CHAPTER 2: The Premature Missing Flyer Proved Evelyn Planned My Disappearance Weeks Ago
The yellow paper felt unnaturally stiff between my fingers. The black ink of the intake stamp had dried dark and flat against the glossy stock: MAY 12 — RECORD DIV. BEXAR COUNTY SHERIFF. May twelfth was a Tuesday, a day my father had still been sitting upright in his hospice bed downstairs, drinking broth from a ceramic mug and asking me if my pre-calculus homework was finished. Evelyn had not filed for temporary guardianship until eight days after his funeral, yet twelve days before he died, she had already stood in the county records division, provided an obsolete eighth-grade portrait of me, and paid the expedited fee to generate twenty official runaway bulletins.
She had not reported me missing to find me. She had created an administrative paper trail before my father's heart even stopped, ensuring that whenever I finally resisted her authority, the county sheriff’s department would already possess an established history of my supposed instability.
Downstairs, the floorboards groaned beneath her deliberate, soft-soled footsteps. Her conversation with Arthur Pence ended with the chime of her phone locking. The kitchen faucet ran for four seconds, followed by the clink of a porcelain teacup against marble. Evelyn took tea at nine o’clock every evening, black with two drops of clover honey, and she drank it sitting in the high-backed velvet armchair facing the foyer staircase.
If I tried to walk down those stairs, I would walk straight into her line of sight.
I lifted the top flyer and tucked it flat beneath the waistband of my cotton pants, pressing it against my lower spine. Beneath the stack of yellow sheets in the metal box lay a second document: an unsealed manila folder labeled OAKRIDGE MEADOWS RESIDENTIAL ADMISSIONS. Inside, stapled to a pre-authorized transport intake form, was a single cashier's check for twelve thousand dollars drawn on my father’s personal estate account. The check was dated yesterday afternoon. Attached to the corner with a blue plastic clip was a photocopied medical evaluation bearing the stamped signature of Dr. Ronald Vance, an attending physician at the county hospital.
The diagnosis was typed in dense, clinical lines: Severe adolescent dissociative fugue, acute paranoia, recurring self-harm ideation.
My hands tightened on the folder. I had never spoken a single word to Dr. Ronald Vance in my entire life. The only time I had ever been in the county hospital was three weeks ago, sitting on the plastic chairs in the corridor while my father was placed into palliative transport. Evelyn had disappeared down the administrative wing for forty minutes that afternoon, claiming she had to sign the insurance releases for his oxygen tanks.
A shadow crossed the narrow strip of amber hallway light beneath the closet door.
I froze, holding my breath, my bare foot pinned against the cedar floorboards. The cedar smelled sharp and dry, like old resin and wool. Through the gap in the louvered door, I saw the hem of Evelyn’s gray linen cardigan drift past the bedroom threshold. She didn't enter. Her slippers tapped across the hardwood to the linen press at the far end of the hall. The latch of the supply cabinet clicked open; she pulled out fresh bath sheets and two washcloths.
"Tessa?" she called out, her voice level, patient, and completely devoid of anger. "Your tea is cooling on the counter. If your foot is throbbing, take two aspirin from the medicine chest. Don't stay up reading."
"I'm washing my face," I called back through the slatted wood, keeping my voice raspy and muffled.
"Leave the door unlocked," she said. Her voice moved back toward the staircase. "The transport driver will arrive promptly at five-thirty, not six. I want you dressed in your gray fleece and sneakers before they knock. It will be much easier for everyone if you don't make a scene in the driveway."
Her slippers descended the wooden stairs, one measured step at a time, until the floorboards ceased vibrating.
Five-thirty. That gave me eight hours.