The Lost and the Found (6 page)

I
watch the press conference—alone—on the massive TV in Laurel's suite. They didn't want me down there any more than I wanted to be there.

It's surreal, watching my family (
now new and improved, with added Laurel!
) walk into the ballroom fifteen floors below. Laurel's flanked by Mom and Dad; Mom's crying already. I can't help comparing it to the press conference they held when she went missing; I must have watched it a hundred times on YouTube. Dad spoke straight into the camera, talking to whoever had taken Laurel.
She belongs with us. Faith keeps asking where her big sister has gone. Please, if you're listening, do the right thing. Bring our daughter back to us. Bring Laurel home.
That was the moment when Dad really broke down. He'd managed to keep it together up until then, but you could tell it was there, bubbling under the surface. He slumped back into his chair, and Mom took his hand and squeezed it tightly, as if she was trying to force some of her strength into him. But by that point she was sobbing, too.

This press conference is very different. It's rowdier, for one thing. Journalists start shouting questions the minute my family walks in. The camera flashes go crazy. The high-ranking police officer reads a statement, after pausing to take a pair of glasses from his breast pocket. Another police officer reads another statement and shows the cameras a new picture of “Smith.” This one's been done on a computer, I think. It's a bit different from the one I saw—the face is narrower, the nostrils larger. Both police officers say that while they're delighted that Laurel is home, they will not rest until the “perpetrator of this sickening crime” is brought to justice. They used that line at the press conference when Laurel was taken—not these police officers, but ones just like them.

Police Officer Number Two says investigators are knocking on doors and asking questions
as we speak.
Laurel was able to give them some very useful information about her captor. (Really? That's news to me.) It's only a matter of time, apparently.

The police ask if there are any questions, and of course there are. Most of them are aimed at Laurel and Mom and Dad, so they ignore those. But they do answer a couple.

“How can you be sure that Laurel is safe now? Why would he just let her go?”

“We are as sure as we can be that Laurel's ordeal is over, and we will be doing everything in our power to keep her safe. As to why she was released after all this time? I think, today of all days, we should just be grateful that she's back home with her family. There will be plenty of time for those questions in the coming days and weeks.”

“Were there any sightings of the suspect leaving Laurel in the yard yesterday? Any CCTV?”

“We're not aware of any sightings at the moment, but officers will be going door-to-door on Stanley Street, speaking to every resident. We will, of course, be reviewing CCTV footage for anything that might be relevant.”

“Did the police fail Laurel?”

An almost inaudible sigh from Police Officer Number One. “We did everything we could to find Laurel Logan, mounting the biggest search the county has ever seen. But sadly, tragically, it wasn't enough….Now Bernard Ness would like to say a few words before I hand this over to the Logans.” He doesn't quite manage to hide the disdain in his voice.

Bernard Ness is the mayor. God knows what he's doing there. Bernard Ness is not a fat man, but he walks as if he is. He huffs and puffs his way up to the microphone, and I become transfixed by his nose. It's bulbous and red, much like the rest of his face. His sideburns are damp with sweat.

He was also present at the press conference thirteen years ago. Deputy mayor back then, slightly less red, less bulbous, milling around in the background. This time he's right there up onstage with my family. It quickly becomes clear that Bernard Ness is here for two reasons: he likes the sound of his own voice, and he's desperate to associate himself with a good-news story (and let's face it—this is the best good-news story there's been in a long, long time). Maybe he thinks it will help people forget the financial scandal he was involved in last month.

Ness says that thirteen years ago “our community” was shocked and devastated and a few more words that all amount to the same thing. The crime against “Little Laurel Logan” threatened to tear “our community” apart, but in the end it brought us closer together. “We” never gave up hope. Apparently.

He talks for far too long, but no one tries to shut him up. Laurel and Mom and Dad listen politely in the background. Laurel's face is perfectly expressionless. Finally, Ness starts winding down. He ends his pointless speech by turning toward Laurel, pausing for effect, then saying, “Welcome home, Laurel.” Laurel nods; she doesn't smile.

Dad's up next. The first thing he says is, “I'm going to keep this short,” and I love him for it. In the background, Bernard Ness nods as though this isn't a dig at him. Dad talks about how happy we all are to have Laurel home, and thanks everyone who never gave up searching and hoping and believing she would come back. He thanks the police and says (emphatically) that they should not be held responsible for what “that man” did to his daughter. Then he does something weird. He addresses Laurel's captor directly. “Whoever you are, wherever you are, I want you to know that we
will
find you, and you will be held accountable for your crimes.” He lets that hang for a beat or two before taking a steadying breath. His hands grip the sides of the lectern. “But for now, today, I want to thank you.” There are no gasps from the crowd or anything, but you can tell people are shocked. I certainly am. “Thank you for giving our daughter back to us.”

