The Firefly Hours: A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery

 

Brian Chan

Chapter 1 – The Missing Hour

There are three kinds of missing people.

The first kind wants to disappear. They pack a bag, leave a note, and convince themselves that someplace, anyplace is better than where they are. The second kind never intended to vanish at all. One bad turn, one unfortunate coincidence, and the universe quietly misfiles them into a drawer that only opens when someone knows what they’re looking for. The third kind is the reason people occasionally knock on my office door. They disappear from places that shouldn't have anywhere else to go.

The knock came just after lunch on the kind of hot July Wednesday that announces Summer has arrived and doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon. The thick, sultry air leaves even the sidewalks looking exhausted. My office air conditioner had long since given up on cooling the room and settled for pushing warm air from one corner to another with an indifference usually reserved for bad first dates. Across the street, the owner of the laundromat had taped a handwritten sign to the door that simply read AIR CONDITIONER TRYING ITS BEST. I respected the honesty.

The couple standing outside my office looked like they'd spent the last twenty-four hours forgetting to blink. The husband introduced himself as Mark Waller. His wife, Elaine. They presented the upper middle-class aura that comes shipped straight from the suburbs. These were McMansion-on-a-cul-de-sac people. Even their casual clothes were symbols of status that said I’m a senior director at some behemoth corporation and she’s a stay-at-home mom who does Pilates and still enjoys a little weed now and then but only after the kids have gone to bed.

They sat close together on the couch but not touching, the way people do when they're both trying very hard to remain composed. But not too far apart. There was still room for Jesus.

“We were sent here by our marriage counselor,” Elaine said, tugging at the hem of her stylish tennis skirt. “Dr. Calico Verde.”

“What can I do for you?” I said, pulling a lollipop from a canister on my desk. Calico had convinced me to give up smoking so I needed something to occupy my mouth.

"Our daughter disappeared," Mark said.

I waited. Experience had taught me that the first sentence in a conversation is rarely the true beginning. Elaine corrected him.

"For an hour."

Mark nodded. "For exactly one hour."

Now I was listening. I pulled the lollipop out, the cherry flavoring alive on my taste buds.

"When?" I asked.

"Last night." Mark said.

"Did you call the police?”

"They came,” Elaine said.

"And?"

"They found her."

That wasn't how most missing persons stories went. After another taste of lollipop, I stated the obvious.

"Therefore, she’s no longer missing. Case closed."

The Wallers exchanged the sort of look married couples develop after years of speaking an entire language through eye contact. An entire conversation passed between them through mere facial expressions. Elaine answered.

"She insists she wasn't missing."

Their daughter, Lily, was eleven years old. She'd been riding her bicycle through the neighborhood after dinner, staying within the handful of streets her parents had approved years earlier. At seven thirty-five she waved to a neighbor watering his lawn. At eight forty-two she walked through her own front door carrying her bicycle helmet.

Calm, Elaine told me. No hint of concern. She wasn’t crying. Lily acted normal. She was just… late. Just...late.

The police had searched the subdivision. Neighbors had joined in. Flashlights. Calling her name. Checking retention ponds. Backyards. A new home build three blocks over. Every terrible possibility had briefly become imaginable. Then she'd simply come home.

"Where were you?" her mother had asked, in a voice mixed with equal parts of panic and relief.

"Outside."

"You were gone,” her father had said.

"I know."

Elaine stated that Lily spoke very matter-of-factly.

"We've been looking everywhere,” she told Lily.

"I know."

Mark rubbed both hands over his face as he recounted it.

"She didn't act traumatized,” he said.

"No injuries?” I asked, already tired of the lollipop that had already lost its flavor.

He shook his head.

"No."

"No signs she'd been hiding?"

"No."

"No memory loss?"

"No."

"Then what did she say?” I tossed the lollipop in the trash.

Neither parent answered immediately. Instead, Elaine reached into her purse and removed a neatly folded sheet of notebook paper.

"Our pediatrician suggested we write everything down while it was still fresh."

She handed me the page. Most of it was ordinary. Questions. Answers. Times. But one exchange had been circled twice.

Where did you go?

I stayed after the fireflies came out.

I looked up asked, "What does that mean?"

Mark gave a weary laugh. "If you figure it out, we'd love to know."

Children lie differently than adults. Adults lie to rearrange reality. Children lie because reality hasn't finished introducing itself yet. They leave room for impossible things. It's one of the reasons I generally preferred interviewing children over grown-ups. Children rarely worried about sounding ridiculous. Adults dedicated entire careers to avoiding it.

"I'd like to talk to Lily."

The couple visibly relaxed. They looked genuinely relieved I hadn't immediately dismissed them. As they stood to leave, Elaine hesitated at the office door.

"There's one more thing."

"What is it?" I asked.

"When the police officer asked if she'd been scared..." Elaine looked down at the notebook page still resting in my hands. "...Lily said she wasn't."

"What did she say?"

Elaine swallowed. "She said she almost missed curfew."

I frowned. "That doesn't sound unusual."

"It’s what she said next." She looked me squarely in the eye, her voice softening into something halfway between confusion and dread. "Lily said they told her she had to leave before it got dark."

*****

My new comedic sci-fi novel, Someone Else's Book Club, is available on my website or through Amazon!