The Lost and the Found by Cat Clarke Read Free Book Online Page B

hair is short and spiky. “This is him?” Laurel nods. I am looking at the man who took my sister.
    “It’s not quite finished. The police artist is coming back later to work on it before the press conference. The nose isn’t quite right yet.” She stares at the picture, and I have the strongest urge to scrunch up the paper, to set fire to it and watch his face blacken and burn.
    “What’s his name?”
    A faint smile appears on Laurel’s face. “At first I called him Smith. He was hardly going to tell me his real name, was he?”
    Smith.
Probably the most common name in the country. “At first?”
    Laurel tilts her head questioningly.
    “You said at first you called him Smith. What did you call him after that?”
    She looks away and keeps her eyes averted from mine as she tells me the name she called him—the name he made her use even though she knew it was wrong.
    “Daddy.”
    —
    My parents choose that exact moment to come back. They’ve brought drinks and food. When I look at the clock, I see that Laurel and I have been talking for more than two hours. Glancing out the window, I see that it’s snowing, thick and fast.
    I manage to get rid of the appalled look on my face while Mom and Dad take their wet coats and scarves off. They both try to hide it, but they’re looking at us closely to see how things are going. Laurel and I smile to show them that things are going just fine, thank you very much. I bet Mom wanted to come back ages ago, but Dad made her wait, to give us more time.
    Daddy.
The thought of her saying it to that man sickens me. I hope she hasn’t told my parents.
Our
parents.
    Dad starts pulling sandwiches out of a plastic bag. “Shrimp salad?” Laurel says, adding, “Eurgh!” And I make a gagging noise, and then we both laugh. Dad rolls his eyes and says, “I suppose I’ll be having that one, then,” but you can tell he’s delighted that we’re
bonding.
    Laurel and I both reach for the BLT baguette, and she insists that I have it, and I insist that
she
has it. In the end it all comes down to who’s more stubborn, so of course I win. I end up with ham and cheese; it’s dry and hard to swallow. I want to ask Laurel what kind of food she ate, because whatever it was, she clearly didn’t eat enough of it. She makes short work of the baguette and devours a bag of chips, too. I realize that all three of us—me, Mom, and Dad—are watching her eat. Laurel doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t seem to care.
    There’s a slightly awkward moment at lunch when Mom says something about this being our first family meal together in thirteen years. She apologizes that it’s not something more special and says she’ll cook something soon—a roast dinner, perhaps?—so that we can sit down as a family at long last.
    Laurel says that would be really nice, and Dad requests roast beef. Mom blushes (I have no idea why).
    “Will Michel be invited, too?” I can’t help myself. Someone needs to remind them that things are different now.
    For a second, the only sound is that of Laurel tearing into a second bag of chips. She says, “I hope so. I can’t wait to meet him.” And Dad smiles gratefully because he knows as well as I do that Laurel has just averted an argument.
    Mom says, “Of course Michel will be there,” as if that was the plan all along. As if she hadn’t completely forgotten his existence for a minute there. She’s a bit quieter after that, which makes me feel guilty, but I won’t allow Michel to be sidelined. He’s as much a part of this screwed-up family as the rest of us. And unlike the rest of us, he actually
chose
to join it.
    —
    A bunch of people turn up after lunch, and it’s chaos. They’re trying to organize this press conference, even though everyone’s fully aware that the press already has the story. It’s on the Internet, of course. #LaurelLogan is trending on Twitter. When I check my phone, I see that lots of people have messaged me.