I take a minute to register our surroundings, and it hits me with sickening certainty that we have an entirely different problem right now. And as horrible as the last train of thought was, this is even worse. “Maeve, do you realize where we are?”
“Huh?” she asks, tense and distracted. “No. I’ve been staring at Jared’s license plate for the entire drive. I don’t even—” She lets her eyes rove for a second, and her face gets as pale as mine feels. “Oh. Oh my God.”
We’re on Charles Street in Bayview, the sign for Talia’s Restaurant glowing white to our left. Eli and Ashton’s rehearsal dinner afterparty is happening right now, and we’re supposed to be there. But we’re late, because we’ve been busy tailing the guy who sent Eli death threats for weeks. And that guy just pulled into a parking spot across the street and, finally, cut his engine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Knox
Friday, March 27
“Okay, no,” Maeve says, her voice tight. “This has to be a coincidence. He’s not going to Ashton and Eli’s rehearsal dinner. How would he even know where it is?”
“You’re always saying there are no coincidences,” I remind her. Pressure starts to build behind my eyes. “And people can find anything online. Haven’t we just proven that?”
I sound calm, but I’m not, because shit, this is bad. I’m only just starting to grasp how bad this is. Maeve has pulled off to the side of the road, a few parking spots behind Jared in the metered spaces that line Charles Street. He’s still in his car.
“Oh God, oh God,” Maeve groans. “We have to try Eli again.”
“He won’t pick up,” I remind her, desperation making me hoarse. Of all the times for Eli to go off the grid.
“Then I’ll call Bronwyn. She should be there by now. Oh God,” Maeve says again, covering her face with her hands. “Bronwyn is there.”
Everyone is there, I think. Except Phoebe and her family, even though they were supposed to be until Emma wound up in the hospital yesterday. Christ, I can’t even think about that right now. Maeve is shaking so badly that she’s having trouble placing the call, and I take her phone from her. “I got it,” I say. But Bronwyn’s number goes straight to voice mail, too. “She’s not answering.”
“Try Addy,” Maeve says.
I do, with the same results. “Why is no one picking up?” I yell in frustration, banging my fist on my knee. “We’re Generation Z, for God’s sake. Our phones are supposed to be permanently attached to our hands.”
Maeve’s only response is a gasp, and I look up from her phone to see Jared standing at the edge of the road, waiting for cars to pass. My heart starts jackhammering in my chest as I hand Maeve’s phone back to her and pull out my own. Then I set it to Video, and train it on Jared as he starts to walk.
“We need to go, too.” Maeve says. She grabs my arm when I lower my phone. “No, keep recording. But follow him, okay? I’m going to call the police and tell them … I don’t even know. Something. I’ll be right behind you after that.”
A horn honks as I climb out of the car, shielding my eyes against oncoming headlights. I wait for another car to roar past, then I cross to the sidewalk as Jared rounds a fence in front of Talia’s. The restaurant is sandwiched between an office building and a bank, both closed and dark at this time of night. Small outdoor seating areas flank the front door on either side. I can hear murmured voices and laughter from somewhere at the back of the building. The night is windy and a little foggy, mist swirling around the streetlight closest to the restaurant. I expect Jared to head for the front door, but he goes around the side instead.
I hesitate as he disappears, and Maeve comes up behind me, breathless. “Where is he?”
“He went around back. Should we try to find Eli?”
“Let’s see what he’s doing first.”
Voices get louder as we approach the rear of the restaurant. I pause when we reach the corner, poking my head out just enough to take in the scene in front of me. Talia’s has a raised, open-air deck that’s about eight feet off the ground, surrounded by a wooden railing. White lights are strung everywhere, music is playing, and people stand in clusters on the deck, talking and laughing. I’m at an awkward angle, but I think I see the back of Cooper’s head.
