“Cat.”
This time when I strike out, my fists connect with something soft and yielding. Something warm.
My eyes fly open. Aidan stands next to the bed, hands up, palms out.
“You were having a nightmare,” he says, low and cautious, like he’s worried I might try to hit him again.
I push myself to a sitting position. My heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. My earbuds are tangled around my neck, but the iPod is nowhere to be seen—probably lodged between the bed and the wall. The clock on the nightstand reads 10:04 a.m.
“I knocked and called your name.”
“Thanks for waking me,” I say, voice hoarse and filled with the grit of sleep. I mean it. Normally, my sleep is empty. A flat, gray nothingness broken only by dreams on rare occasions, but of course I would have nightmares after what had happened last night. Who wouldn’t? I swing my legs over the bed, frowning as another thought occurs to me. “What are you doing in here?”
“Your aunt asked me to get you.” Aidan shoves his hands into his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. His hair is still sleep-mussed, but he’s dressed, wearing faded jeans and a gray T-shirt.
The fact that he’s more or less fully clothed makes me self-conscious about my own outfit, and I cross my arms over my chest in a futile attempt to cover up. For the second time in a handful of hours, a boy—a good-looking boy—has seen me in my pajamas. It’s the kind of thing I wish I could tell Lacey.
As I stand and head for the bathroom, Aidan adds, “There’s a police cruiser in the driveway. What’s going on?”
I trip on the hem of my pajama pants as I whirl. “What?”
“Police cruiser. Driveway.”
“Have you talked to Chase or Skylar today?”
“Why? Why are the cops here?”
I want to shake him. “Have you talked to them? Have either of them texted you?” I grab a pair of jeans from the back of the desk chair and haul them on over my pajamas.
“I haven’t talked to either of them since yesterday,” he says with a small shrug.
Aunt Jet was supposed to take me into the station this afternoon to give a formal statement. What could be so bad that it couldn’t wait a few hours? What could be so bad that the police would come to the house?
I dart past Aidan and race down the hall. He calls out after me, but I ignore him. In my haste, I almost trip over Brisby on the stairs, but I manage to keep my balance and follow Aunt Jet’s voice to the study.
Inside, she’s talking to a man in a tan uniform. They both stare as I stumble to a stop just over the threshold.
The officer’s gaze travels from my bare feet to the rat’s nest of my hair as he takes in my appearance. Too late, I realize that the earbuds are still dangling around my neck.
“Mary Catherine,” says Aunt Jet, her voice weirdly stiff and formal, “this is Chief Jensen. Given everything you went through last night, he thought it might be best if he took your statement here.”
“Absolutely,” he says. “No need dragging you kids out to the station.”
Jensen doesn’t look old enough to be a chief of police—not even in a town as small as Montgomery Falls. When I think of police chiefs, I imagine gray hair and gravitas from years of experience on the force. Chief Jensen does not have gray hair, and it’s hard to imagine he has all that many years of experience. He can’t be more than thirty, and he looks better suited to appearing in ads for cologne—chiseled jaw, rugged five-o’clock shadow, broad shoulders—than policing a town that’s 40 percent rowdy college students.
But gravitas? Gravitas, he has.
He nods toward one of the chairs. “Why don’t you sit.” He makes no move to do the same. Aunt Jet, too, stays standing. Despite the heat, she’s wearing an oversized sweater that hangs down past her hips.
I perch on the edge of the nearest wingback, toes pointed forward, back ramrod straight. As an afterthought, I pull the earbuds from around my neck and stuff them behind an embroidered cushion.
It’s not until I’m sitting that I realize that maybe I should have closed the study door. Noises from the rest of the house drift in: the blender in the kitchen, the pipes thumping as the washing machine runs, a creak on the stairs.
Jensen pulls a small black notebook and a little yellow pencil from his shirt pocket. “I’ve already spoken with Skylar and Chase. They gave similar accounts of what happened last night, but I’d like your version as well.”
