Best example, getting pregnant. I’m sixteen and my periods have always been somewhat irregular. So it’s fairly easy to not pay attention when the time comes and goes. And okay, I did pretend to use and dispose of tampons, so Mom wouldn’t catch on, but that was just to avoid embarrassing questions about menstruating, not because a pregnancy was possible. No way. Couldn’t be. Don’t even think about it.

I tucked away the fear—it was a terrifying notion, me having a baby—and went on with my teenage, high school life. A life in which I was the shy girl without a boyfriend. There were plenty of girlfriends and friends who were boys, but no actual hang-out, take-you-on-a-date, try-to-make-out boyfriends, because either my father chased them away or I did. He because of a deep belief that all teenage males were basically evil and me because the whole idea of sex and boys was scary.

I wasn’t ready, didn’t have a clue.

Amazing attitude, considering that I was pregnant. The queen of denial, floating on a river of lies. One month went by. Two months. Three.

My body cooperated with my brain, hiding the truth. I put on a few pounds, but not many, and besides, my weight was fluctuating then, as I lost baby fat and put it back on, dieted and binged. My belly muscles tightened rather than expanded. Most women, healthy women, when they get pregnant they want to show, and they do. Not only did I not want to show, I refused to admit the reality of what was happening. If I didn’t have a protruding belly I couldn’t be pregnant, therefore I didn’t allow myself to have a belly. That was good for about five months and then my seamstress skills came in handy, altering blouses and skirts, making sure the cut and drape of the fabric concealed what I continued to deny.

Amazing what a few blousy frills can hide. Not even Fern suspected, although to be truthful at the time she was pretty busy with her own new baby, and fighting day and night with her future ex-husband.

Bottom line, nobody knew, not until I was well into the seventh month. I’m lying on the couch because my “tummy” aches. Too many damned potato chips, according to my stern and disapproving father, but in reality the infant in my belly is kicking with both feet. We’re watching Seinfeld, my father and me, while Mom is in the kitchen polishing the dishes with a special cotton cloth so as to avoid my father’s wrath about spots on the dishes, one of his numerous pet peeves. Anyhow, I must have groaned in a certain way because Mom came flying out of the kitchen and before I could stop her she put her hand to my belly. She knew.

“Maybe it’s her appendix?” my father suggests, backing away from the couch as if fearful his inexplicable daughter might explode.

Mom reminds him that I had my appendix removed at the age of eight. Her immortal, marriage-ending words: “She’s pregnant, you asshole.”

Kelly was born three weeks later, a preemie but strong and healthy despite that. It was a very long labor, with several starts and stops, and when I finally got home from the hospital, shocked and thrilled and terrified of the tiny infant in my arms, my father had moved out of the house and from then on it was just Mom and me. And Kelly, of course, who ruled from day one. What a pair of fists that little girl had! Grabbing at anything within reach and refusing to let go. Tiny, impossibly small hands, of course, but amazingly strong. First time she latched onto my nose and wouldn’t let go was also the first time she laughed. Gleeful. An actual grin of triumph. She was ten weeks old. Way early, according to the pediatrician, but Kelly always got there early. High-speed crawling at seven months, walking at nine. She never toddled. She walked and then she ran.

The queen of denial is back, refusing to believe that Kelly escaped and then was again taken captive. My girl is running. No way did she let herself get kidnapped all over again.

Leo Fish may think he’s seen the “signs” and what he calls the “trace,” a few spots of blood, the imprint of a flat-bottomed boat nudged on the grass, and what he insists are footprints. To my eye it’s all just bent grass. He can’t possibly know what happened, other than that one man was murdered.

“Okay, she was here, she escaped, I believe that part,” I tell him. “But how can you assume Lang grabbed her? Maybe she got away while he was shooting this other man. It was dark, you weren’t there, you can’t possibly know what really happened.”

“I agree it ain’t a certainty,” Fish says. “I can see where you might be doubtful, not recognizing sign and trace.”

He’s being patient with me, which of course drives me nuts. How dare he?

“Maybe Ricky got her, maybe he didn’t,” Shane says, interceding. “Whichever it is, we still need to locate her.”

“Best get a move on,” Fish suggests, preparing to lead the way.

“My cell is out of range,” Shane says. “Got any flares?”

“Might be one or two in the pan,” Fish responds.

Shane’s idea, set off a flare to alert the helicopters, let them know where to recover the body. It’s not just the body, but whatever evidence may be developed from the site—his old FBI instincts tell him there may be important clues in the vicinity, and he can’t walk away without notifying the authorities.

I immediately like the idea, because if Kelly is out there, running or hiding, she may see the flare and understand that her rescuers are nearby.

“Ricky will see it, too,” Fish points out, but he doesn’t argue the point. Knowing two very stubborn people when he sees them.

Standing ankle deep in the dark water, so as not to set the grasslands on fire, Shane ignites the flare and holds it high in the air, a Statue of Liberty pose without the crown or the gown. The hot-red flame is so bright I have to look away as billows of white smoke rise up into the morning sky.

“They gotcha,” Fish comments in his laconic way.

He indicates a direction and I pick up on a helicopter cruising the distant horizon. Sure enough it has shifted course and is heading in our direction, no doubt having spotted the smoke if not the flare itself.

As we wait for the helicopter the discussion turns to strategy. Should we proceed by air? Does it make sense for Fish to guide search parties from the helicopter? Shane seems to be pushing for the helicopter, in the belief that we can cover more ground quickly, whereas Fish seems to think the helicopter is a bad idea because Ricky will hear it coming and take precautions.

“Man apparently believes he can make himself invisible,” Fish points out. “In some ways he can, if we’re in the air and he’s on the ground. This may look like open country but it ain’t. There’s a million places to hide and a thousand ways to not be seen. Ricky knows all the tricks. Best chance is me locating his sign.”

In the end the discussion is settled by events in the sky. The search-and-rescue helicopter, which Shane identifies as a Bell 412, is close enough so we can discern the pilot, as well as a passenger using binoculars. The passenger seems to be pointing, no doubt at the flare smoke, which has begun to disperse. Worried that they’ll lose us, I wave my arms and jump up and down. Figuring if I can see them, they can see me, which may or may not be true.

Which is why I’m looking directly at the helmeted pilot when the helicopter explodes in a ball of hot orange flame.

“Pretty cool, eh Tyler?” Ricky says, lowering the RPG launcher.

Tyler grins, makes a boom! motion with his hands, and goes back to running in circles around his sisters, who are drifting through the saw grass, light as butterflies in their pinafore dresses.

The children have been with him more or less continuously since he had the conversation with his father. Their presence is a comfort, and he doesn’t want them frightened away by roving helicopters. Figuring one down, they’ll call back the rest. Not expecting rocket-propelled grenades or, indeed, any of the other interesting weapons he has in his arsenal. What did they think, his weapons would be limited to bow and arrow?