Page 11 of Swerve
I walk quickly to the kitchen. Lights off there too. I check the front hallway, glancing in the bowl where Mia always drops her car keys. The bowl is empty.
A flutter of panic assaults my chest. I squash it back, certain there is some explanation for Mia’s not being home yet. They could have had a flat tire. Or run out of gas. But she would have called. I pick up my cell and check recent calls. Maybe she’s spending the night with Grace. Had she mentioned this to me, and I’ve just forgotten, or maybe I didn’t hear her in the rush of getting out the door this morning?
My sleep-groggy brain grapples for accurate memory of Mia’s plans tonight.“Is midnight okay?” I recall the question from our earlier call.
Again, panic renews its attempt at a foothold in my chest. I draw in a deep breath, hurrying to the living room where I’ve left my cell phone. I pick it up, scroll Contacts for Grace’s mom’s number, wait for her to pick up.
When she does, the voice on the other end is groggy, raspy with sleep.
“Mrs. Marshall, it’s Emory Benson. Sorry to wake you. Did Mia come home with Grace tonight?”
“What?” she asks, as if trying to get her bearings.
“Mia. She hasn’t come home tonight. Is she spending the night with Grace?”
“No. I assumed Grace was at Mia’s.She said she was spending the night with her after the festival.”
“Neither of them is here.”
“What time is it?”
“After one.”
“The festival ended at eleven. They wouldn’t still be out,” Mrs. Marshall says, her voice clearer now, as if sleep has released its grip.
“Yes, I know,” I say.
“There has to be some explanation,” she says. “Could they have stayed with another friend?”
“Mia wouldn’t have done so without letting me know.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Marshall says. “Grace lost her phone yesterday but asked me to call Mia’s if I needed to get in touch with her.”
And then I remember the Find My iPhone app and Mia’s agreement to keep it on. “I’m going to check Mia’s laptop and see if I can locate her phone. I’ll call you back in a couple of minutes, Mrs. Marshall.”
“Okay,” she says, a tremor in her voice.
I hurry to Mia’s room, flipping on the light and then finding the laptop on her desk by the window. I open the lid and login to her Apple account. I had used the account one other time when Mia lost her phone, and we were able to figure out that she had left it at school.
I can feel my heart bumping as I scroll through the menus, finally finding the Find My iPhone option and clicking on it. I stand waiting, impatient as the satellite screen opens up and a circle at the center flashes for a minute or so before pinpointing the phone. The address pops up: 1219 Rosemary Avenue, Washington, DC. That’s the site of the festival Mia and Grace had gone to.
She’s still there.
Sweat beads across my forehead, and I force a breath of calm.
Maybe it had gone on longer than expected. Still. Why hadn’t Mia texted? Why wasn’t she answering my calls?
Pounce yowls from the bed next to the desk. He’s curled up against the pillows, looking at me as if asking where Mia is.
I grab my purse from the cabinet near the front door and pluck my car keys from the nearby bowl I always leave them in.“I’ll find her,” I say.
~
THE DRIVE TO the festival location would take twenty-three minutes from our house in McLean. I drive too fast the entire way, a speeding ticket the least of my worries right now.
It’s nearly one-thirty. The highway is virtually deserted. I pass one car with its lights on bright. The driver weaves into my lane and then overcorrects, running off the white line on the other side of the lane.
Just the thought of Mia still being out when the only other people on the road are likely to be drunk drivers makes my stomach drop.
