Samara backs up, and I train my eye on the strange light. As we draw closer, I realize what I am seeing: a lit cigarette. It’s difficult to see her at first, but she’s there. Dressed in dark clothes, and standing in thick underbrush on the other side of the road, is a woman smoking a cigarette.

  “Do you see her? There, behind the tree.” I watch as the woman smokes the last of the cigarette and stamps it out on the ground.

  “I do,” Samara nods. “She seems out of place. Creepy.”

  The woman’s eyes are focused on Bastian’s house. She is so fixated that I wonder how close we can get without her noticing us. “Go a little closer,” I whisper. “But really slow. Actually… wait.” I unclip my seat belt and climb over into the back.

  “Sophie, what the hell?”

  “I can see better from here. Now, go slow.”

  Samara reverses back, turns off the engine, and climbs over the seat to join me. She holds up her phone and zooms the camera in on the woman. “What do you think she’s doing?”

  “I don’t know,” I whisper. “But whatever it is, it can’t be good.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Madelyn-May

  This morning marks the first weekday since I built my company that I haven’t gone in to work. It would be lovely if I was taking the day off to relax – maybe I’d pour myself a glass of wine and watch a movie. But unfortunately, that’s not the case. Since Harlow’s fight in the playground, an uneasy feeling has settled in my stomach, and I haven’t been able to shake the sense she is hiding something from me.

  Standing my ground with the principal and counselor allowed Harlow to realize for the first time that, despite my shortcomings as a mom, I’m on her side, and so it is with trepidation I begin the arduous task of rummaging through her life. When I was twelve, in all of two seconds my mother could have upended my two drawers and lifted my mattress in search of a diary, and the job would have been done, but these days it’s a much more arduous task. I need to log onto Harlow’s laptop and go through her files. I must search her iPad, and the external hard drives she has, then move on to the cloud storage allocated to her phone – and then finally comb through her actual bedroom.

  She must have taken her iPad with her to school, but any information it holds is stored, along with content from her phone, on our cloud. But first things first. When the screen of her laptop lights up, I whisper a silent plea, for forgiveness, and also to not find anything I don’t want to see. I scroll through the main drive of her laptop, looking through photos and Word documents. There are homework sheets and other allocated schoolwork, but nothing that draws my attention. I click on her browser history, and smile when I see that the last eight searches were how to convince your parents to buy you a dog. I scroll down further, and find that she has also searched for something called the Philadelphia Big Sister Program. When I click the link it takes me to a site about life mentors for young girls, and the first hint of a niggle tugs at my insides. I can’t imagine why she has visited this site. When I’m satisfied there are no more clues on her laptop, I close it, and stand quietly in the middle of her bedroom.

  Compared to the space I shared with my sisters, Harlow’s room is every girl’s dream. Instead of the bunks I had to share with Melody, my daughter has a king-size bed, complete with white comforter, white pillows, and a white throw. Bright-blue scatter cushions complete the look, and above her head is a white tulle canopy, sprinkled with fairy lights. Her closet is brimming with clothes, mostly designer labels, and she has already started her handbag collection. Two Chanel and one Gucci. When it comes to providing for my children, I spare no expense, but what have I really given her, other than a room so beautiful it’s been featured in Vogue Kids, and a collection of overpriced status symbols? When I was a child, I never could have dreamed I’d be able to provide for my family this way, but despite the pride it gives me to buy them the world, in my heart I know kids don’t care how luxurious their bedroom is. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Harlow is the first to invite other girls over to show off, but at the heart of it, if a mother’s love is absent, how bright can a room ever really shine?

  Since I’m already inside her inner sanctum, I begin the slow task of going through every drawer, careful to put everything back exactly where I found it. If I’m being paranoid and there are no secrets, the last thing I want to do is break the trust that has finally started to build between us.

