Free Still Mine by Amy Stuart

me guess,” Sara says. “For a guy.”
    Something tugs at Clare. To think of leaving for college. When she was twenty-two, a month after meeting Jason, Clare too left her small town to join Grace in the city, her mother’s cancer in delicate remission, an acceptance to art school a chance to clean herself up. But she was ill-equipped for the city, and Grace was already well established there, already a medical student, leaving Clare adrift. After only a few weeks Jason showed up at her dorm with a dozen roses. Please come home, he said. The way he kissed her made her burn. By dinnertime she’d packed her things and left with him. Clare remembers the harvest moon out the window as they drove north, the city flickering behind them, how she hoped Grace would be hurt, jealous that no man had swooped in for her.
    The fire has warmed the beer in Clare’s hand. Sara is enthralled by the flames.
    “What do you think happened to Shayna?” Clare asks.
    “I wish I knew. She just vanished. Poof. Like that.”
    “You were there?”
    “A dozen of us were there. At least. Jared was with some girl. Basically a teenager. Shayna was pissed about that. When Charlie and I left, Shayna was passed out on a log. I don’t remember much.”
    “You left her there alone?”
    “I just said there were dozens of us. You sound like my father-in-law. Lots of questions.”
    “She’s your friend. She might be dead.”
    “She might be. What can I do about it now?”
    “What if this starts happening? What if she’s just the first?”
    “She’s the first of nothing. It’s horrible, but it’s no shock. You could see it coming.”
    “People could say the same thing about you,” Clare says.
    Sara lifts her beer can in mock cheers. “That’s a nice thing to say.”
    “I’m not trying to upset you.”
    “No. I get it. You think I don’t give a shit. You think no one gives a shit. But you’re wrong.”
    “What about Charlie? They were neighbors.”
    “They were friends,” Sara says. “Who knows? Maybe more than friends. They’ve had this thing since we were kids. This closed little circle that let no one else in.”
    “That must have bugged you.”
    Sara shrugs.
    “Does Charlie talk about it? He must be worried.”
    “Hasn’t said anything to me. Maybe he’s glad. Anything to punish Wilfred.”
    A second wind has hit Clare full force. She sets her empty beer down and goes to the trailer. Inside she flips her cell phone open. This phone a relic, no modern features, just a screen with the glow of Malcolm’s message. She will have to be up early to make the drive to meet him. Still, she pulls two more beers from the fridge and hands one to Sara outside. Sara eases back into the chair and takes a long drink.
    “There’s a party tomorrow night,” Sara says. “A dance. At Ray’s. Town’s homecoming. We’ll be going if you want to come.”
    “I could.”
    “Whole town goes, pretty much. Used to be a big event. Not so much these days.”
    “Sounds okay.”
    The embers in the fire burn orange. Clare bends and collects a cluster of sticks to throw on them.
    “Charlie doesn’t know what to make of you,” Sara says.
    In her mannerisms, all hard angles and sharp edges, Sara Gorman might be the clear opposite of Grace Fawcett. Still, Clare feels a comfort with her, a willingness to share secrets that she can’t fully abide.
    “I’m not here to bother anyone,” Clare says.
    “So what’s your story? Because this photographer stuff . . . sort of seems like bullshit.”
    “I had a hard time once. Same as you. I was married.”
    “Okay. And?”
    “I’m not anymore.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because he was bad.”
    “Bad how?”
    “Just bad.”
    In the months since leaving it has become more difficult to itemize it, old scenes playing out differently depending on what prompts the memory, whether Clare is angry or lonely when it comes to her, whether she is dreaming or reliving it wide awake.
    “What’s his name?” Sara