Jared is on one knee and has the backpack in front of him. My phone is still recording, so I lift it again and aim it for him. He reaches inside, and for one heart-stopping second, I think he’s about to pull out a gun. Options flash through my brain: tackle him? Yell? Both? But when he takes his hand out, it’s empty. He zips up the backpack and tosses it beneath the deck. Then he rises in a low crouch. I yank Maeve’s arm, backpedaling with her until we’re at the front of the restaurant. “Stairs,” I whisper, and we run for the entrance, flattening ourselves against the wall beside the door.
Jared emerges a few seconds later from the side of the building. He strides quickly across the parking lot, looking straight ahead the entire time. We watch him until he disappears around the fence. “What’s he up to?” Maeve breathes.
I pull up the video I just took and send it to Eli. “I don’t know, but I think we’d better get that backpack.” I shove my phone into my pocket and grab Maeve’s hand. Her palm feels reassuringly cool and dry in mine. “Come on.”
We retrace our steps to the back of the building. The space beneath the deck isn’t open like I’d thought it would be when I watched Jared throw his backpack from around the corner. It’s thick wooden lattice, except for a squat, narrow crawl space in the middle. I kneel and reach an arm in, sweeping it in every direction, but I can’t feel anything other than dirt and rocks.
Maeve hands me her phone, lit with the flashlight app, and I shine it inside. The backpack is almost directly in front of me but at least six feet away. “It’s there. I’m going in,” I say, taking a deep breath. I don’t dislike closed spaces as much as heights, but I’m not a fan either. As soon as my head is inside the crawl space, though, I can tell the rest of me won’t fit. Nobody would ever call my shoulders broad, but they still won’t make it through. I reverse course and sit on my haunches next to the opening.
“Maybe we should tell everybody to leave,” I say, wiping my chin against my shoulder. My face is a gross combination of sticky and gritty from just a few seconds in the crawl space. “Something bad is in that backpack, or he wouldn’t have put it there.”
Maeve drops to her knees beside me. “Let me try.” She ducks her head through the opening, twisting her body so her shoulders are at a right angle. She’s a lot narrower than I am and manages to slide the rest of the way through. The backpack emerges soon after, shoved out of the crawl space by Maeve’s dirt-streaked hands. She follows, forcing her shoulders through with a painful grimace as I lift the backpack by one strap. It’s a faded tan color, ripped along one side and heavy. I tug at the zipper and shine Maeve’s phone inside.
Maeve coughs and brushes a cobweb from her hair. She’s covered in dirt, and her right arm is bleeding from a long, jagged scrape. “What’s in there?”
“Something round and metal,” I report. “It has a lot of wires and … switches, or something.” Alarm starts coursing through my veins, making me sweat. God, I wish I’d paid more attention to my father when he used to explain how stuff works. “I can’t be sure, but this looks a lot like somebody’s idea of a homemade bomb.” My voice cracks on the last word.
Maeve’s eyes get wide and scared. “What do we do?”
I’m frozen, indecisive. I want this to be somebody else’s problem. I want Eli to check his damn phone. He’s up there somewhere, and if I yell loud enough I could probably get his attention. But I don’t know how much time we have.
“We have to get rid of it,” I say, scanning the area. We’re in luck, sort of, because the space behind Talia’s is nothing but grass until you get to a bike path a hundred yards away. Tall bushes line the back of the path, and if I have my geography right, the Bayview Arboretum is right behind them. Which closes at six,
so it has to be deserted this time of night.
I sprint for the bike path, Maeve right behind me. That’s not what I intended—I thought she’d stay by the deck, but there’s no time to argue. I’ve never run so fast in my life, and it still feels like it takes me forever to reach the edge of the path. When I get there, I pause for a few seconds, panting. Is this far enough? I really hope so, because I’m afraid of hanging on to this thing much longer, especially with Maeve next to me.
I hold my arm out to one side, the backpack dangling from my hand like I’m getting ready for a discus throw. “I wish Cooper were here,” I mutter. Then I take a deep breath, twist my body halfway with my arm fully extended, and hurl the backpack as hard as I can over the bushes lining the edge of the arboretum. I watch it sail into blackness and I grab Maeve’s hand. “Okay, let’s get out of here and get help.”