Dad sits down, and no one seems to know what should happen next. The police officers exchange glances, and Mom looks at Dad, and Dad looks at Laurel, and Bernard Ness looks at the photographers (of course). Laurel stands and walks over to the lectern.

Laurel looks out at the crowd in front of her, and it seems like she's looking at each and every face and camera. She doesn't flinch under the constant flashing. “My name is Laurel Logan.” She clears her throat and takes a shaky breath. I can't believe how brave she is, doing this. “My name is Laurel Logan, and I'd like to take this opportunity to thank some people.” She echoes what Dad said—thanking the police and the public—but she also mentions the press. “Thank you for keeping my story alive—thank you for never forgetting.” It's a little odd, but I bet the journalists down there are lapping it up. I'm sure Dad doesn't approve, after everything he's been through with the press, but I think Laurel's earned the right to say whatever she wants.

Laurel stares into the camera, and it feels like she's looking at me. It must feel the same way to everyone who's watching—our friends and family, Thomas and Martha, people up and down the country and all over the world. The camera moves in closer on Laurel's face so that you can't see anyone else. They didn't do anything about her hair before the press conference, and it still doesn't look like she's wearing makeup—maybe just a bit of powder. She looks like a girl who has been through some seriously bad stuff.

“Yesterday my nightmare came to an end. I don't think I ever believed it would happen. I hoped for it and prayed for it every single night, and when things got really bad”—she pauses and blinks hard to stop herself from crying—“well, I hoped and prayed even harder. Yesterday my prayers were answered.” She bows her head for a moment before looking at the camera again. “I don't have the words to express what I'm feeling right now. To know that my family never stopped looking for me. Never stopped caring. And they've told me that
you
never stopped caring, either. They told me that total strangers from all over the world have sent cards and letters—even money. They told me that the police worked tirelessly to try to find me and that my story has hardly been out of the newspapers—all this time. I can't tell you how much this means to me. To know that I wasn't forgotten.” Another bow of her head. I bet half the people in that room have tears in their eyes.

Laurel finishes by thanking everyone. She doesn't mention Smith. She says she's looking forward to getting to know her family again—especially her little sister, Faith. She smiles when she says my name, and the camera flashes start up again. I realize I'm smiling, too.

As soon as she stops talking and moves away from the lectern, the journalists start shouting questions. You might think they'd have a little bit more respect—and sensitivity—today, but you would be wrong. It's hard to distinguish individual questions, but most of them seem to start with some variation of “How do you feel…?”

A man takes Laurel's place. He was one of the people milling around the suite earlier. He makes calming motions with his hands; he looks like he's directing traffic. It takes a long time for the shouting to die down, and when it does, you can hear a woman's voice shouting out one final question: “Laurel! Laurel! Have you been shopping yet?” I swear at the TV while laughter ripples around the room downstairs. Even Mom and Dad smile; Laurel does not.

The press conference is over, and a man and a woman with perfect hair sit in a futuristic-looking TV studio and talk about how brave Laurel is. They use the word
remarkable
a lot, and they say that they hope the media will leave our family to heal in peace, which is ironic because one of their correspondents has been known to shout questions through our mail slot.

The shiny hosts decide that the moral of the story is that we should never give up hope, no matter how bad things look. They seem very pleased with themselves for having found a greater meaning in Laurel's story.

Martha texts:
That was surreal.

Yes, it was.

M
om stands back to admire her handiwork. “There. What do you think?”

The room looks much better than it did a week ago. It looks cozy and comfortable and welcoming. Mom asked Laurel what colors she liked and whether there was anything special she wanted in her room. Laurel said she didn't feel strongly about the decor as long as the bed faced the door; Mom didn't need to ask why.

It took hours of rummaging through boxes in the attic (not to mention a traumatic spider-in-hair incident), but eventually I found what I was looking for. I plug it into the socket next to the door and switch it on. Egg the Penguin is the finishing touch. Laurel's room is ready for her. My sister is coming home.

Someone (Maggie the counselor, perhaps?) had decided that Laurel shouldn't come home right away. She needed some time to adjust to life in the outside world. Mom wasn't too happy about that, but Dad persuaded her to go along with it. “It's only one more week, love.” He was right: one week was nothing compared to thirteen years. The two of them took turns staying in the extra bedroom in Laurel's suite.

