow pace across the room. Angie followed him with her eyes. He’d changed—not a comfortable guy in torn jeans anymore. The soft sympathy face was gone. He was a panther, hunting. A cop, patrolling. She put herself on guard.

      His voice changed too—it was flatter, clipped. “Angela. Any idea how long you were gone? Any hint of location? Anything at all?”

      “No! I … uh, no. No idea.” Angie gestured to her parents. “They say it was three years. But … I don’t know. That doesn’t seem right. It was just a couple of days.”

      “Did you run away on purpose?”

      Angie’s forehead wrinkled. “Run away? No. Of course not.”