Page 194 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

There’s a lump in my throat that won’t go away.

“Now, Sydney. Can you take me back to the day your mom went missing?” He opens a file. “Your report is a little scarce.”

I lick my lips. “Because I don’t really know much, sir.”

Mr. Asher inclines his chin. I take that to mean, you can keep talking.

“I live in Framingham. I was staying here over the summer. Mom was back home in EC, although she stopped returning my messages. I’ll be honest, that’s not entirely unusual. But after a week, I got concerned and went home to check on her. Her home seemed abandoned, which is when I went to you.”

The detective is eyeing me like I personally drove my mother off the side of the planet.

“But she has a history of leaving?”

“Yes.” It comes out so faint, I have to repeat myself. “Yes, she has a history of going away and coming back.”

“And this couldn’t have been one of those times?”

“She wouldn’t…” I glance at my lawyer. “I don’t think she’d do that to me. Not for this long.”

But really, anything is possible.

“It’s different,” I say instead. “She always comes back, and this time, she didn’t. She still hasn’t.”

Detective Lassiter leans back in his chair. “What would cause her to leave?”

“Money.” I suck my lower lip between my teeth, releasing it when he doesn’t seem to take that answer as enough. “I think she had a boyfriend or something. She’d go for a day or two when I was a kid, then two or three days.”

“How old were you when this started?”

"Six?”

He sighs and closes the file. “So how long did you wait to actually report her missing, Sydney?”

I don’t answer.

I have a lot of excuses built up, but none of them seem sufficient.

She always came back.

“Mom?” I drop my bag and look around the trailer. It’s been an eon since I’ve been here—at least, that’s what it feels like. Old memories threaten to press in, which in and of itself is new.

That only happens when you’ve been gone a while. When it isn’t home anymore. Otherwise, memories don’t crowd to the forefront of your mind. You just exist in the space.

That thought gives me a chill, but what’s worse is the silence.

It’s empty.

I flick the light switch, but nothing happens. There’s no noise, not even the buzz of the fridge. Which means the electric bill didn’t get paid.

I double-check the calendar she keeps taped to the fridge, making sure she’s not at work. There’s nothing written for today. Nothing for this week either.

Her bedroom, down the hall, is pristine. The bed is made, there’s nothing in the hamper.

“Mom,” I say when her voicemail clicks over. “Where are you? I’m seriously worried.”

I hang up and throw my phone. She’d been so good, too. Drug-free, at least as far as I could tell. She hadn’t disappeared in a long, long time.

Part of me wants to run back to Framingham. Maybe call up Carter Masters and get lost with him for a time.