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Juliet's real name was: Ashley Holmes.
Marty was sitting in the living room, sprawled out on his father's good recliner, when he learned the crushing news. The television was on to drown out the uncomfortable silence. He hadn't been looking for the information itself, it had just sprung on him. As if chance, or maybe fate, had taken him by the hand and led him to the channel, as if to say, "See? See what you did?"
The News flashed a familiar photo of the seventeen-year-old—Ashley, Ashley, Ashley—underneath were bright red, swollen words that read: MISSING PERSON ALERT.
His stomach coiled and hissed at the site.
A woman that looked more like Juliet than Juliet ever had—with her dark blue eyes; like two shinning marbles, soft blonde hair, and soft skin—was standing in front of a house that he assumed was hers.
It dawned on him that she lived in that house, too. That she had grown and dreamed inside that building. She probably dreamed about life outside of that house, outside of this city—but she never got to.
A voice that sounded exactly like Warren's whispered in his ear, "Look away, Marty. Don't watch." The voice paused, "You won't like what you'll see."
But he couldn't force himself to look away.
The woman, Mrs. Holmes, was holing a little boy's hand tightly, as if he were a balloon instead of a boy. If she let go, he might slip between her fingers and drift into the air.
"My daughter, Ashley Holmes, went missing after school last Friday," she said, tired and stuffy, "She was last since in her last period class—," she was leaning against his car, with her lips in a firm smile, and Warren approaching, "—my daughter is a good girl. She is very, very..." her words catch on a quiet sob, "Good girl. She is kind hearted and might have gotten in the car of a stranger. Or somebody she thought she knew. I have hopes that she is out there. Alive. I just want her home. Please."
Flashing lights. A constant white blinking that almost blinded Marty. Microphones shoved in the air. Muttering voices, all turning into one deep, unrecognizable murmur.
But one question made it through the fog: "Do you have anything you'd like to say to anyone that might know the whereabouts of your daughter, Mrs. Holmes?"
Mrs. Holmes looked right at him. She looked through the crowd of people, through the cameras, through the television screen in the room, and directly at him. She was talking directly to him. He felt a violent chill ripple down his spine.
"[Marty] Please," Mrs. Holmes said, "If anyone knows [like you] anything about my daughter—Please [Marty], report it. [Him]. I just want her home where she belongs. [Not in that ditch you put her in]."
