A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

“It’s not your fault,” Dad says.
I close the front door and let my backpack drop loud enough that
you know I’m home. I go to the kitchen. “How’d it go?” I ask. I help
myself to an apple, sink my teeth into it. You and Dad are mute. “The
hypnosis,” I say, with a mouthful of apple, because no one’s
answering me. “How did it go?”
“Good,” Dad says, busying himself making dinner. He takes
ground beef from the refrigerator, a skillet from the cabinet. He sets
the skillet down lightly, careful to keep noise to a minimum for your
sake. “It was very informative. We learned a lot. I’m glad we did it.”
Talk about beating around the bush.
I look from Dad to you. You stand with your shoulders rounded,
your head slumped forward. I take another bite of my apple. My
question this time is less open-ended. “What did you find out?”
It’s quiet at first. Everyone’s disinclined to tell me. I wait it out and,
in the end, you’re the one who does.
“Gus ain’t real,” you say. You shuffle your feet, staring down at
them so that your hair falls in your eyes.
My jaw hits the floor. “What do you mean he isn’t real?”
You’re red-faced when you say it. “Gus is pretend. I made him all
up.”
This gets a rise out of me. After all that Dad has done for you, you
go and do something stupid like this. You got Dad and the cops all
worked up about some kid who didn’t exist.
“Why would you do that?” I ask.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“What do you mean you didn’t mean to?” I’m mad because a
person doesn’t just go and invent another person by accident. You
did it for attention. For a reaction.
“Leave it be, Leo,” Dad says. His voice is stern. He frowns at me.
But I won’t leave it be. “She’s a liar, Dad.”
You pull a face. Dad does, too. I might as well have hit you.
“Don’t call your sister names.”
“But she is,” I say.
“She’s not.”
“Then what is she, a schizo?”