  I check beneath clothes, and rifle through her sock drawer. I pull old books and toys she has grown out of from cane storage baskets, and tear up when I see her first bunny, Mr Jenkie, crumpled under a pile of magazines. I pull out board games and books, and come across one of my own favorites, The Velveteen Rabbit. I sit cross-legged on the carpet and pore through the pages until I find my favorite bit:

  You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who must be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.

  I am not Real. Here in this beautiful room, in this sprawling house, I am not Real. And that’s the whole problem. My eyes have not been loved off. My joints are not loose, but strict, tight. And I have made myself untouchable. Maybe if I was Real, I think, my family would understand, and I wouldn’t need to be in here trying to figure out what my daughter is keeping from me.

  I pack the baskets away, and move to the last search area: her bedside drawers. If there’s anything hidden in her room, it’s likely to be stashed inside one of these drawers, and as I open the first one my stomach twists. I move discarded bottles of nail polish, and hair clips, and about a thousand scattered beads that are supposed to be housed inside a jewelry making kit. There are tubes of glitter, and torn-out pictures of Harry Styles and Niall Horan. All typical items for a twelve-year-old. And then I find the envelope. On the front, her name has been handwritten in an unfamiliar scrawl, and inside is a small discarded sheet of tissue wrapping, and a note. With trembling hands, I unfold the paper, and begin to read. The first thing I notice is the writing, all loops and long strokes, distinctly female. I try to take consolation in the fact that it wasn’t written by a man, but I have no idea who this woman signing off as Harlow’s ‘big sister’ could be. Was there an email about this Big Sister Program sent from school? Did Harlow mention it, and as usual I wasn’t paying attention? Why does this woman want to drop off a gift, or collect my daughter from school?

  Bastian and I are already walking on eggshells, and the last thing I want to do is overreact—again—but with everything that’s been going on, I need to be sure this program is legitimate. I text Bastian, then think back to the way Harlow was messaging in the car the day I picked her up from school. My gut feel says that she was texting this woman from the program, and if that’s the case, the storage cloud should tell me more. Our children’s data is saved to our cloud account – a provision of them having their own phones and tablets. So, while I wait for Bastian’s reply, I go into our home office and click on Harlow’s phone backup. Like a detective, I quickly scroll through all her messages, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Most of the texts are from Bastian, telling her he’s out the front of school. There’s a few from her friends, and one or two from me, but when I get to the date of her fight at school an unfamiliar number pops up:

  Its Harlow we met at the mall on Sat. Got into a fight at school cause of mom’s work. Sick of no1 ever getting wot it’s like 2b me. Maybe we could meet?

  So sorry to hear that and hope ur ok. Let’s make a time soon.

  🙂

  The mall? I cast my mind back to the weekend, and try to think who she could have met. Aside from when she went into the changeroom, I was with her the entire time. I scroll down to the next time the number appears:

  Thank you so much for the gift. Yes lets do that. I’ll make an excuse and tell Haz 2 get the bus like we always do. Meet u out front

  Gr8 cu then

  The spit disappears from my mouth, and I forget to breathe. My daughter has agreed to go off with some random woman she met at the mall last weekend. I tell myself there’s still the possibility that this woman, whoever she is, could be from a legitimate program. It could’ve happened by chance. Maybe she saw Harlow and I arguing over the bikini, and wanted to help. I remind myself not to overreact, but the ache in my stomach and the pounding of my heart quickly overrules my mind. I read over the text chain again, and my eyes freeze on the bus reference. “I’ll make an excuse and tell Haz 2 get the bus like we always do.” The only day they catch the bus is Thursday.

  Today is Thursday.

  In my hurry to call the school, I drop my mobile and it bounces beneath my desk. To make matters worse, as I lean over to pick it up, the letter falls out of my pocket, and I curse out loud. When I manage to grab the phone, I pull open my desk drawer with the intention of stashing the note inside, but the first thing I see is the box of matches. At this moment, in my heart, I know the woman contacting my daughter is not from any Big Sister program.

