Silent Sister

Chapter 1

Grace: April 27

The face on a missing person poster is supposed to be a stranger. Those yellowed papers tacked up in grocery stores are children who disappeared fifteen years ago. Amber Alerts are kids from other states with parents fighting for custody. And yet the face staring back at me from the TV—­the girl under the siren-­red MISSING letters—­

That’s me.

If there’s any face I should recognize instantly, it’s my own. I’ve seen it a million times in every mirror and every photo I’ve ever appeared in. But I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me from the hospital’s flat-­screen. It’s like looking at someone else, not myself.

Whoever sent in the picture cropped our volleyball team photo where I’m wearing my uniform, and I have perfectly straight brown hair and a shiny smile. The image on the screen shows a happy Grace, one who laughs and charms and lives up to her name. Nothing like the Grace I am now: weak, bruised, and broken in a hospital bed.

The TV’s volume is muted, but the dull hum of the AC suddenly roars in my ears. The photo is replaced by one of me and my sister, cheek to cheek. There are no captions, but I can imagine the news anchor’s voice, cold and detached, updating the community on the status of the search: Grace Stoll was found on the side of the road early yesterday morning, but the search for her sister, Maddy, continues. As if on cue, the screen switches again, this time to a picture of Maddy.

We look as if we could be twins. She resembles me more in that photo than I do right now. My hair is still tangled and knotted, and while the dried blood’s been washed away from my face, I spotted some flecks of it along my hairline in the bathroom mirror this morning.

I look exactly like you’d expect after being found on the side of the road.

But I’m not the one still missing. Maddy is.

It’s only been a little over a day since I woke up and was told my sister is gone. I’ve been trying to convince myself it’s still early . . . There’s still time . . . It hasn’t even been forty-­eight hours yet. We’ll find her.

We will.

Maybe it’s a blessing that I look like this, that the reflection gazing back at me is a stranger, that I don’t have to see a copy of Maddy’s face in the mirror knowing she’s still out there. Somewhere.

Mom comes in, carrying a bouquet of flowers in one hand and wiping her puffy eyes with the other. Watching her pain is worse than feeling it myself. She tries her best not to cry in front of me, but the tears haven’t stopped since she walked into the hospital yesterday. At first I thought she was only crying with relief that I was okay, but then Dad told me about Maddy.

Mom takes one look at the news update on the screen before grabbing the remote from my hand.

“Let’s turn this off.” She clears her throat, scraping away the tight hold of tears and worry. “Dr. Thelsman says the best thing you can do right now is rest, and they’re not reporting anything we don’t already know.” She sets the vase of flowers on the table beneath the TV, along with the remote, far out of my reach.

“I have been resting.” My voice is scratchy, raw, foreign.

A too-­soft pillow swallows my shoulders, and stiff sheets cover the long scratch up my left calf. The police took the clothes I was found in. When the hospital gown slips from my shoulder, I gently adjust it, careful not to tug the IV taped to the back of my hand. I can barely get out of bed without someone helping to hold up my gown or untangle the IV, much less help Maddy.

“Someone from the school came by to deliver this,” Mom says, ignoring me and pointing to the flowers surrounded by other colorful arrangements, cards, and gifts. The waiting room’s been a revolving door of people stopping by, neighbors and friends, mostly, since my parents were both only children and their extended family isn’t local. No one stays for long. I’m not allowed visitors yet. Plus, sitting in the lobby and wishing me good health is pretty useless when they could be searching for Maddy.

Mom hands me a get-­well card with scripty gold writing. The inside’s covered in student signatures: Mackayla, Jade, Nicole . . . 

“Nicole,” I say slowly. “She was on the trip with us.”

“You remember it?” Mom’s eyes grow wide—­not with surprise. Something else. I shouldn’t have said anything, because too late I realize what it is: hope.

“No, not exactly,” I say. We stood outside the school before boarding the bus last Monday. Five days ago. It’s the last thing I remember. We were all signed up, packed, and ready to endure the hour-­long ride to Shady Oaks Lodge, and then . . . nothing. “Nothing new. Only before the trip.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch.

“I’ll let you know when I remember something.”

She smiles. A genuine smile. The first genuine smile I’ve seen since I woke up this morning.

