Pretty Girl Thirteen. Liz Coley

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      The girl in the mirror could have been her older sister, taller, thinner. Her cheekbones were sculpted, where Angie’s were soft and round. Her face was pale, where Angie’s was tan from a summer at the pool. The girl had long, dirty-blond hair, where Angie’s was highlighted and bobbed. The girl had serious arm muscles, gray skin, healed-up scars, and another thing that made the girl in the mirror a stranger. She had a curvy shape—breasts. Angie dropped her eyes to her chest. What the hell. Boobs? Where had those come from?

      She fingered the top button on her shirt, scared to look.

      A wooden pounding startled her. “Angela! Angela, for God’s sake, don’t do anything.” Her father’s voice sounded panicked. “Don’t … don’t …”

      Angie turned the lock and opened the door. “I … I wasn’t,” she said. Her face flushed with guilt. For what?

      Dad’s face was drawn with tension. A bead of sweat stood out on his forehead. Angie was mesmerized by it. She realized only half his chin was shaved.

      His gaze slipped to the right, avoiding her. His voice was low and hoarse. “Detective Brogan will be here in fifteen minutes. He said not to touch anything that might be considered evidence.”

      “Evidence of what?” Angie asked. The sound of running water filled the heavy silence while Dad hesitated over his answer. His attention darted to the sink.

      “Oh God, Angela. You didn’t wash anything yet. Right?”

      She held up her filthy arms, dirt so embedded in her creases and pores that she had turned gray. “Evidence?” she repeated. “Of what, Dad?”

      Dad’s mouth twisted around for a few moments. The sweat rolled lower. “Evidence of whatever, wherever, or whoever.”

      Angie looked at him in confusion.

      His forehead creased with lines. Dark hollows circled his eyes. “You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

      Angie felt stupid. He expected something from her. She didn’t know what, but she could feel his anger simmering. Something stirred inside, and she walked to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her head came up to his chin. “I love you so much,” she said. She felt him stiffen and pull back. She must have done the wrong thing. Her arms dropped. She turned cold, inside and out.

      “I—I have to finish shaving,” he said randomly, his head turned away from her. “Shut off the water. Go wait downstairs with your mother.” He walked down the hall and closed the bedroom door behind him.

      Angie had this vague idea that it might be a good idea to cry. But everything was tangled and frozen inside, seized up like the giant breath before pain arrives. She thought about chewing a fingernail, but it was dirty. And “evidence.” Her stomach clenched again. Evidence of what?

      The unusual ring on her left hand caught her eye. Why couldn’t she remember where she’d bought it? The question made her strangely nervous, and the single warning throb of a headache coming on poked her temple. She twisted the silver band loose and placed it in the soap dish. The pain passed. It was probably Livvie’s, or Katie’s. Better not to think about it too hard.

      The sound of Dad’s razor hummed as Angie hurried down the top flight of stairs. She stopped halfway, her feet pinned to the landing. She hovered like a lost child, halfway between Dad upstairs and Mom downstairs. Her pulse beat the passing seconds. Someone was coming. A detective, Dad said. She watched the front door until the frosted glass darkened with shadow.

      Mom flew from the kitchen to answer the double knock.

      A tall, ginger-haired man stood framed in the doorway. Mom threw herself into his arms with a muffled sob. He patted Mom’s back with one hand and looked over her head to the landing, where Angie still hesitated.

      The man’s eyes went wide. “Angela,” he whispered. “Welcome home.”

      He separated himself from Mom and held out his right hand, palm up, half an invitation, half a handshake. “Please,” he said. “Will you come down?”

      Dad had called him a detective, but he was wearing blue jeans with a tear starting in one knee. The sleeves of his dark plaid shirt were rolled to the elbow. He looked casual, comfortable. He looked—amazed.

      Angie took the four steps to the bottom and reached for his outstretched hand. It was huge, and hers disappeared as he pressed it between both of his.

      “L.A. County Sheriff’s Department. Detective Phil Brogan,” he said. “Sorry to appear like this. I was gardening, and I didn’t waste a moment when Mitch called.” His hand was rough and calloused, but he held hers like a newborn kitten, with care and tenderness. He tilted his head and studied her face with a tiny smile.

      Angie’s tension began melting away, her chill warming, until the moment he ruined it.

      “This is incredible,” he said. “I feel like I know you already.”

      She instantly felt stripped, exposed. A complete stranger who knew her. Her breath caught in a gasp. She caged the sob before it could escape. If she let it start, she might never stop.

      “Lord, I’m sorry, Angela,” he said immediately. He let her hand slither away. “Mitch told me on the phone there might be memory issues. That you aren’t sure how long you were gone or where exactly you were. Disorientation. That’s not unusual.”

      Was that true? Angie tried to decipher his eyes. Blue, kind, honest. She didn’t read a threat there. Okay. So maybe what was happening to her wasn’t unusual. She felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he could actually help her figure this out.

      She nodded, and he smiled gently. “Come.” He gestured to the family room with his head. “We don’t have to stand here like bowling pins.”

      A clunk sounded upstairs, and Angie imagined a giant ball rolling down the stairs, knocking them all off their unsteady feet, but it was only Dad. The corner of her mouth twitched. The detective caught it and smiled back with his eyes. Fascinating eyes. Orange specks dotted the dark blue irises. She’d never seen anything like them.

      Dad walked ahead without sparing her a glance and clicked on the fire with the remote. “She looks cold,” he offered as explanation. Of course, the heat from the gas fire, locked safely behind glass doors, was too weak to reach her.

      Angie made a full sweep of the room, finding everything familiar and in its place. Soft green cushions on the beige leather sofas. Floor-length drapes with leaf patterns, pulled back to let in the daylight. Old cabinet-style TV with the remote and printed guide on top. Piles of jumbled books in the bookcase on the side wall. There was no way three years had passed in this room. No way. Nothing had moved.

      The detective settled into the chair closest to Angie’s corner of the sofa. His expression softened, and he rubbed the palm of his hand across his stubbly chin. “Angela, I’m so sorry. I know this is difficult for you. Very confusing.”

      Did he? Angie wondered. Had his reality ever changed in the blink of an eye? She studied her shabby knees. They turned blurry as she squeezed away dangerous tears. Stop.

      Brogan placed a featherlight hand on her bowed head. “I imagine all you want to do right now is reunite with your family and be left in peace.”

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