Chapter 7 Winnie
WINNIE
It’s not about the prize.
It’s about the solving.
And according to Jonah, I’m worth it.
I think he meant that we all have something to offer. And that knowing oneself is a difficult, but worthwhile task. He might have just been being nice, and I don’t think he meant that I’m special or anything—after all, he said that everyone is worth solving.
But his words still bring me comfort as I try to muster up the courage to look at what my parents have posted about me online.
I avoided reading it this morning with Candice at breakfast, but I can’t any longer.
I need to know how intensely they are looking for me.
I have to be prepared in case they are willing to take drastic steps to get me back.
Jonah and I got back from the rental car place half an hour ago, and he’s currently with Beau and Candice discussing the sick horse.
I’m standing in front of Rosie’s stall, because I couldn’t face doing this by myself.
She’s not paying attention to me and is munching away at her hay, but being with her still makes me feel a bit better.
I slip my phone out of my pocket with shaking hands. Instead of googling myself this time, I search for the name of my mom’s social media account. Even though I’m not logged in, I can still browse her account.
I click through the most recent posts—all photos of me and my parents smiling together—until I find the one that Candice told me about this morning.
Help us find our baby girl, it says in bold.
As you probably saw, Winnie posted a few days ago announcing that she was quitting her career as a pageant queen and influencer.
We know that this comes as a surprise to many of you, and it was a surprise to us as well.
We awoke to find that our daughter was gone.
All traces of her had disappeared overnight, as if our baby had been erased.
Our baby. The words make me want to vomit. I’m not their baby, I’m their cash cow, and they’re just upset that the milk has finally run dry. I force myself to keep reading.
We have reason to believe that foul play was involved in Winnie’s disappearance. Those who follow her know that she’s dealt with many obsessed fans over the years, and receives quite a lot of unwanted attention from men. What if one of them took her, or manipulated her in some way?
We can think of no other reason why Winnie would leave us, and all of you, when she was so happy and beloved. She adored her role as Miss Alabama and was excited to compete again this year, and she loved the community she built here.
We ask that anyone who has information about Winnie or her whereabouts contact us immediately. Help us get our baby girl back safe and sound! We have set up a dedicated hotline, and we have reason to believe she may be in Montana.
Those last words are like a punch to the gut, and they circle around in my head over and over again, like endless water circling into a drain.
I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, and also like I can’t breathe.
I’m dimly aware that I’m about to have a panic attack, but I have no clue how to stop it.
All I can see, as I breathe in and out rapidly, is my life in that house.
In that gilded, beautiful cage of a house.
My routine: wake up early, work out, eat what my mom deemed appropriate.
Then, I’d get dressed and present myself for inspection.
If I looked too “slutty” I’d be told to change.
If I looked too “fat” I would be told to put on something black.
If I tried to fight any of it, I’d get a thirty minute lecture on how much my mother had sacrificed for me.
How she’d given up her career to help me make it on the pageant scene.
How she just had my best interests at heart and wanted me to look the best that I could.
How she knew more about these things than I did because she’d done pageants while in high school.
I try to take deep breaths, but the image of my mom’s face, frowning as she looked at my latest dress design, is fixed in my head. Her mouth set in a harsh line, her arms crossed.
That’s not going to work, Winsome. We need you in something more polished. And it doesn’t do a thing for your figure. Are you skipping lunch and juicing like I told you to?
I squeeze my hands into fists and try to do what Carly told me helps her when she gets overwhelmed with anxiety. Name five things I can see.
The stall door in front of me.
Rosie’s hay net.
If I look down, my bright pink boots.
Pink is overdone, Winsome. You wore pink last year. We’re going to reach out to one of those designers who follow you online and get something from one of them. In a size down to motivate you.
I know I need to name two more things, but I can’t. My mind is scrambling for coherence and I’m swimming through the memory of my mother tearing apart the gown I’d designed for the Miss Alabama pageant, and then tearing me down for not being a perfect size 2.
Two more things, come on Winnie, you can do it, I tell myself.
Just then, Rosie’s face pops over the stall door, and she pushes her muzzle against my shoulder. It grounds me because she’s the fourth thing I can see.
I reach out and pat her on the side of her neck. And touch.
She snorts. And hear.
And then she lets out a loud fart and suddenly, Rosie becomes something I can smell, too. It works, though, gross as it is. My mind stops spinning, just a bit, and I start laughing instead.
