“Getting ready for Ma and Bill.”
“Okay. Thanks,” Angie hollered back. She was reaching for the knob to relatch the door when she noticed an oversized brown leather notebook on the bedside table. Mom’s side. Interesting.
Peeking back over her shoulder, she slipped into the room and picked up the notebook—actually a scrapbook, she realized. Mom loved scrapbooking. Maybe this would give Angie an idea of what they’d been up to for three years—the vacations she’d missed, whatever.
She grasped the cover and hesitated. What if this was actually Mom’s diary? A guilty feeling snuck down her spine. She shook it off. Mom had broken into
her
journal, after all. Fair’s fair. She eased the door closed in total silence, took a deep breath, and lifted the cover. Her glance fell on …
Page one. A newspaper article for August 3, headline: GIRL SCOUT WANDERS AWAY FROM ANGELES NATIONAL FOREST CAMP, FEARED LOST. Her seventh-grade class photo was blown up huge next to it, zits and all.
Page two. August 6 headline: FORESTRY SERVICE EXPANDS SEARCH RANGE IN HUNT FOR MISSING TEEN. COUGARS SPOTTED IN LOCAL AREA. A map of the campsite was pasted in, with circles drawn like a bull’s-eye.
Angie touched the crisp, yellowed page. Goosebumps peppered her pale arms. Mom had saved all these newspaper articles about her. Angie’s feet fizzed, and the pit of her stomach swirled, but she turned the page over to …
Page three. August 17: SCOUT TROOP HOLDS VIGIL FOR MISSING GIRL. The color photo in the newspaper clipping showed Livvie’s and Katie’s and Mrs. Wells’s sober faces lit from below by candles. A hundred points of light blurred behind them. That was a nice turnout. Very supportive, she supposed.
Page four. September 15: SAN DIMAS MOUNTAIN RESCUE TEAM MOVES TO HIGHER ALTITUDES IN FULL-SCALE SEARCH FOR MISSING TEEN. REWARD OFFERED FOR ANY INFORMATION.
Page five. November 22: TRAIL GROWS COLD, LITERALLY, AS SAN GABRIEL MOUNTAINS SEE RECORD EARLY SNOWFALL. FORESTRY SERVICE HALTS SEARCH FOR LOST GIRL. Wow. Three months and a bit. Then they called off the search. Her stomach dropped. About a hundred days and that was it.
Page six. December 4: LA CAÑADA HIGH SCHOOL HOLDS MEMORIAL FOR LOST STUDENT. Angie read the article about the speeches and songs with the disconnected feeling that this had to be about someone else. She spent a few moments picking out the familiar faces of teachers and parents and friends in the photographs.
Page seventeen. August 3: ONE-YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF ANGELA CHAPMAN’S DISAPPEARANCE OBSERVED AS A DAY OF MOURNING BY LA CAÑADA COMMUNITY.
Angie flipped the rest of the leaves with shaking hands, reading every yellowed, faded page until …
Page twenty-two. No newspaper. Just a beautiful photo. Brilliant orange- and red-leaved trees arched across a lawn. In the distance, gray-and-white rectangles gave it a surreal touch. A pot of white chrysanthemums in the foreground provided focus. What was it doing in this scrapbook?
Angie squinted.
What is this, Mom?
A field? A … The spot between her shoulder blades tingled. A cemetery? For sure, it was. The last scrapbook entry was a photo of a cemetery plot. Oh God. For her.
Oh my God. Her throat tightened with almost tears. They had given up on her, no matter what Mom said. They had called off the search and pronounced her dead. And wow. How inconvenient of her to come back just when they had their new life without her all planned out!
Angie’s hands shook as she replaced the scrapbook, opened the door, and walked like a zombie to her room. Like the living dead. Yeah. That was her.
She thought about Girl Scout’s note and how close she’d come to showing it to Mom. Crap. She really was all alone with this.
