Page 22 of Jagged Line Paradise

I grab the shoes, both pairs, and drag them out, placing them side by side on the floor. I stand and turn to Cindy, who is brooding at me in the doorway.

“Your daughter has three pairs of shoes, Cindy.” I hold up the pink flip-flops still in my hand and wave them at her. “They’re all here and Avalon isn’t. And her lip balm is here, not in her pocket.”

“You know how that girl is.” She tries to wave me off, turning and walking back through the kitchen to sit on the small couch that can only seat two people who want to get real cozy.

I follow her out and watch in judgment as she sips on her beer. She’s already fucking hammered and still drinking. Cindy looks like an old, degenerate, shrunken version of Avalon—like a cautionary tale for my girl to heed carefully. Maybe Cindy and my dad should date. They’d make a fine fucking pair.

“Yeah, I know how she is,Cindy.She wouldn’t walk off on her own with no shoes, and she takes that lip balm everywhere.” I point toward the door. “Her morning coffee is still sitting out there on the table.”

She shrugs. “What do you want me to do about it?”

My jaw ticks, frustration tugging at the corners of my lips and drawing them back. “I want you to give a fuck that your daughter is missing.”

“She’s not missing. You’re full of it.”

“You’re drunk and delusional.”

“Get the fuck out of my house.” She lifts her hand dismissively and sets her drink down just long enough to light up a cigarette.

Something’s wrong.

Avalon is missing.

I’m getting nowhere with Cindy and I have to do something. My heart is racing and that’s unusual for me. I feel a hint of nausea and an unmistakable feeling that things aren’t right here.

“I’ll let you know when I find her,” I say to Cindy, flipping her off before leaving.

I stand out in front of the trailer and start to reach for my cell phone—I realize then that I’m still holding her flip-flops. I bend to put them back on the ground and think the worst thought. I think that I shouldn’t have moved them because the police might need to know exactly where they were.

Dios mío.

Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but I don’t think I am. I worry about Lonnie sometimes because she is a little flaky and careless on occasion—she’s a bit of a dreamer and gets lost in her head sometimes, neglecting what’s happening around her. It’s part of what I like about her, but it can also be scary. She could dance right off a cliff and I honestly wouldn’t be all that surprised.

That’s why this worry is gnawing away at my insides. I slowly put her sandals back on the ground and type out three numbers on my cell phone.

9-1-1.

Just then, my attention is stolen by the rumble of my dad’s pickup truck in the distance. I see it coming up the road toward me, on his way home up the hill, and suddenly I feel like a kid again—a kid who needs his dad to tell him what to do.

I step out onto the dirt path and wave at him. He slows just in front of me. I put my hand up to block the glare of the headlights as he rolls to a stop, the engine roaring as loud as ever. I walk around to the driver’s side door and he leans out, hooking his elbow on the ledge.

“You look spooked, son,” he says with a grin that’s not only off-putting but downright insulting—like he finds joy in the fact that I look frightened.

I amfucking frightened.

“I think Lonnie is missing, Dad.”

I can’t remember the last time I called him dad.

He laughs. “Missing? Like one of those runaway girls on the news or something? Nah.”

Why did he mention that?

Shit. Something horrible might have happened to her.

“I’m calling the cops,” I tell him and hover my thumb over the call button.

He reaches out and slaps the phone right out of my hand, which lands on the dirt with a thud. I look up at him with narrowed eyes and a straining jaw. “What the fuck?”

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