Haltingly, I tell him about going to the movie and for food and to the bridge. I don’t look at Aunt Jet as I rush through the part about crawling under the barricade. I describe how we spotted Rachel in the water. How we weren’t even sure what we were seeing until we got closer. How I stayed behind while Chase and Skylar went to the highway to get help. As I talk, Jensen scribbles notes, his large hand dwarfing the pencil.
“Do you know Rachel Larsen?”
“No.”
“Ever seen her before?”
“Not before last night.”
“Never?”
I shake my head.
“But Chase and Skylar knew her?”
“They seemed to. Chase told the emergency operator that she went to Riverview.”
“You volunteered to stay behind?”
I try to remember. It’s all a bit jumbled—almost like what happened was too much for my brain to hold on to. “I think so,” I say slowly, “but I’m not sure.”
“You must have been scared. Why would a girl volunteer to stay there, at the edge of the river, alone?”
There’s nothing wrong with what he says, but something about the way he says it makes me nervous. I glance at Aunt Jet. She gives a small nod of encouragement, but her lips are pressed into a hard, thin line.
“We couldn’t leave her on her own, and Chase said someone had to go to the highway.”
“So why not ask Skylar to stay behind?”
“She was scared.”
“And you weren’t?”
“No—I was . . . I just . . .” It almost feels like he’s testing me, but I can’t figure out why. “Chase knew the way to the highway, and Skylar was so scared that she was better off going with him.”
Aunt Jet moves next to me and rests her hand on the back of the chair.
“Is she going to be all right?” I ask. “Rachel Larsen?”
Instead of answering my question, Jensen reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small plastic bag. As he steps forward, I recognize the Saint Anthony medal. “You told one of my officers that this belonged to Riley Fraser.”
I feel a small twinge of relief. I wasn’t entirely sure the officer had believed me when I said it was important. “Rachel had it in her hand. Are you going to dust it for prints?”
Jensen’s mouth twists a little around the edges. Almost like a scowl, but not quite. “The girl was found in the water. I can tell you right now whose prints we’ll find. Hers. Yours. The officer you gave it to.” He shakes his head. “What makes you think this belonged to Riley Fraser or that it needed to be dusted for prints?”
“I’ve seen it before. At Riley’s.”
It’s not a lie. Not exactly.
He flips to a page somewhere near the middle of his little book. “You told Officer Theriault that you arrived in town last week.”
“She’s visiting for the summer,” says Aunt Jet.
Jensen ignores her. “You also told Officer Theriault that the last time you were in Montgomery Falls was five years ago.”
I nod, not sure what that has to do with anything.
“So, you haven’t seen Riley Fraser or this medal for five years.”
“No.”
“What makes you think it’s the same one?”
“The initials on the back are the same.” As I speak, it occurs to me that there is one thing that’s different about the medal: When Riley found it all those years ago, it had been hanging on a thin silver chain. Not a leather cord like the one that had been tangled around Rachel’s fingers.
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I open my mouth to tell him, but Jensen cuts me off. “Even if you’re right, how do you know it isn’t just something Riley Fraser gave the Larsen girl? It’s not unheard of. Guy sees a girl, likes her, gives her something of his.”
“The medal was special. Riley wouldn’t have just given it away.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I just am.” Because he was ashamed of it. Because even just the idea of me knowing he had it was enough to make him hate me. But I can’t say any of that without going into the story of how Riley found and kept the medal in the first place. Telling Noah was one thing. Jensen isn’t Noah.
Almost as though he can read my thoughts, Jensen says, “Have you told anyone else that you believe the medal you found belongs to Riley Fraser?”
I nod and then shake my head.
“Which is it?” He stares at me so hard that I have to fight not to squirm.
I have no idea what I did wrong, but I could swear he’s angry.
