Chapter 9
Nicole
I was driving in silence with Lacey. I wasn’t silent on purpose. I was just so exhausted. But then I remembered what Dr. Sanchez said at the beginning of the session: try to talk to her as much as possible.
“Oh, look, there’s Dairy Queen,” I said. “I think the kids deserve a treat, no?”
I smiled and glanced at Lacey, but she just stared out the window.
We hit the drive-through, and I ordered like a madwoman. Milkshakes, sundaes, fries. Chocolate. Vanilla. Whatever I saw on the menu.
“We’re having a big party,” I told the teenager at the window. She handed me the paper bags with a shy grin.
I put everything on Lacey’s lap, then placed her arms around the bags so they wouldn’t fall off.
Keep her body engaged. Keep her present. That’s what the doctor had said. The more engagement, the better.
“Let’s celebrate. You’re still here with us. It’s a miracle.”
I paid and took the shortcut home. We passed wetlands, then rows of houses tucked away outside of Peabody.
“What happened was really terrible,” I said. “And I probably wouldn’t want to talk for a while either if I were you. But you’re still here, Lacey. God, or whoever is out there, decided you should be here with your kids. With me.”
I slowed at a stop sign, glanced at her again. “You made it through the worst. That night in the woods … that was the worst. But it’s over now. You’re safe. And we’ll move forward together. At your pace.”
I didn’t let Lacey hear the slightest doubt in my voice. Even if I had it. What if she never spoke again?
I turned onto our street. It was a typical New England neighborhood.
Leafy trees lined sidewalks. Old Capes and Colonials mingled with white modern farmhouses with black window frames.
Prices had exploded like everywhere else in the country.
And our little yellow coastal-style cottage looked like it didn’t belong here anymore.
Like we were being shamed for staying. For not remodeling. For still being here.
I waved at the Bristols, who were unloading grocery bags from their trunk. Sheryl just stared. No wave back.
Bob gave a tight nod. Nothing else.
Strange.
“What’s wrong with them?” I asked Lacey, shaking my head. “I mean, I know rumors spread like wildfire, but that wasn’t very kind.”
We drove a few more blocks, but then I had to slam the brakes. The food bags tumbled off Lacey’s lap and hit the floor with a loud crunch.
“What in the name—” The words slipped out as my hands clenched the steering wheel.
Large vans were parked in front of our house, half on the curb, half on the street.
One had Seacoast News in blocky letters.
A camera crew stood beside it. More vans pulled up behind them.
Reporters, cameras, mics. Women and men in sleek jackets and styled hair standing on the sidewalk, fixing their makeup, pointing at our house.
I turned the car into a neighbor’s driveway and pulled out my phone.
Nine missed calls from Brian. Three from Dylan.
I called Brian and backed out fast. I’d take the narrow private road that the trash trucks used behind the homes.
“Where are you?” Brian’s voice jumped out at me through the speaker.
“My phone was on silent for the session. The psychiatrist took longer than expected. And we got takeout. We’re coming in from the back now.”
“You’ve seen the shit show then?”
“Yes. I have. What’s going on?”
“We’re becoming famous,” Brian said, bitter. “And not in the good way. Talk to no one. Just come straight home.”