Free Picture Me Gone by Meg Rosoff Page B

the very last minute.
    I once heard a famous detective writer on the radio say he never knew who the murderer was in his books till he got to the end. Personally, I wouldn’t leave such an important decision to a bunch of invented characters.
    After a while I go back to my own room and drag Honey’s bed up to my end. She stands while I do it, then pads over and lies down so I can reach out and pat her. I close my eyes but, no matter what I do, the possibility of a dead body stuffed through a slit in the mattress haunts me like an evil smell in the air. I text Matthew.
    Don’t you care about making everyone worry? Txt back when you get this.
    I don’t bother signing it.
    Gil is still awake. Gil, I whisper loudly.
    Hmmm? he answers.
    Let’s call Marieka.
    It’s not even seven a.m. in Holland.
    I’d forgotten about the time difference. She was awake a while ago, I tell him. My voice sounds small, even to me.
    We don’t have much credit on the phone, Gil says, but he nods. Marieka picks up on the first ring.
    Are you OK? She says she’ll phone back, and does. Why are you still awake? She sounds concerned. Where’s Gil?
    He’s right here, I say. I’m sorry to call. I couldn’t help it.
    It’s fine, sweetheart. Where are you?
    We’re at a motel. Near Lake Placid. We’re going to Matthew’s cabin tomorrow. Today.
    I guess nobody’s heard anything from him, she says, but doesn’t wait for an answer. She knows that any hearing from him would have been the first thing I reported. How are you, my darling? Are you lonely?
    A little, I say. Though at this moment it would be more honest to say a lot.
    Well, she says, I guess you’ll either find him or you won’t.
    That narrows it down. I laugh. Her voice reassures me. How are your concerts going?
    Just rehearsals, she says. First one’s tomorrow. No surprises so far. How’s your father? Why can’t you sleep?
    Dad’s fine, I say. But we miss you. Do you want to talk to him? I pass the phone over and Gil blinks. Without his glasses he looks like a slightly different person.
    We’ll just take it as it comes, he says after a minute. And then, Of course, with a serious expression. Though she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Another pause. I know. I’ll try to remember that. He throws me a kiss. That’s from Marieka, he says to me, and then to her, I love you too, my darling. Play well. And hangs up.
    He looks at me critically. Your mum says you’re only young and need your sleep.
    You’re only middle-aged and need your sleep too.
    Good point, he says. And then, OK. We’ll both go to sleep. We’ll need our wits about us tomorrow.
    I say good night to Gil and go back to my own bed but too many questions are keeping me awake. I send another text from under the covers.
    Matthew where are you?
    I don’t expect an answer so am not surprised when one doesn’t come.
    Sometime later, the bleep of the phone wakes me from a deep sleep.
    I’m nowhere says the message.
    It’s from Matthew.

seventeen
    G il once told me about a play in which a man falls in love with a goat.
    I laughed. In
love,
in love? And he nodded.
    But surely . . . not in
that way,
I said, and he smiled and nodded again.
There’s nowt so queer as folk.
    And I remember thinking: That’s for damned sure.
    When I told her, Catlin said, Well, that’s just plain sick, unless it was one really hot goat. And then she made a face and skipped off to smoke a fag and eat horrible chicken and chips from a cardboard box with her new best friends who didn’t seem to see me when we passed on the street. Or maybe they were too busy laughing at jokes only they understood.
    Gil explained that the goat story is a metaphor for some uncontrollable form of passion, like being a child molester or falling in love with your sister. The mystery of the whole Matthew situation makes me wonder if he carries a secret so devastating that the world would tilt if it found out. Or is it only devastating in his