In that split second, I decide not to tell him about Noah. “I told that woman at the river—the police officer. That’s it. Just her.” Jensen doesn’t say anything for a long moment; he just continues to stand there and stare. “Is Rachel going to be okay?” I ask again, when I can’t take the silence any longer.
“Depends on how long she was in the water and how long she was lost in the woods before that.”
“Lost?”
“We found her car, abandoned with a flat, north of the river. We think she tried to take a shortcut back to town. Once she comes to, once she’s well enough for questions, we’ll be able to ask her.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “But the marks on her arms . . . the cuts . . .”
“Could have just been scratches.”
I think about the small lines etched in her skin. How precise they had seemed. How there had been dozens of them. “Those weren’t scratches.”
“You’re a doctor? Premed student?”
“Even if they were just scratches,” I say, trying to ignore the heat that fills my face, “even if she just got lost in the woods, she had Riley’s medal. Doesn’t that . . .” I root around in my brain for every cop show or mystery novel that has ever crossed my path, trying to find anything that will help me not sound like an idiot kid. “Doesn’t that indicate some sort of connection?”
“Connection to what?”
I stare at him uncomprehendingly. “To Riley’s disappearance.”
“No reason to think anything is connected,” he says.
“You can’t be serious.” My voice rises; I can’t help it.
“We looked into Riley Fraser’s disappearance for months. There isn’t anything to suggest he didn’t just get lost or run away. It happens all the time. Kids are unhappy at home. They run east to Halifax or west to Toronto. Nothing mysterious about it. And that kid had plenty of problems.”
I don’t know if he’s referring to the wrecked boat or to Riley getting caught up at the mill, or if there are other things I haven’t heard about yet. Somehow, I don’t think he’ll tell me if I ask.
“As far as the girl goes,” continues Jensen, “we don’t know anything at the moment. In a few months, this place is going to be crawling with students. Parents will be dropping off their kids for their first year of college, and they want to leave them someplace safe. I’m not stirring up a panic just because you think you might have seen something that ties Riley Fraser to Rachel Larsen—not when we don’t have any reason to believe he didn’t just run.”
“Riley’s brother told me he wouldn’t have run away.”
Jensen flips his notebook closed with a snap. “Now you listen to me: I don’t want you saying anything to Noah Fraser or his mother. That family has been through enough, and the last thing I need is his father coming back and throwing more reward money around and getting in everyone’s way. Do you understand?”
Leather creaks under Aunt Jet’s fingertips as she tightens her grip on the chair. “My niece has answered your questions. She’s given you what I would think is valuable information—especially for the Fraser family—and you’re treating her like she’s done something wrong.”
“No,” he says. “I’m making sure she knows better than to go kicking over any hornet’s nests.”
Aunt Jet steps out from behind the chair and puts herself between us. “Would you excuse us, Mary Catherine?”
“We’re not finished,” says Jensen.
“Yes,” says Jet, “you are.” Even though her voice trembles slightly—even though she hates confrontation—there’s a hint of steel underneath the words. “Mary Catherine, why don’t you go get some breakfast. And close the door behind you, please.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
I swear I can feel Jensen’s eyes bore holes into my back as I practically bolt from the room.
Fourteen
IN THE KITCHEN, I TAKE A JAR OF CHEEZ WHIZ AND A LOAF of white bread out of the refrigerator and grab an unopened bag of ketchup-flavored potato chips from the cupboard. Aunt Jet claims keeping bread in the fridge helps it stay fresh longer. Personally, I think the cold drains away all the taste and that there are about a hundred potential flavors of chips that I’d rank above ketchup, but when in Canada, do as Canadians do.
The floorboards in the hallway creak. Probably Aunt Jet come to check on me, I think, but when I glance over my shoulder, I see Aidan.
“Chief Jawline hates you.”
“Jawline?” I raise an eyebrow and turn back to the task at hand, coating two slices of bread in thick layers of cheese before slapping them together.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice his rugged and manly jaw or his perfect five-o’clock shadow. I’m pretty sure he measures his stubble with a ruler to get it that precise.” Aidan comes up behind me, reaches around my waist, and snatches up my sandwich.
