The Lost and the Found by Cat Clarke Page B

Logan, and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank some people.” She echoes what Dad said—thanking the police and the public—but she also mentions the press. “Thank you for keeping my story alive—thank you for never forgetting.” It’s a little odd, but I bet the journalists down there are lapping it up. I’m sure Dad doesn’t approve, after everything he’s been through with the press, but I think Laurel’s earned the right to say whatever she wants.
    Laurel stares into the camera, and it feels like she’s looking at me. It must feel the same way to everyone who’s watching—our friends and family, Thomas and Martha, people up and down the country and all over the world. The camera moves in closer on Laurel’s face so that you can’t see anyone else. They didn’t do anything about her hair before the press conference, and it still doesn’t look like she’s wearing makeup—maybe just a bit of powder. She looks like a girl who has been through some seriously bad stuff.
    “Yesterday my nightmare came to an end. I don’t think I ever believed it would happen. I hoped for it and prayed for it every single night, and when things got really bad”—she pauses and blinks hard to stop herself from crying—“well, I hoped and prayed even harder. Yesterday my prayers were answered.” She bows her head for a moment before looking at the camera again. “I don’t have the words to express what I’m feeling right now. To know that my family never stopped looking for me. Never stopped caring. And they’ve told me that
you
never stopped caring, either. They told me that total strangers from all over the world have sent cards and letters—even money. They told me that the police worked tirelessly to try to find me and that my story has hardly been out of the newspapers—all this time. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. To know that I wasn’t forgotten.” Another bow of her head. I bet half the people in that room have tears in their eyes.
    Laurel finishes by thanking everyone. She doesn’t mention Smith. She says she’s looking forward to getting to know her family again—especially her little sister, Faith. She smiles when she says my name, and the camera flashes start up again. I realize I’m smiling, too.
    As soon as she stops talking and moves away from the lectern, the journalists start shouting questions. You might think they’d have a little bit more respect—and sensitivity—today, but you would be wrong. It’s hard to distinguish individual questions, but most of them seem to start with some variation of “How do you feel…?”
    A man takes Laurel’s place. He was one of the people milling around the suite earlier. He makes calming motions with his hands; he looks like he’s directing traffic. It takes a long time for the shouting to die down, and when it does, you can hear a woman’s voice shouting out one final question: “Laurel! Laurel! Have you been shopping yet?” I swear at the TV while laughter ripples around the room downstairs. Even Mom and Dad smile; Laurel does not.
    The press conference is over, and a man and a woman with perfect hair sit in a futuristic-looking TV studio and talk about how brave Laurel is. They use the word
remarkable
a lot, and they say that they hope the media will leave our family to heal in peace, which is ironic because one of their correspondents has been known to shout questions through our mail slot.
    The shiny hosts decide that the moral of the story is that we should never give up hope, no matter how bad things look. They seem very pleased with themselves for having found a greater meaning in Laurel’s story.
    Martha texts: That was surreal.
    Yes, it was.

M om stands back to admire her handiwork. “There. What do you think?”
    The room looks much better than it did a week ago. It looks cozy and comfortable and welcoming. Mom asked Laurel what colors she liked and whether there was anything special she wanted in her room.