“Aw Rosie, you just saved me with your fart and you have no idea,” I say, giving her another pat. “Thank you.”
I hear boots clacking against the hard wood floors and I turn to find Candice coming towards me.
“Hey, it’s time for Rosie’s turnout now,” she says. And then she waves her hand in front of her face. “Damn Win, was that you or Rosie?”
“Obviously her! Miss Alabama would never,” I say, grinning. “Can you imagine if I farted like that on stage?”
Candice laughs. “Absolutely. It would have been epic.” She gives me a once over and then asks, “How are you doing?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You just look a bit pale and shaky, babe.”
I sigh, and turn my attention back to Rosie, trying to hide my face from her. It’s a reflex, from all my pageant training, and from life with my parents. Always smile. Always be happy. Exist to make the lives of those around you easier.
“I read what my parents posted online. You didn’t mention that they think I might be in Montana.”
“I didn’t read the whole thing,” Candice says. “Just snippets from an article. I’m sorry I missed that part.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “I would have read it eventually, and none of this is your fault. I just—I thought I had more time.” My voice cracks and pitches higher as I say the words, and Rosie snaps her head up and looks at me, like she knows I’m upset.
I’m not sure what to do, so I just whisper, “I’m sorry.”
“They don’t know you’re here for sure. And they only know my first name. That alone won’t lead them here.”
“How many horse trainers named Candice are there in Montana?” I finally face Candice once more.
“I’ll set up a hundred fake accounts just to lead them astray,” she says to me, though the smile on her face is weak, like she knows it won’t work.
“I don’t know what will happen once they realize I’m here. They’ll probably try to sue me.”
“Do you think that’s something they have the grounds for?” Candice asks.
“Maybe. I’m not sure. I never had a formal contract to work for them or anything. They were happy to let me put brand deals and ads in my own name, as long as they got the money. But my cousin Adam is the executor of my grandparents’ estate and he’s a lawyer. He’ll help me out if I need him to.”
“Good.” Candice nods. “And is there any chance you could get your trust fund early?”
“Not unless I age four years in the next day or get married.” I grab Rosie’s rug and halter from where they’re hanging by her stall, and ease the door open. “Damn my grandma for being so old fashioned when she wrote in the terms of the trust.”
“You might meet someone at the open mic tomorrow evening, you never know,” Candice jokes.
“Sure,” I say, “and Rosie might grow wings and fly, too.” I put the rug on Rosie’s back just fine, but struggle to get her to lift her head up. She’s too interested in her food.
“You could sing, you know. At the open mic.”
I hide my wince by trying to get Rosie’s attention again, but she completely ignores me. “I’m done performing.”
“You’re done with pageants and modeling and brand deals, sure. But not with singing,” Candice says. “You love to sing.”
“Sure, I’ll keep singing in the shower. But I’m not going to sing for an audience. I’m tired of everything that comes along with that. The judgement. The expectation. Besides, I’m supposed to be keeping a low profile.”
“No one in Star Mountain will recognize you.”
“Jonah already informed me of that. Very clearly I might add. But I still can’t take any chances.”
Candice snorts. “I know Jonah is a bit rough around the edges but he’s very kind once he gets to know you. He’s very loyal.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.” I don’t mention that Jonah’s words to me earlier are what gave me the courage to look at my mom’s post in the first place. “Come on Rosie, it’s time to go out,” I say, patting her on the side. The horse still doesn’t move an inch, muzzle buried in her food.
“If you put the rope around Rosie’s neck you can use that to get her head up,” Candice says.
“Now you tell me,” I grumble.
Using Candice’s advice, I get Rosie into her halter, and then together, we walk her outside and to the paddock she’ll be in for turnout. As soon as I let her off the lead, she darts away, kicking her back hooves out behind her, and then trotting around the paddock haphazardly.
“Is she upset?” I ask Candice.
“She may just be stressed out, and being outside probably feels like a relief.” Candice turns to go back inside, but I don’t immediately follow.
“You coming?” she asks.
“I’m going to stay out here for a bit longer. The cold will help me clear my head,” I tell her with a smile.
Candice nods and heads back to the barn. I linger by the fence, watching Rosie canter around the paddock. She’s fast, and clearly capable of even more speed. She’s beautiful and elegant, too. For the life of me, I can’t understand why she wasn’t wanted, just the way she is.
She slows down to a trot and passes in front of me, flicking her head towards me for a second as she does.
“We’re both worth solving, Rosie,” I call out into the cold air. “I promise.”