Once Kennedy got back to her dorm, she spent half an hour before class studying for the next day’s calculus test. She munched on dry Cheerios and thought about her meeting with Nick while she worked on her practice problems.
St. Margaret’s was a big church. Why should it be so hard to find one girl? There should be at least a few dozen families who homeschooled, right? And none of them had a thirteen-year-old daughter? It didn’t make sense.
When it was time for her to close her books and head to her Russian lit class, she still wasn’t any closer to an answer. Maybe she should call Carl, see what he said. She had gone over her phone conversations with Rose hundreds of times already. Had she forgotten something — one little detail that could solve the whole mystery? During class, she listed each particular she could remember about the phone call and only heard half of what the professor said.
Reuben texted her that evening to see if she wanted to study math over dinner, but she feigned a headache and went back to her room. She really would have a migraine by the end of the night if she kept this up. She plopped down in her desk chair and heaved open her huge calculus book.
She gaped at the first problem for over ten minutes before she finally gave up. Maybe she should email her mom. Kennedy opened up her inbox. After gazing at the screen for another few minutes without typing anything, she finally shook her head and went to the St. Margaret’s website. There had to be some kind of clue.
There was a little search box on top of the home page. Kennedy knew she wouldn’t get any hits, but she typed in Rose anyway and waited for the computer to tell her the search term hadn’t been found. She was wasting time. She still had to spend another hour or so on her practice problems if she wanted to be ready for her calculus test tomorrow, and she was now officially behind in Crime and Punishment, which she needed to finish in a week along with a ten-page research paper.
She followed the links to the photos page. There were plenty of pictures from the youth group, even though none of students’ names was listed. What was she doing? Did she really expect staring at photos of strangers would help? Besides, if Rose was part of Nick’s youth group, wouldn’t he have been able to identify her?
But what if Rose only came to St. Margaret’s with her family on Sundays? It would be impossible for anybody at a church that size to know everyone else. So how in the world could they find her? She thought for a moment about calling Carl, but he had been through so much the past two days. Now he and Sandy were probably going crazy trying to get everything ready for Thursday’s dinner to celebrate the center’s opening. It was going to be fancy, and having Senator Abernathy speak would draw a lot of people in as well, she suspected.
Some music. That’s what she needed to focus. She typed in the address for her favorite online radio station. She still had to get those calculus problems finished.
The website loaded slowly, so she went back to the St. Margaret’s page while she waited. She had taken almost all Advanced Placement classes during her senior year in Yanji and still graduated with a 4.0. So far at Harvard, she hadn’t gotten lower than a 92 on any test or assignment. She could handle culture shock, w****y lab write-ups, and still find time to read a mystery or two a month. Why couldn’t she track down a single girl? It wasn’t like the city was overrun with homeschooled thirteen-year-olds named Rose. Maybe she would take Nick’s suggestion and visit the youth group tomorrow night. Her study group was meeting until about 5:30. What time did Nick say she should come?
She clicked on the St. Margaret’s calendar of events. Youth group. Tuesday night, seven to nine. Well, she might make it. If she wasn’t already behind in every single class by then.
Something on the bottom of the calendar caught her eye. Homeschool group field trip. Tour of the State House. Straightening up in her chair, Kennedy searched to see if there was more information about the homeschool group. She finally found a quick blurb under the women’s ministry tab:
Our mission is to provide support to the homeschooling families in our congregation. We offer fellowship through field trips, cooperative learning experiences, and a quarterly homeschool moms’ support group. Contact Vivian Abernathy for details.
Abernathy? What if ...? No, it couldn’t be ... She did a quick google search for Wayne Abernathy. Her computer was running slower than normal, but by the time the image of his family finished loading, she had already read the caption.
Wayne and Vivian Abernathy with their two children, Noah (age 16) and Jodie (age 12).
Kennedy’s pulse was the only thing in the room racing faster than her mind. The picture was dated. She quickly counted back. Nine months ago. She stared at the family. Vivian was tall, a woman who was obviously aging but still trying to cling to the last remnants of her youth. She had her arm around her son, who stood with a half-smile that made Kennedy guess he would rather be anywhere than posing for one of his father’s campaign photos. The fingers on Vivian Abernathy’s other hand intertwined tenderly with her daughter’s wind-blown bits of hair. Kennedy looked at the name again. Jodie. She was quite a bit shorter and even more petite than her mom, as if a strong wind might erase her from memory. Her clothes were pressed and elegant, and her pearl earrings looked out of place on someone so young. Kennedy studied the smile and tried to guess if she was a happy child or not.
Jodie. Was it possible ...?
There were footsteps outside her door. Voices. The sun was almost down, and Kennedy hadn’t turned on the lights. Her eyeballs were jabbing pain to the back of her brain after staring so much. How long had she been sleuthing behind her computer screen?
The door burst open, and Kennedy gave a little start. “Oh, it’s you.” She let out her breath when Willow came in. “I thought you were at rehearsal.”
“I will be.” Willow’s voice was always dramatic but now had a strange sort of drawl to it. She walked lazily to her dresser and pulled out some nightclothes. “Don’t wait up for me tonight, ok? I’ll just take what I need and see you tomorrow.”
Kennedy rolled her eyes when Willow burped.
“Don’t you want to know who it is?” Willow hunched over and slumped an arm on the back of Kennedy’s chair. “The RA from the other hall. I told you I was going to talk to him about that lock, right?”
Her roommate’s breath reeked, but Kennedy didn’t make any comments. It wouldn’t be the first time Willow spent the night away.
“Good-night,” she muttered as Willow hummed her way out of the room, leaving the door a crack open.
As soon Willow was gone, Kennedy started browsing Wayne Abernathy’s personal webpage. A lot of the information had to do with the upcoming election, but it did include a brief bio. Married to Vivian, a lawyer before she left the workplace to raise their children. The page didn’t say much about the kids but did give updated ages. Jodie R. Abernathy, 13 years old.
Something told Kennedy to exit out of her browser. This wasn’t going to lead her anywhere, all this speculation. What good would it do? She needed to get to work on her calculus. She tried to guess what Carl would say if he knew what she was doing, knew what she was thinking. She should stick to reading Russian crime novels, not inventing her own conspiracies. Was she really that desperate to find Rose?
Her fingers were as stubborn as her mind, however, and they refused to slow down. Jodie Abernathy, she typed into the search bar, leaning forward in her seat as she scrolled through the results. Halfway down the second page, she froze.
Jodie Rose Abernathy, daughter of State House ...
Rose.
She didn’t click the link. She didn’t touch the mouse. She held her breath and felt like she might swallow her own heart. Suddenly, she wished Willow hadn’t left for the night. She wished her parents didn’t live on the other side of the world. She wished she wasn’t alone in her room. She reached down for her backpack.
She had to call Carl.
But she never got the chance.
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