  I dial the school, and pace the length of my office three times in the seconds it takes for someone to answer.

  “This is Madelyn-May Marozzi,” I say, my voice bordering on panic. “You cannot let my children leave school grounds today with anyone other than me. Is that clear?”

  “Of course, Mrs Marozzi – we would never allow children to be collected by anyone other than a family member. It’s our policy,” the woman on the other end tells me.

  “I know that, but what I’m telling you is not to allow anyone at all to collect them other than myself.”

  “Not even Mr Marozzi?”

  “I’m coming to get them now.”

  “Mrs Marozzi, is everything alright?”

  “Was a package dropped off at the school for my daughter, earlier this week? It would have been an envelope with her name handwritten on the outside?”

  “Yes, actually there was,” she replies. “Harlow forgot her watch, and your mother dropped it off to the office. It was lovely to meet her. We certainly hope we’ll be seeing more of her at school.”

  I grab onto the edge of my desk to stop from falling. “Did you say… my mother?”

  “Yes, Harlow’s grandmother. Oh… I’m sorry, is she Mr Marozzi’s mother? When she referred to you as her daughter I just assumed—”

  “I’m on my way, and my children are not to leave school grounds, is that clear? Not under any circumstances.”

  “Of course.”

  As I run to the car, I dial Harlow’s mobile, but it rings out. I try Harry’s next, but it’s the same. The school doesn’t permit students to answer calls during class, so I text her that she is not to speak to anyone other than teachers until I get there.

  In the twenty minutes it takes to drive to her school, I pick up the phone to call Bastian, then decide against it at least five times. Instead I dial 911, then hang up before it rings. My mother is alive. She survived the fire. She is the one who’s been threatening us. I glance down at the phone to see if Harlow has read my message. It says the message has been delivered, but not read. I look back to the road, and slam on my brakes, missing the car stopped in front of me by inches. My heart is racing. I can’t think straight. My mother is the one coming after me. How is any of this possible?

  When I reach the school, I park illegally in front of the main building and run inside, caring little for airs and graces. “Where’s my daughter?!” I demand, the top half of my body leaning over the front counter. “I want to see her right now.”

  “Mrs Marozzi,” the clerk says, clearly startled. “Let me check for you.”

  She types something into her computer, then tells me Harlow is doing her physical education lesson on the field by the gardens. “But you can’t go out there,” she calls as I dash out the door.

  Up ahead, I see the girls gathered in a group on the field. It strikes me that the activity looks more like a gossip session than exercise, but right now this doesn’t matter. All that matters is ensuring my daughter is safe.

  “Harlow!” I call, as I get closer, “Harlow!”

  She turns, and physically shrinks when she realizes it’s me storming across the field.

  “Mom? What the—”

  “What the hell were you thinking?” I demand when I reach her. “Do you have any idea what could happen if you let stranger pick you up from school?” It feels odd referring to my mother as a stranger, but it’s been twenty-two years since the night of the fire. Until moments ago, I didn’t even know she was still alive.

  “Mom, chill,” Harlow tells me, hand on her hip and flicking her hair. “It’s no big deal.”

  The other girls are closing in around us, jackals waiting for their piece of prey. Lithe and hungry, their eyes are eyes trained to look for weakness, and right now, I can see they think they’ve found it. The girl standing closest to me takes out her phone, and unabashedly points it right at us.

  “Don’t you even think about filming this,” I warn her. “This is between my daughter and me.”

  She ignores me, and continues filming.

  “Mrs Marozzi, is there a problem?” Harlow’s fitness teacher strides over, all dark skin and white shorts, a whistle around his neck and clipboard in hand.

  “I’m taking my daughter, and I don’t want any of these girls filming me while I do it,” I tell him. “Is that clear?”

  “So not on-brand,” one girl whispers, and they all laugh.

