The Year of Disappearances by Susan Hubbard Page A

at the All-Mart warehouse.”
    The bartender was pouring the drinks, finally.
    “Maybe I’ll try it later,” I said. “I’ll pay you, if you like.”
    He shook his head. “No, that’s cool. You should try it.” He handed me two capsules, which I slipped into my jeans pocket. “I’m sure you can find a dealer down in Florida,” he said. “Everybody I know is on V.”
    “Put them away before my mother comes back.” She was paying for the drinks.
    He slid the canister back into his shirt pocket.
    Mãe carried a tray to the table: two glasses of Picardo and one of cola. Michael looked disappointed. “What are you drinking?” he asked.
    “It’s called Picardo. Want a taste?”
    Mãe gave me an inquiring look. I’ll tell you later, I thought.
    The red glass glowed in the candlelight. Michael lifted it to his lips, took a sip, and began to cough.
    Sorry, my friend, I thought. You are so not one of us.

    My mother said all the right things. She brought up the subject of Kathleen so delicately that Michael wasn’t upset. Then again, maybe the V kept his emotions in check.
    “It’s been hardest on Mom,” he said. “She’s on antidepressants, and they make her kind of numb. At least she gets out of the house now. For months she stayed in bed.”
    “And they never found out who did it?” Mãe’s voice was soothing.
    “No, although for a while there they thought Ari or her father might be involved.” He glanced at me. “You knew that.”
    “The FBI agent even showed up in Florida,” I said.
    “People still say it’s funny that you left town after the murder.” His mind filled with hazy suspicions.
    “I could never do anything like that.” I said. “Neither could he.”
    “I know,” he said. “Hey, I was sorry to hear that he died.”
    Mãe briskly changed the subject. She asked Michael about his plans for college, and he explained at some length, in the vaguest possible terms, why he didn’t have any.
    After Michael left us that night, with promises to stay in touch that we all knew would not be kept, Mãe and I stayed at the table, talking about the things we couldn’t say before.
    “Doesn’t he deserve to know the truth?” I asked.
    “What’s the truth?” Mãe finished her drink and waved her fingers at the empty glass.
    The bartender had never taken his eyes off her, and he refilled the glass at once. He wanted to linger, but she cut him short with one glance, and he retreated. I realized that she’d put up with his flirting before to give Michael and me a chance to talk in private.
    “All we know is what Malcolm said in Sarasota,” she said. “He might have been lying. He’s good at that.”
    But I’d heard him confess, and I remembered the details—he’d talked about the way he killed her. He’d done it because she was a nuisance, he said.
    “Even if Malcolm did kill her, what good would it do to tell Michael?” Mãe’s eyes were dark. “We don’t know where Malcolm is. We have no proof. Trust me, Ariella, it’s better not to say anything.”
    I trusted her. But I felt the weight of knowing, like a kind of sickness inside.

Chapter Six

    W e left Saratoga Springs the next morning with boxes and baggage shifting behind us in the truck.
    On the drive out of town, I made my mother stop at the cemetery. Kathleen’s name was engraved on a large stone, next to a smaller one headed with the names of her parents. All of their birth dates were on the stones, followed by dashes and spaces to fill in the years of their deaths. Kathleen was the only one with two dates. I left one of the CDs she’d given me near her stone. I’m not sure why.
    “And so we bid farewell to Saratoga Springs.” Mãe turned the truck onto the ramp for Interstate 87. She sighed and glanced at me. “I’m sorry.”
    “For what?”
    “I’d thought coming back here would do you good. You know, give you some sense of closure—”
    “I hate that word.” Then I apologized for interrupting