Page 58 of The Thinnest Air
The FindMeredithPrice website is particularly buzzing today. Ever since the Ronan development was made public yesterday, every cable news network is recycling and rehashing the same warped theories, and people can’t get enough.
According to a poll on CNN, 84 percent of their viewers believe Ronan’s behind the disappearance.
I place my phone on the kitchen table when my mom walks in, Wade in tow. It’s morning, and they’re fixing breakfast. How they can continue to eat so normally at a time like this is beyond me, but my mother’s feet are planted more firmly in denial than ever before.
She’s compartmentalizing.
We all are.
Shock has stolen my appetite, though. That’s what happens when I’m stressed. My body shuts down. It won’t sleep or eat. It enters survival mode, sending thirst signals to my brain to remind me to drink water every now and again.
“Greer, would you like some toast?” Mom asks, pulling a loaf of artisan bread from the pantry.
“No thanks.”
“You need to eat something,” she says, tsk-tsking. “You’re skinny as a rail.”
“Kind of focused on more important things,” I say.
“We all are, Greer,” Wade says. I hate how he uses my name like he’s trying to be my friend. “But you know your brain functions better on a full stomach. It’s proven. Backed by science.”
I tried to eat some oatmeal last night after I woke up at two in the morning with a growling stomach, but the second I took my third bite, it all threatened to come up the way it went in, so I stopped.
“I’ll fix myself something later,” I say just to get them to shut up. I catch Andrew’s outline in my periphery vision.
“Good morning, Andrew.” My mother presses her lips together, speaking to him the way you would a toy poodle or a two-year-old. “How’d you sleep, sweetheart?”
She rubs his back like a child, despite the fact that they’re a mere fifteen years apart in age, give or take.
He mutters a groggy “good morning” before heading to the built-in espresso maker next to the fridge. Fixing himself a small cup, he takes a seat next to me at the table.
“You hear from the new detective lately?” I ask. “What’s his name?”
His eyes flick to mine, their dark circles more noticeable than ever.
“Bixby. And yesterday,” he says. “They’re still working on it.”
“That’s all they tell you? They’re still working on it?” My jaw aches from grinding my teeth lately. “What are they doing? Specifically? What are they doing to find her?”
He takes a sip of his espresso, staring out toward their picturesque backyard. Fog obscures the mountains, save for their frosty peaks, but it’s a beautiful scene for such an ugly day.
“They’ve had search crews combing the woods in the area all week,” he says. “Mostly volunteers, working around the clock. People have flown in from all over the world. Search and rescue planes have been using infrared cameras, heat sensing, and all that. They’re not sitting around waiting for the phone to ring, I can promise you that.”
He seems annoyed with me, but he was the one who offered a vague response, so I don’t feel bad.
“They’re sending a dog out today,” he says.
“A cadaver dog?”
“Something like that.”
“So they’re looking for a body.” My heart sinks, not because I think she’s dead, but because they do. They’re giving up on her.
“They’re looking for anything they can find.” He exhales, refusing to meet my cutting stare.
“And why aren’tyoulooking?” I ask. “Seems the heat’s been taken off you and placed on Ronan. It’s safe for you to come out now.”
“Greer.” My mother’s voice scolds, but it has no effect on me, and it rarely did as a child. I could never respect her or take her seriously then. Still don’t now.