We’re about to turn and run when a faint, familiar voice floats out from behind the bushes, stopping us in our tracks. “The fuck was that?” someone says.
My heart thuds to a stop, then drops to my shoes. Maeve freezes, her eyes as round as saucers. “Nate?” she breathes, and then she lifts her voice in a piercing scream. “Nate, run! This is Maeve. That was a backpack with a bomb inside, from someone who’s been threatening Eli. You have to run toward the restaurant, now!”
We hear a loud rustling sound, and I tug at Maeve’s hand. “We have to run too. I don’t know how much time—”
“Maeve?” comes a girl’s voice.
Maeve gasps and screams again, loud and panicked. “Bronwyn?”
Jesus Christ. Nate and Bronwyn picked the worst time possible for a moonlight stroll in the garden.
Maeve lunges forward, and I wrap an arm around her waist to stop her. “Other way, Maeve! I’m sorry, but we have to go the other way!” I start dragging her backward, yelling toward the arboretum as I do. “This isn’t a joke, you guys! Run!”
Two people crash through the bushes hand in hand, and I catch the silhouette of a flowing skirt against the dim moonlight. I’m still pulling Maeve along the grass, not making nearly as much progress as I’d like. As the figures running toward us get closer I can see Nate doing the same with Bronwyn, trying to use his momentum to pull her forward. Somehow, despite Maeve’s best efforts, I’ve managed to get her more than halfway across the grassy space between the restaurant and the bike path.
“Come on!” I grit out in frustration. “Nate’s with her! This isn’t helping!” Maeve finally stops fighting me, and we race the rest of the way across the lawn until we’re a few feet from the restaurant. Voices rise as people start to gather at the railing, their confused faces lit by the twinkling white lights.
“Get inside!” I gesture with the hand that’s not holding Maeve’s arm. I still don’t trust her to stay put. And then, because nobody’s paying any attention, I pull out my trump card. “There’s a bomb in the arboretum! Everybody get inside!”
The words use the last bit of lung capacity I have left, and I pant painfully as shouts and gasps fill the air. Nate and Bronwyn are almost halfway across the grass now. Nothing’s happened yet, so I let myself feel a small burst of relief. Somebody who knows what the hell they’re doing can take over now. Maybe it’s not even as bad as we think, maybe we have plenty of time, or maybe the backpack was something else entirely—
When an explosion rips through the air, the noise is deafening. Maeve and I both throw ourselves onto the ground as an orange ball of fire erupts from behind the bushes. I reach up instinctively to cover my head, but before my vision is blocked I look across the grass to where Nate and Bronwyn were just seconds before. I see white smoke billowing high and fast into the air, fragments of God only knows what swirling within it, and nothing else.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Phoebe
Friday, March 27
“Careful, not so close. You’ll burn yourself.”
I’m eight years old, sitting between my father and my sister in front of a small bonfire on the beach. It’s a special trip, just the three of us. Mom’s staying home with Owen, who’s too little to toast marshmallows. But I’m good at it, holding my stick the right distance from the flames, rotating my marshmallow carefully until every side is bubbling brown. I’m better than Emma, because she’s too tentative and won’t get her marshmallow close enough to toast.
It’s kind of satisfying, that I’m better than Emma at something. That almost never happens.
“Mine is no good,” Emma says fretfully. She sounds on the edge of tears.
“Let me help you,” Dad says, putting his hand over hers and holding her stick in place. And then I feel upset that I have to toast my marshmallow alone, so I shove my stick too far in the flames and let it catch fire.
“I need help too!” I say.
Dad lets out an exasperated chuckle and takes the stick from me, blowing out the flaming marshmallow. He pokes the stick down in the sand between us so it stands upright, and the charred marshmallow on top instantly starts to droop. “Phoebe, you were doing fine,” he says. “Save the cries for help for when you really need it.”
“I did need it,” I say sulkily, and he puts an arm around me.
“Your sister needed it a little more,” he whispers in my ear. “But I’m always here for both of you. You know that, right?”
