Loston Found: Chapter Three

The magazine catalog family and the missing cat

The Holmes house sat like a glossy picture in a half-forgotten catalog—white shutters, cracked porch swing, a hydrangea bush that refused to bloom. Pretty from the outside, quiet in the way a picture frame is quiet. Like it had been staged for a life that wasn't quite theirs anymore.

Inside, it was a different story.

A ticking clock. A calendar bleeding with four different colors. A fridge cluttered with schedules and chore charts and inspirational magnets with chipped edges—Today is a gift, that's why it's called the present—as if that would make anyone feel better about taking the trash out in the rain.

Her parents were both in medicine—her dad a trauma doctor in Roanoke, her mom a night-shift nurse at the clinic off Main. Which sounded impressive until you realized it meant they were never home. Not really. The house ran on timers and takeout and reminders scribbled in dry-erase marker.

Her siblings—Connor, Claire, and Callie—were everything she wasn't.

Claire was the crown jewel. A sophomore at UVA with a résumé that read like a bedtime story for overachievers. Pre-med, pageants, internships at children's hospitals she Instagrammed with soft filters. Her boyfriend Grayson had teeth as white as his Lexus, and the kind of hair that didn't move even in the wind. They looked like they were cast in a toothpaste commercial. Claire had been planning her life since age six and lived like she was already halfway through a memoir.

Her brother Connor was second-born but first-in-line for local legend. Quarterback. Homecoming king. Already had the letterman jacket, the scholarship, and the face that made parents ask if he tutored. He walked like he'd never known a locked door. But he was nice about it, which made it worse. His room always smelled like fresh laundry and drive-thru fries and that expensive body spray Charlie could never quite describe, only recognize.

And then there was Callie.

Sweet, strange, brilliant Callie. Two years younger, and smarter than all of them combined. She read college-level science books for fun, watched black-and-white movies with a notebook in hand, and spoke in bursts of trivia like her brain couldn't keep still. There was always something underlined on her arm. Always ink on her fingers. When teachers ran out of worksheets, they just let her teach the class.

Callie could recite pi to the thirty-seventh digit. Charlie once dared her to say it backward and she almost managed.

Their parents were proud of all their children, but with Charlie, the pride came like an afterthought. Like background music you only notice when it stops. She got the kind of praise you give a toddler for not spilling juice. A polite "good job" for being quiet. Clean. Unbothered.

There was a time she hated it. Hated how they laughed when she said something real, how her worries got filed under "drama" and forgotten before dessert. She once cried for a week when her cat went missing—a sleek little shadow named Clementine. No one remembered her. No one remembered the cat.

Now, things were easier. Easier when you stopped being strange. When you laughed at the right times. Smiled on cue. Slipped between conversations like fog.

Her job was not to be a job. The easy one.

She loved them, of course. In that raw, complicated way you love the people who never quite see you. They weren't cruel. Just distracted. Just full. Just... busy being themselves.

And maybe Charlie was the crack in the drywall, the smudge on the mirror, the one crooked frame on a picture-perfect wall.

She listened to their stories around the dinner table—Connor's game-winning plays, Claire's group project drama, Callie's robotics competition. She passed the rolls. Added salt to the mashed potatoes. Watched them orbit like stars. Each one burning bright.

Then—

"What about you, Cricket?" Her dad's voice cut across the table. Her head snapped up.

"What about me?" she blinked.

"Nothing new?" He smiled like he didn't expect much of an answer.

"Nope." She shrugged, stirring her potatoes into swirls like galaxies.

"Katie said you were arguing with Drew Lovette at lunch."

A silence landed on the table like dust.

Connor looked at her. Not unkindly. Just... surprised. You? it said. Talking?

"Katie should mind her own business," Charlie said, trying for casual, but her ears turned hot. She could feel the blush crawling up her neck.

"Drew Lovette?" her mother asked, her fork paused midair.

"Charlie, honey, you should keep your distance from that boy."

"Drew Lovette?" Claire echoed, her nose scrunching like the name was an unpleasant smell.

"Is he giving you a hard time?" Connor's voice sharpened, protective and confused. "Do I need to talk to him?"

"No, neither of you needs to talk to Drew Lovette," their mom cut in, shaking her head like that settled it.