“Hey!” I press myself against the counter, but there’s no need: even while reaching around me to steal my food, Aidan manages to keep a few inches between his body and mine. Despite the fact that he keeps pushing boundaries, it’s almost like he instinctively knows I need a fraction of personal space at all times and adjusts his position accordingly.
Lacey was always good about that. She thought my need for personal space was some sort of anxiety thing, and I let her think that because then she didn’t push for explanations.
I wait until Aidan retreats, then quickly make another sandwich. “So, you were eavesdropping.”
“There’s nothing good on TV this time of day.”
“Uh-huh.” As I put the bread and Cheez Whiz back in the fridge, my gaze falls on two small, black canisters wedged between a carton of eggs and a stick of butter. I lift one, frowning.
“Don’t open it,” says Aidan.
I turn to him, canister in hand. “Why?”
“It’s leftover film. Joey and Skylar were doing a photo project and forgot the unused rolls here.”
Right—Skylar had mentioned something about a project. That Aidan had helped and that he and Joey were in some photography club together. “You just figured you’d keep it?”
Aidan shoots me a wry grin. “Payment for helping them with the project. I read online that keeping film in the fridge helps the quality. Something about stable temperatures.”
“Fascinating.” I put the canister back, then close the fridge door. I take my sandwich and the chips over to the table and sit across from him.
There are dark circles under his eyes. “You look tired,” I say, without thinking.
“Thanks,” he says wryly. “I was up late working on that stupid essay. Which is nothing, apparently, compared to the night you had.” He takes a bite of his stolen sandwich.
“How much did you hear when you were listening in?”
He shrugs, mouth full, and then swallows. “Pretty much everything.”
“Well, you’re right. Jensen hates me.”
“To be fair, Jensen hates everyone. I’m pretty sure the only person he’s genu
inely civil to is his daughter, Ellie. It’s part of the whole lone-wolf image. You should have seen the strip he tore off me that time Riley and I got caught at the mill. I was almost glad when he called my father—and I am never glad when I have to deal with my father. You know I’m actually a little upset with you, right?” he asks, abruptly switching direction.
“Why?”
“You and Skylar and Chase had an adventure without me.”
“It was not an adventure.” I take a bite of my sandwich. It feels heavy and gross in my mouth, and swallowing it is an effort.
“Sorry,” he says, sobering a bit. “You really think there’s some connection between Riley and whatever happened to Rachel?”
I hesitate. Jensen’s insistence that the marks on Rachel’s arms could be scratches has me slightly thrown. Enough so that I can’t help but second-guess myself. It was dark and I was scared; what if I didn’t really see what I thought I saw? What if I’m wrong about the medal not being something Riley would just give away?
“I don’t know,” I say eventually. “I mean, she had something of his, but maybe that was just a coincidence. Riley knew her, right? You guys all do. Were they close?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, something inside of me twists. Riley knew, not Riley knows. Were, not are. Like I’ve started thinking of him in the past tense.
“Rachel and Riley are friends with a lot of the same people, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen them alone together.” Aidan regards me intently for a moment and then says, “The police department tweeted about Rachel this morning. They said a girl was found in the river but that there was no indication of foul play.”
“You’re joking?” As he shakes his head, all the frustration I’ve been trying to keep penned up for the past thirty minutes rushes to the surface. “How can they say that? They haven’t even talked to her yet.”
“You heard him: he doesn’t want to risk a panic. The university is one of the few things that keeps Montgomery Falls afloat. If people are scared to send their kids here, the town takes a hit.”
“So you’re saying Jensen is basically the mayor in Jaws?”
A small, appreciative look flashes across Aidan’s face. “That reference would score you major points with Joey. He’s already all over what happened. He texted me after he saw the tweets. I guess Skylar hasn’t had a chance to talk to him yet.”
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