Laurel's been talking to the police almost every day, repeating her story over and over again to different officers. Mom told me that Dad lost his temper with them on Wednesday because they kept on asking the same questions, and Laurel freaked out when they tried to do the cheek swab again. They got a female officer to try this time; the reaction was less violent, but the result was the same. Laurel locked herself in the bathroom until the woman went away. Laurel refused to tell my (our) parents what the problem was, but I guess it must have triggered some bad memories or something. Dad thinks they really need to leave her alone now. (
“She's got enough to deal with without the police hounding her all the time. And what do they need a DNA test for, anyway?”
)

Laurel's been talking to a psychologist, too. About the abuse, I think, but I haven't asked. We've had two family sessions with Maggie Dimmock—one in the hotel and one in what used to be our favorite Italian restaurant. That second one was a big deal; Laurel isn't used to going outside. She has
been
outside. Once a week the man would blindfold her and put her in his van and drive her to a forest. The police were obviously keen to learn as much as they could about that forest, even showing Laurel pictures of different kinds of trees in case they could narrow it down that way. But Laurel thought the trees were probably pines, which are just about as common as you can get. She wasn't even sure how far the forest was from where she was being held. She tried to count the seconds and minutes she spent in the van, but Smith wasn't stupid—the journey would take anywhere between one hour and three hours, but they would always end up at the same place. He would let Laurel out and tell her to exercise—jumping jacks and push-ups and crunches. She only tried to run away once; he made sure she didn't try ever again.

So that was Laurel's only experience of the outside world—for thirteen years. Just walking down the street was a huge achievement for her. We took it slowly and tried to ignore the journalists and photographers shadowing our every move. The police made sure the press kept their distance.

I walked with Laurel, a little way behind Mom and Dad. Maggie was behind us, not really dressed for the weather, her shoulders hunched against the cold wind. Laurel couldn't stop staring at everything—the cars, the shops, the people. She grabbed my hand when an ambulance screamed past, siren blaring. I murmured words of reassurance and squeezed her hand. I tried to imagine what this must be like for her, but of course I could never know. She didn't let go of my hand until we were safely inside the restaurant, which was empty. Maggie must have called ahead to make sure.

Laurel was baffled by the menu—confused by being able to choose what to eat. “Can I have
anything
I want?”

“Anything,” Mom and Dad said in unison.

Mom suggested spaghetti. “It used to be your favorite.”

Laurel loved it. She made a complete mess of eating it, and I did the same with mine so she wouldn't feel self-conscious.

It didn't really feel like a counseling session, but maybe Maggie is just really good at her job. Sometimes she'd throw out a question and we'd remember why we were there. She asked if we were worried about anything. I shook my head, even though there were lots of things I was worried about.

We talked about how things would work when Laurel came home. Mom and Dad had obviously talked about this beforehand. They'd decided that Laurel and I would stay at his place on the weekends. I wondered if Mom had put up a fight about that. Laurel and I would have to share a room.

“You don't mind, do you, love?” asked Dad as he snapped a breadstick in half.

I shook my head.

Laurel cleared her throat. “I don't mind sleeping on the sofa.” She looked down at her empty plate.

“No, really, it's fine. It'll be fun.” I smiled at Laurel; I wanted her to believe me.

Maggie seemed pleased with how things were going, but she warned us that there might be “bumps in the road ahead,” and we shouldn't put pressure on ourselves for things to be normal right away. “The important thing is that you keep talking—and listening—to each other. Communication is the key.” She said that any one of us could call her if we had anything we needed to talk through, and that we would keep going for sessions with one of her colleagues who lives locally.

Laurel tried Dad's wine and grimaced at the taste of it; she's never tried alcohol before. Then she asked if she could order a glass of her own. Mom had to explain that you're not officially allowed to drink alcohol until you're twenty-one. At first I thought Laurel was going to argue, but she just nodded and took another sip of water. She didn't talk much for the rest of the meal.

I had to go back to school on Thursday, even though Dad was taking the whole week off work. It wasn't fair. Mom and Laurel were going shopping for clothes, then on to the hairdresser. It seemed like something the three of us might have done together—if you ignore the fact that I hate shopping.

Thomas and Martha had been keeping me up to speed about how things were going at school. I'd talked to Thomas most days and texted Martha whenever I had the chance, but I hadn't actually seen either of them since the day Laurel was found. I hadn't wanted to leave the house, and I didn't feel quite ready to invite them over yet. I felt like I needed time to myself—to get used to how life was going to be from now on. Martha was a little more understanding about it than Thomas, or at least she
pretended
to be more understanding.