"Who is Drew Lovette?" Callie asked, blinking behind her glasses.

No one answered her.

Instead, silence poured in like syrup. Thick. Suffocating.

Charlie swallowed. Looked down at her plate. Then back up again.

"What do you have against Drew Lovette? And why are we calling him Drew Lovette like he's a celebrity or a criminal?" Her voice cracked, but her smile didn't.

"He's just Drew," she said, more softly. "You know... Drew. The boy who used to hide under this table when it stormed because thunder scared him." She laughed—short, brittle. The kind of laugh that tried to take up space but wasn't allowed to stay.

Connor's eyes widened. "Are you two friends now?"

"No. We're not friends.I was just, Gwen hasn't been to school in a while."

Another silence.

"Gwen?" her father asked. He tilted his head. "Who's Gwen?"

"Gwen. Gwen Lovette." Charlie clarified with an eye roll.

"Who's that?" her dad asked again, his voice gentle.

Charlie stared at him.

"What do you mean, who's that?"

She looked around the table. Four pairs of eyes blinked back at her. Claire's brows arched in polite curiosity. Callie had that tilted-head expression she used when someone told her a joke she didn't quite get. Connor just looked concerned.

"Gwen," Charlie said again, slower this time. As if they'd understand if she enunciated it right. "Gwen Lovette. Drew's twin sister. You know her. She's... she's been coming over here since we were six."

She searched their faces. Desperately. Someone had to crack. Someone had to remember the way Gwen used to plait Callie's hair at sleepovers. Or how she once helped Claire pick out earrings for her first school dance. How she made Connor a card when he broke his wrist the summer before sophomore year playing basketball with Drew.

But they didn't. Their faces stayed politely blank.

"She is, was, my best friend," Charlie said. Her voice came out hoarse. She hadn't meant for it to sound so... small.

"You've never mentioned a Gwen," her mother said, reaching for the salt like they were still just having dinner.

"Yes, I have."

"I think I'd remember someone if they were around that much," Claire said, smiling like it was a joke. A tease. Like Charlie was playing pretend again. "Are you sure she wasn't imaginary?"

Charlie's mouth opened, then closed.

Connor gave a low laugh. "I mean, come on. A secret twin?."

"She's not made-up!" Charlie snapped."And she's not secret. She's Gwen."

Everyone looked at her, startled. Her father set down his glass.Charlie felt her hands clench around her fork. Her heartbeat had kicked into her throat. She stood up from the table.

"You all know her," she said, voice trembling. "You do. You've just forgotten. Like you forgot about Clementine."

That stopped them.

"Your cat?" Her mother asked cautiously. "My cat, yes. The one no one believed existed. The one I cried over for a week and you all looked at me like I was insane. Until I found her collar in the garage and you all said, oh, maybe you had a cat once, we don't remember."

No one spoke.

Charlie's chest ached like something was trying to claw its way out. "You all do this," she whispered. "You forget things that don't fit. Things that aren't shiny or perfect or convenient. You forgot Gwen."

She turned to Connor.

"She came to every single one of your games until last year. She made signs with glitter."

He opened his mouth, then shut it.

Charlie turned to Claire.

"She helped you with that speech for the pageant. She told you your voice shakes when you're nervous, remember? She bought you lemon tea and made you drink it through a straw so it wouldn't smudge your lipstick."

Claire looked uncomfortable. Frowned.

Charlie's gaze swung to Callie. "She read that Time article with you about the twins who could finish each other's sentences. You told her she should test it with Drew. You laughed for ten minutes."

The silence that followed was different this time. Not syrup-thick. Not amused. It was the silence that came after someone yelled fire.

Her dad stood slowly. "Charlie, maybe you're tired. You've had a long day, and sometimes—"

"Don't." Her voice broke. "Don't talk to me like I'm some fragile little thing imagining people into existence. I'm not crazy."

She grabbed her plate and walked it to the sink. Her hands shook as she rinsed it, metal fork clattering like a dropped pin. She didn't turn around.

She didn't have to.

She could feel them watching her. Not with concern, not with malice. With distance. Like she'd wandered too far off the map and they weren't sure how to follow.

She waited for someone to say something. Anything.

No one did.