How could a mother walk away from her family?
It has been fifty-two hours and they still haven’t found her. Detective Olnowski came to the house yesterday morning and filled out a Missing Person’s report and took down all the necessary information to post a five-county search.
Quinn is lying flat out on his bed, stomach down, head buried between his arms. He tries to lose himself in his music, but even the Rolling Stones can’t blot out images of his mother, first quiet glances of her doing ordinary things: washing dishes at the kitchen sink, smiling at him over her canvas as he paints next to her, waving good-bye on her way to the grocery store. Simple snapshots. Normal life. And then the other visions intrude, the ones of her slashed and bloodied, dumped in a ditch, clothes ripped, body violated. He pushes them from his mind, wills them away, but they return, over and over, first in sleeping hours and now, during waking times.
He tries to remember the last time he saw her, tries to pull out the details but already they are fading. Was she wearing a red shirt that morning or orange? She had on a jean skirt, of this he is certain. He can picture her at the kitchen sink rinsing syrup off the dishes. She made them all French toast that morning but he slept in and only had time for a quick gulp of orange juice. Then out the door. Had he said good-bye?
Return to Book Page