I feel better nestled against the warmth of his side, and sorry I didn’t let Emma enjoy her perfect marshmallow. “Yes,” I say.
He kisses the top of my head. “And make sure you’re there for each other too. All of you. The world can be a rough place, and you guys need to stick together. Okay?”
I close my eyes and let the flames dancing in front of me paint my lids orange. “Okay.”
The beeping wakes me up. A machine in Emma’s room whirs to life and I do too, sitting bolt upright in my corner chair. I shove my hair out of my face as my dream-memory fades and I remember why I’m here. “Emma,” I croak. I’m half on my feet when a nurse enters the room.
“It’s all right,” she says, fiddling with a knob on the machine behind Emma. “We’re going to give her a little more fluids, that’s all.” My sister remains motionless on her bed, asleep. The room is dim, and I’m alone except for my sister and the nurse. I have no idea what time it is, and my throat is paper dry.
“Can I have some water?” I ask.
“Of course. Come to the nurses’ station with me, hon. Stretch those legs.” The nurse disappears into the hallway. Before I follow, I take another look at Emma, so silent and still that she might as well be dead. Then I pull my phone out of my pocket and finally send the text I’ve been avoiding for weeks.
Hi Derek, it’s Phoebe. Call me.
I leave the room, still feeling groggy, and find Emma’s nurse waiting for me in the hallway. “Where’s my mom?” I ask.
“Took your brother home to bed. There’s a sitter coming, and she’ll be back once he’s settled,” the nurse says.
A clock in the hallway reads ten fifteen, and the floor is quiet except for the muted conversation of three nurses clustered around the central desk. “Someone needs to clear those kids out of the waiting room,” one of them says.
“I think they’re all in shock,” says another.
The woman who gave me the water makes a clucking noise as she leans her forearms on the counter surrounding the desk. “This town is going to hell in a handbasket. Kids dying, bombs going off—”
“What?” I almost choke on my water. “A bomb? What are you talking about?”
“Tonight,” the nurse says. “At a wedding rehearsal dinner, of all things. There was a homemade explosive device planted by some disturbed young man.”
“Aren’t they all,” another nurse says coldly.
My skin prickles, nerves jumping. “Wedding rehearsal? In Bayview? Was it—” I grab my phone out of my pocket to check for new texts, but before I can, one of the nurses says, “Talia’s Restaurant.”
I drop my cup with a loud clatter, sending water splashing
across the floor. I start shaking from head to toe, practically vibrating, and the nurse closest to me takes hold of my shoulders, speaking quickly. “I’m so sorry, we should have realized you might know people there. It’s all right, someone got the bomb off the premises before it could do significant damage. Only one boy had more than superficial injuries—”
“Are they here?” I look wildly around me, as though my friends might be right around the corner and I just hadn’t noticed them yet.
The nurse lets go of my shoulders and picks up my discarded cup. “There’s a group in the waiting room closest to the ER downstairs.”
I take off for the stairs before she can say anything else, my sneakers pounding against the linoleum. I know exactly where to go; I sat in that waiting room last night after the EMTs brought Emma in. It’s one floor down, and when I push through the stairwell door into the hallway I’m immediately hit with a buzzing noise, much louder than upstairs. Several scrub-clad people are standing with their arms folded in front of Liz Rosen from Channel Seven, who looks camera-ready in a sharp red suit and perfect makeup. “No media beyond this point,” a man says as I slip behind them.
The waiting room is packed, standing room only. My heart squeezes at the sight of so many people I know, looking more devastated than I’ve ever seen them. Bronwyn, her face stained with tears and her pretty red dress torn, is sitting between her mother and a middle-aged woman I don’t recognize. Cooper and Kris are holding hands next to Addy, who’s hunched forward and gnawing on her cuticles. Luis is on Addy’s other side with Maeve on his lap, and he’s holding her while she slumps motionless against his shoulder, eyes closed. Her right arm is wrapped in a white gauze bandage. I don’t see Ashton, or Eli, or Knox anywhere.
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