Forge Staffer Linus Pitts Hosts New Docu-Show
Police Question Forge Staffers, Teachers Re Missing Girl
He was alive. Relief and happiness whooshed through me, and I smiled. I wasn’t surprised that Linus’s hotness was making headlines. I had picked up on that as soon as I’d met him. Others had become interested in Linus since the half-naked, black-and-white photos of him at age thirteen had come to light. But his looks were only a fraction of what drew me to him, and my smile dimmed. What I didn’t understand was how Linus could get from the vault in the basement of the dean’s tower to hosting a TV show.
I clicked on an ad of him walking through a paint-chipped playground. “Missing children live among us every day,” Linus said. “I know. I was one of them.” He moved past the chain of a deserted swing set, and the camera closed in on his face. His dark hair, straight brows, and intense eyes were achingly familiar. “I was orphaned at thirteen,” he continued. “When I began working in the kitchen at The Forge Show, I had no idea that my Aunt Trudi in Wales was trying to find me.” In the next shot, he set his arm around a short, dour-faced old woman who stared distrustfully at the camera. Her shoulders sloped in a gray, formless cardigan, and she bore only the faintest resemblance to Linus. “We’re reunited now, thanks to state-of-the-art technology and a new, international clearinghouse for missing and exploited children. Now, with a simple phone app, anyone can help with the search. At the playground, in the grocery store, anywhere you go, you can help anxious parents find their missing children. And kids find their folks. Click a picture, and the app will automatically scan for a match and alert local police. We’re making a difference and reuniting families. Watch Found Missing to learn more about our most vulnerable kids and what you can do to help.”
I blinked at the screen. Reuniting families was a beautiful idea, but Linus was asking people to spy on each other. He must realize that. Who would control all that data on the kids? I didn’t trust it, and this slick version of Linus made me uneasy.
A soft noise from the hallway made me look over expectantly. I waited for someone to come in my doorway and tell me I ought to be sleeping, but no one entered.
I couldn’t stop browsing.
It was easy to find clips of Linus and me together on The Forge Show. He’d stepped on stage to be with me often enough. The clips lured me irresistibly, but it was strange, so strange to see a scene reframed by multiple camera angles. They doubled a kind of postcard quality on top of my own memories.
One popular clip showed the time Linus and I ate ice cream together on a bench in the quad while a dozen other students performed spontaneously in the background. I glowed with a teasing happiness, which was impressive considering that my mind had been racing with things I had to hide. Linus ducked his head and looked at me sideways. The shaded light caught in his honey-brown eyes. He relaxed into his shoulders, and when he reached to touch my leg above the knee, I felt the tingle again vicariously.
I set a finger to the screen, pausing it and cropping close on Linus. I’d had no idea back then how bad things were going to get at Forge. My quiet, dim bedroom at Chimera felt a light-year away from that ice cream afternoon. Wistful, I studied the way his dark hair touched his eyebrows, and the color where his red bib apron lay against his neck. This was the Linus I cared for, not the cool guy who hosted Found Missing.
My baby gave me a couple nudges, the little insomniac. I closed my eyes a moment, uncertain, and then I set up a new email account for myself. I located an email contact for Linus through his new show. Possibly it would be screened by staff, but I had to try.
Dear Linus,
I’ve missed you.
Wrong. Way too honest. The last time I’d actually talked to Linus, we’d broken up. If I had to explain that I knew he’d come looking for me on my last night at Forge, it would all get tangled. I deleted and tried again.
Hey, Linus. This is Rosie. I’m in some hospital in Iceland and I’ve been
I stopped again. “… in a coma” was what I’d been about to say. But Althea had been in the coma, not me. Today was March 1, more than four months since my last day at Forge. I couldn’t exactly say that during that time I’d been sleeping and, what, growing in a petri dish?
Hi, Linus. This is Rosie. Sorry I haven’t written sooner, but I’m in a hospital. I’ve had some problems, needless to say. Please write me back. I need to talk to you. I miss you.
Rosie Sinclair
I read it over, deleted the I miss you, and read it once more. My heart gave out three heavy, doubting pulses, and then I hit SEND.
Now I had to wait. Waiting was the worst. Twenty seconds of it killed me.
Guiltily, I realized I probably should have tried to email my mother before Linus. I looked up her work email and began typing.
Dear Ma,
I couldn’t go on.
Loss, longing, and anger pulled my fingers from the phone. Ma stood at the bathroom mirror as she tried with her pinky to get the last dab of color out of a used-up lipstick. Another time she leaned over Dubbs at the kitchen sink, dribbling her hair with a lemon rinse. Still later she passed me an ice pack for my sore face, and a bowl with the last smears of cookie batter. I longed to hide in her hug. I also wanted to punish her. She’d hurt me unforgivably in our last phone call, when she agreed to the dean’s ridiculous contract for guardianship. No pro bono lawsuit could cancel the hurt I felt.
The phone automatically dimmed from disuse.
Then again, I wasn’t a child. I’d signed that contract, too, for reasons of my own. Slowly I deleted my email draft. I couldn’t contact Ma yet. I felt too much. Better to wait until I could call and actually talk to her.
A faint noise drew my attention to the doorway again, and I was sure that someone was just beyond my view.
“Hello?” I said. “Who’s there?”
Puzzled, I kept watching. A nurse checking on me would simply come in. I hadn’t imagined the sound, but the silence lingered and no one answered.
I did not believe in ghosts, but they reminded me of my ghost project at Forge, and my cameras, and then Burnham. A mix of guilt and confusion surrounded my memories of him. The night was growing late and I was tired, but I typed in Burnham’s name for one last search.
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