School was just as insane as Thomas and Martha had warned me it would be. Thomas was already in the cafeteria when I arrived half an hour before homeroom. He was sitting on the floor with his back against a radiator dappled with peeling paint. He was reading a book and eating an apple. Thomas always eats the whole apple—seeds, core, everything except the stem. The first time he did it in front of me, I told him it was disgusting; he lectured me about the “frankly appalling” levels of food wastage in the world.

I sat down next to him, sliding my back down the radiator, probably peeling off some more paint in the process. I started to speak, but he held up a finger to silence me. I was used to this: Thomas never stops reading until he's reached the end of a paragraph. Still, I thought that today might warrant some kind of exemption from the rule. I was about to say as much when he finally put his book down and kissed me. Unsurprisingly, he tasted like apples.

He put his arm around me, and I leaned my head against his. “Crazy week, huh?” he whispered.

“The craziest.” I closed my eyes. For the first time in days, I felt like myself again.

“I'm here if you want to talk about things, okay? But it's fine if you don't. Whatever you need.” He kissed my forehead, and I remembered why I liked him so much.

The door opened and a group of girls piled in. They spotted me immediately. I knew what was going to happen, and I wanted to avoid it at all costs. I stood up and turned my back to them, pretending to look for something in my bag. “Thomas, let's go,” I whispered.

Thomas was too slow getting his stuff together.

“Faith! Oh my god, Faith! Oh. My. God!”

I could stay facing the wall, but it wouldn't do any good. Laney Finch would wait all day if she had to. I turned around slowly, as if facing a firing squad.

Before I knew what was happening, Laney Finch had flung herself at me. I stumbled back against the radiator, hitting my elbow on the corner. Her arms were around me, and it felt like she had too many of them—I was being hugged by a Laney squid. My arms stayed rigidly by my sides.

The hug went on far too long. Over Laney's shoulder, I could see her friends hanging back, whispering and staring. At least two of them looked like they might want to hug me, too. There were tears in their eyes, and they held their hands to their chests as if the emotion was just too much for them.

Laney pulled back but still had my arms firmly in her grip. She was crying, of course. “I can't believe it, Faith. It's just
too
amazing for words. It's a miracle, isn't it? I totally think this qualifies as a miracle, don't you? I prayed, you know. Every night. I told you that, didn't I?”

Laney had indeed told me that she prayed every night for my sister. It was her opening line the day she decided we should be best friends. That was five years ago. Laney Finch likes to think that she feels things more deeply than the average person. Of course, this is total bullshit. She has no more empathy than anyone else—it's all talk. She's the type of person who sees a natural disaster in some faraway country on the news and cries about it. (
Oh, those poor people…Imagine what they must be going through
….It breaks my heart.
) Five minutes later she's on the phone to one of her pathetic friends, moaning about how unfair it is that her parents won't buy her a new MacBook Air for her birthday.

From the day she arrived at school, Laney Finch tried to latch on to me; I was determined to be unlatchable. She never seemed to get the message, though. Every time there was a story about Laurel in the papers, Laney Finch popped up, shooting sympathetic looks across the room or asking intrusive questions. I only lost my temper with her once: when she said she knew exactly how I felt because her cat had gone missing and hadn't been seen for a week. I didn't punch her in the face, which was what she deserved. I
did
tell her to fuck off, which seemed to shock her just as much.

I was determined to at least
try
to be nice this time, so I mumbled, “Thanks,” and tried to extricate myself from her grip. Thomas was no help at all—he was busy putting his book back in his bag oh so carefully so that he didn't damage the cover.

Laney let go of my arms and daintily dabbed at her eyes. I wondered if she wore waterproof mascara every day so that she was fully prepared for her regular crying stints. “It's such wonderful news, Faith. I haven't stopped smiling since I heard, so I can't even begin to imagine how you must be feeling.” She shook her head and smiled, as if that proved that she had
literally
not stopped smiling for the past five days. I waited. She smiled some more. I said I'd better get going, even though there was nowhere I had to be for at least twenty minutes. I turned to take Thomas's hand, but Laney somehow managed to maneuver herself between us. “So…what's Laurel like? I bet she's really…God, I don't even know…”

Laney likes to
know
things—especially things that other people
don't
know. Gossip is oxygen to her—without it, she'll, like, literally, you know, die or something.

“She's fine. Thank you.” I gave Thomas a look that very obviously said,
Get me out of here!
but for some reason he didn't seem to understand it.