  Harlow looks from me to her friends and back. “I hate you so much,” she hisses. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  As she points her finger, the light catches something shining on her wrist, and I grab her arm. The little frog watch my mother gave me on my birthday. “Take that watch off right now.”

  “No, I like it. It’s kinda retro or something. Besides, it was a present.”

  Happy Birthday, Madelyn-May….

  “I don’t care, take it off now right now, Harlow. I mean it.”

  Every time the big hand moves one little tick, a minute has gone by. You must pay attention. Time ticks by so fast. If you blink for a second, you’ll miss it….

  “No, it’s mine.”

  Thanks Mommy, I love my present….

  Without thinking I launch at her, and forcibly try to remove the watch from her wrist.

  “Let me go!” she shouts, twisting her entire body away from me. “I hate you! You’re not having it!”

  Mrs Marozzi, this isn’t the time, or the place,” the teacher interjects. “I suggest you let go of your daughter, and we all take a breather for a minute.”

  “Fine, I’m sorry.” I let go of her arm and step away. “Harlow, just come with me alright, we have to go.”

  But my daughter is having none of it. She crosses her arms firmly against her chest. Her face is flushed, her back rigid. “No, I’m not going anywhere with you, you’re acting insane.”

  “I’m not telling you again,” I say, stronger this time. “It’s not safe here.”

  “Mrs Marozzi, I think it would be best if we discussed this inside. Also, I assure you the school is a safe space for your daughter.”

  “Oh, just shut up with your safe space bullshit,” I snap. “I’m sick of hearing it. I’m taking my daughter, and it’s not up for discussion. Harlow, we’re going. Now.”

  She turns to follow me, but not without twisting the knife. “I wish you were dead,” she whispers as she trails along behind me.

  I wish you were dead. My heart breaks in two.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Lacy

  I haven’t slept a wink in the past forty-eight hours. After all our planning and preparing, the day is finally here. We’re so close now. Only minutes remain until Harlow walks out of school and climbs into the car. A smile pulls at the corner of my lip, but I shake it off. Not yet. Once she’s inside, that’s when I’ll allow myself to declare victory – not a moment sooner.

  I park just outside the school gate and crane my neck to see if she’s coming out. After ten minutes pass and she doesn’t appear, I pull out my phone and call her mobile. It rings twice, then connects.

  “Harlow, I’m out front, like we planned. Are you coming out?”

  But the voice that answers is not Harlow.

  “No, she’s not coming out, Mom,” Madelyn-May hisses into my ear. “But I am.”

  The phone disconnects, and a shadow falls over my car window. It’s her.

  “Get out of the car Mom, right now!”

  Up close, she seems a lot taller than I imagined, and even more beautiful than in her pictures online. And she is angry.

  “I said: get out!”

  She bashes her fist on the glass, and I hate that it makes me flinch. She’ll think I’m weak, pathetic. I can’t afford to let her gain the upper hand. Not when we’re so close. I’ve already checked out of the motel, and all my belongings are in the boot of the car. All except the essential items I keep in my handbag.

  “What were you going to do, huh?” she yells. “Take my daughter for coffee, and try to turn her against me?”

  I lower the window a crack, just far enough to meet her gaze. “No, Madelyn-May, you’ve already done that yourself.”

  She smashes her fist against the glass, but this time I don’t budge.

  “What do you want, huh?” she shouts. “What do you want from me?”

  I simply smile. “We’ll meet again soon, Madelyn-May, that’s a promise.”

  “You stay away from us. I don’t want you anywhere near my family.”

  I reach over and open my handbag, allowing her to see the gun inside. “You had your chance back at the trailer, and you took it. Now it’s my turn.”

  My plan had not been to take Harlow to a café. My plan had been to take her far away from here. Once she was in the car, I would have locked her in and drove. When we reached the rendezvous point, my part would be done. Someone else would take it from there, and I would just be along for the ride. But as usual, Madelyn-May has messed everything up. Again.