But my heart sinks further because I said when, and I meant to say if. The doctors already said they can’t predict whether those memories will return.

“Dad’s bringing some of your things from home,” Mom says.

“Does that mean I’m leaving?” I ask with hope of my own. The doctors ran every test they could yesterday. I was only awake for pieces of it. My eyes fluttered open when the ambulance siren screamed its arrival. The gurney jostled as they loaded me in. Doctors and nurses called my name. Someone asked me if I remembered what happened. I’m not sure how much time passed before my parents arrived. Mom cried into my shoulder, and Dad smoothed the hair back from my forehead to give me a kiss before I drifted back to sleep.

There were no flashes of nightmares or dreams, or what might have knocked me unconscious and landed me in the hospital in the first place.

There was nothing but darkness. Sleep. Silence.

But today, I’m awake. I’m fully aware of my reality: I can’t remember anything from our weeklong senior trip. My sister and I went missing, but I’m the only one they found.

“Dr. Thelsman wants you to spend one more night for observation, and then if everything else comes back clear, he hopes to release you tomorrow morning.”

Release me.

The doctors and hospital walls aren’t the only things trapping me.

A quick knock raps against the door with a hushed “Ms. Stoll?”

A tall, middle-­aged man swings the door open and enters with a clean-­shaven guy. Both wear police uniforms. The first man’s eyes move from my mom to me, and his face breaks into a soft smile. “Glad to see you awake.” A few gray hairs speckle his dark goatee. “I’m Detective Howard, and this is Officer Jones.” I shake his offered hand and nod to the younger officer, who waves. “I was hoping you might be able to answer a few questions for us.”

“I don’t know if she’s ready yet,” Mom says, her arm draped protectively over the back of my raised bed. “The doctor said—­”

“The doctor said I’m fine,” I interrupt. “Every test has come back clear so far.”

“You’re hardly fine if you—­”

Officer Jones jumps in: “With all due respect, your daughter’s eighteen and can legally make that decision on her own.”

My mom’s mouth drops in surprise, but Detective Howard speaks first. “It’s all right. We understand this might be difficult.” He talks to me, but his eyes flick to Mom. “We just want to get as much information as we can to help find your sister.”

“I want to do this. I want to help.” I should be searching for Maddy. I should be doing something to find my sister and make sure she’s okay. And if I’m stuck in this room, if this is the only way to be useful, then nothing is going to stop me.

Mom swallows and nods her consent, legally required or not. Detective Howard pulls a chair over to the edge of my bed and lowers himself to my level.

“What do you remember from the trip?”

“Nothing, I—­I can’t remember anything.”

Dr. Thelsman said memory loss is fairly common following a head injury or traumatic event. Even though no one knows exactly what this event was, it’s pretty obvious it can be classified as traumatic.

Detective Howard pauses. “Do you know why you might have been on Oldham County Road?”

“No, I didn’t even know the name of it until right now.”

“That’s where Trent Gutter found you yesterday morning.”

“Your math teacher?” Mom asks.

“History,” I correct.

“He was a chaperone on the trip,” Detective Howard clarifies.

“Mr. Gutter was?” I ask. “But Mr. Holtsof and Mrs. Sanderson were the ones at the meeting.” They were definitely the two staff members originally signed up for Senior Sabbatical. Then, at the surprised look on Detective Howard’s face, I add, “I can remember everything from before the trip. All of it.”

He nods and consults his notes. “We spoke to a Mr. Trent Gutter and Mrs. Katie Sanderson, both Forest Lane Academy staff members assigned to chaperone the trip.”

When I neither confirm nor deny this fact, Detective Howard shares a glance with Officer Jones, who then types something into his phone, possibly a note to confirm that later. The detective asks slowly, “Can you think of anyone on the trip who might have wished you or your sister harm?”

“No, definitely not.” No hesitation. Not even a moment.

Mom gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but her fingers tremble.

Detective Howard waits as if he’s attempting to watch the memories play like a movie across my forehead, but there’s nothing else to say. We were with classmates, friends. No one who would hurt us.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I—­” I pause, longing to pull at any thread of memory. The effort ignites a flash of sharp pain. I rub my temples, wishing it away.

“Do you recall fighting with your sister or anyone else on the trip?”