Page 97 of We Fell Apart
I phone Holland, but it goes to voicemail.
Should I call the police?
I look up Gabe. I don’t know his last name, but I search “Gabriel lawyer Martha’s Vineyard” and come up with an office number. I call, but the office is closed. No surprise—it’s the middle of the night.
I kick the door, making it rattle. Over and over and over.
—
June stands inthe hallway. She’s fully dressed in a gray sweater and indigo-dyed pants. Her face is drawn with concern, and her hair is in two childish braids. She looks surprised to see me. She expected Kingsley. “Why are you here?”
There is no time for a long explanation. “He took the keys and ran out,” I say.
She doesn’t ask more questions, just books it down the stairs. “He’s a danger to himself,” she says as we run. Glum follows. “He gets lost. He doesn’t know where he is. And he’s angry. Like a toddler. Knocks things over when he doesn’t understand.”
“He hit the dog,” I say as I follow her downstairs. “He pinned my arms behind my back and put scissors to my neck.”
“He gets violent. That happens with dementia.”
“But you shouldn’t have him shut up,” I say. “He’s been a prisoner.”
“See it how you want.”
“You kept him captive. No wonder he’s so angry.”
“He’s a danger,” she repeats. “You saw it yourself.”
“Were you ever going to tell me where he was?”
“No, Matilda,” she says. “I was not.”
—
The living roomis empty. So is the dining room.
Tatum comes from the kitchen. A wave of complicated emotion floods my body, and when he sees me next to June, his eyes grow large. “What’s happening?”
We explain. Tatum says he’ll go wake Brock.
“Would Kingsley go see Meer?” I ask.
June and I race up Chalk Tower, looking in every room. Whenwe wake him, Meer staggers from his bed in bare feet, asking what the ruckus is about.
Quickly, he’s dressed and we all run downstairs. We search the pantry, the mudroom, the dining room, the closets, even, but we don’t find Kingsley.
We agree to split up and search the property. Tatum and I will look on the beach. Brock will go alone to the outbuildings. Meer and June say they’ll head to the garage (in case Kingsley took a scooter or the car) and then down the driveway.
I follow Tatum down the cliffside staircase in the dark, the sound of the waves in our ears.
On the sand, I look left and right. No sign of Kingsley.
We can’t distinguish any footprints. We look at the crannies in the cliffs. Tatum shines a flashlight.
I run partway into the sea and Tatum follows me. Waves crash into us, our clothes soaking. I scan the horizon for my father, staggering in the turbulent water. “Would he have gone into the ocean?”
“If he didn’t want to be here, he might. That’s why the windows in his studio are locked.”
“But he wouldn’t,” I say. “He wanted— He’s been painting. He’s scared of witches. He won’t drink anything June gives him.”