There was this lullaby Grandma used to sing to Angie when she was tiny: “All the pretty little horses. Black and bays, dapples and grays.” Angie had been too small to understand all the words—what were dapples? Were they like
“Okay. Thanks,” Angie hollered back. She was reaching for the knob to relatch the door when she noticed an oversized brown leather notebook on the bedside table. Mom’s side. Interesting.
Peeking back over her shoulder, she slipped into the room and picked up the notebook—actually a scrapbook, she realized. Mom loved scrapbooking. Maybe this would give Angie an idea of what they’d been up to for three years—the vacations she’d missed, whatever.
She grasped the cover and hesitated. What if this was actually Mom’s diary? A guilty feeling snuck down her spine. She shook it off. Mom had broken into
her
journal, after all. Fair’s fair. She eased the door closed in total silence, took a deep breath, and lifted the cover. Her glance fell on …
Page one. A newspaper article for August 3, headline: GIRL SCOUT WANDERS AWAY FROM ANGELES NATIONAL FOREST CAMP, FEARED LOST. Her seventh-grade class photo was blown up huge next to it, zits and all.
Page two. August 6 headline: FORESTRY SERVICE EXPANDS SEARCH RANGE IN HUNT FOR MISSING TEEN. COUGARS SPOTTED IN LOCAL AREA. A map of the campsite was pasted in, with circles drawn like a bull’s-eye.
Angie touched the crisp, yellowed page. Goosebumps peppered her pale arms. Mom had saved all these newspaper articles about her. Angie’s feet fizzed, and the pit of her stomach swirled, but she turned the page over to …
Page three. August 17: SCOUT TROOP HOLDS VIGIL FOR MISSING GIRL. The color photo in the newspaper clipping showed Livvie’s and Katie’s and Mrs. Wells’s sober faces lit from below by candles. A hundred points of light blurred behind them. That was a nice turnout. Very supportive, she supposed.
Page four. September 15: SAN DIMAS MOUNTAIN RESCUE TEAM MOVES TO HIGHER ALTITUDES IN FULL-SCALE SEARCH FOR MISSING TEEN. REWARD OFFERED FOR ANY INFORMATION.
Page five. November 22: TRAIL GROWS COLD, LITERALLY, AS SAN GABRIEL MOUNTAINS SEE RECORD EARLY SNOWFALL. FORESTRY SERVICE HALTS SEARCH FOR LOST GIRL. Wow. Three months and a bit. Then they called off the search. Her stomach dropped. About a hundred days and that was it.
Page six. December 4: LA CAÑADA HIGH SCHOOL HOLDS MEMORIAL FOR LOST STUDENT. Angie read the article about the speeches and songs with the disconnected feeling that this had to be about someone else. She spent a few moments picking out the familiar faces of teachers and parents and friends in the photographs.
Page seventeen. August 3: ONE-YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF ANGELA CHAPMAN’S DISAPPEARANCE OBSERVED AS A DAY OF MOURNING BY LA CAÑADA COMMUNITY.
Angie flipped the rest of the leaves with shaking hands, reading every yellowed, faded page until …
Page twenty-two. No newspaper. Just a beautiful photo. Brilliant orange- and red-leaved trees arched across a lawn. In the distance, gray-and-white rectangles gave it a surreal touch. A pot of white chrysanthemums in the foreground provided focus. What was it doing in this scrapbook?
Angie squinted.
What is this, Mom?
A field? A … The spot between her shoulder blades tingled. A cemetery? For sure, it was. The last scrapbook entry was a photo of a cemetery plot. Oh God. For her.
Oh my God. Her throat tightened with almost tears. They had given up on her, no matter what Mom said. They had called off the search and pronounced her dead. And wow. How inconvenient of her to come back just when they had their new life without her all planned out!
Angie’s hands shook as she replaced the scrapbook, opened the door, and walked like a zombie to her room. Like the living dead. Yeah. That was her.
She thought about Girl Scout’s note and how close she’d come to showing it to Mom. Crap. She really was all alone with this.
There was this lullaby Grandma used to sing to Angie when she was tiny: “All the pretty little horses. Black and bays, dapples and grays.” Angie had been too small to understand all the words—what were dapples? Were they like
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