Even those few memories, though, are fragmented and fuzzy around the edges.
The one crystal clear memory I have is of Noah.
Noah shoving one of the police officers who tried to hold him back, fighting to get to me. Shouting when they wouldn’t let him ride in the ambulance.
I found out later, from other people, that he had followed the sirens to the mill. That he had been out, looking for me, from the moment Aunt Jet called and told him I was missing.
According to Jet, he had visited me twice in the hospital—I was just too out of it to remember.
Ever since, though, he’s ignored me completely. It doesn’t make any sense.
As we walk down the lane, I notice a flash of blue near the gates: Riley’s BMW.
“This is a step up from your aunt’s last car,” Noah observes as we reach Jet’s new Civic.
“Yeah. She finally discovered the joy of working air-conditioning and power windows. Her world may never be the same.” Dad actually helped with the down payment. His meetings in California went well. Really, really well. Helping Aunt Jet with the car is a start, but it’s not enough, and I’m going to make sure Dad knows that.
I pull open the driver-side door, but I can’t seem to make myself get in. Instead, screwing up my courage, I turn. “Why have you been dodging me?”
“Dodging?”
“The phone calls. The texts. I get you not wanting to talk to me after what I did, but then why visit me in the hospital?”
For a handful of seconds, he just stares at me, and then, slowly, he says, “You think I’ve been avoiding you because I’m mad at you?”
“Well, yeah. Haven’t you?”
“No.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck, roughly. “Cat, it’s my fault. Everything that happened to you. If I hadn’t been so hard on you, if I hadn’t gotten you involved in the first place, if—”
“Noah, Aidan literally lived twenty feet from my bedroom door. You did not put me on his radar. If it hadn’t been for what happened in the tunnels, who knows how many other people he might have hurt?” My eyes start to water, but it’s just the too-bright, noonday sun. It’s just the sun, and my voice definitely doesn’t shake a little around the edges as I say, “So—just to make sure we are both on the same page—you don’t, actually, hate me?”
“How could you think that?”
“Why wouldn’t I think that?” Seriously. Who in my position wouldn’t come to that conclusion?
My phone vibrates again. I don’t need to check to know it’s another text from Aunt Jet. I still have to swing by Montgomery House, and I need extra time at the station to get my ticket. I hate leaving things like this, but it’s not my fault Noah’s spent the past few weeks avoiding me out of some weird, misplaced guilt, and I have to go. I tug my sleeves down. First one and then the other. Tentatively, giving him plenty of time to move away, I step forward and hug him. I’m careful not to touch skin or hug too tightly. I half expect Noah to stiffen or pull away, but he doesn’t. He lets out a deep, deep breath, and then, before I can even guess at what he’s about to do, he presses his lips to my forehead.
And I see myself. Just me.
“Don’t go,” he says.
But I have to. “I’ll come back,” I promise.
I realized, weeks ago, that I have plenty of reasons to come back to Montgomery Falls, but I think maybe—just maybe—Noah’s given me one more.
“Are you sure about this? We can ask them to refund the ticket, and I can drive you down to Saint John in a few days. Flying would be so much faster and easier.” Aunt Jet twists a thin, silver bangle around her wrist as we wait in line for the bus.
I switch my duffel bag from one hand to the other in order to adjust the strap of my backpack. “I like the idea of having the time to think.”
In an ideal world, I’d figure out how to talk to my dad. Really, really talk to him. About why my head hurts sometimes and how he was wrong to keep me from Aunt Jet for all those years just because she wanted me to know the truth about who and what I am. About how, maybe, what happened with Riley wasn’t the only reason I felt like I had to hide parts of myself away. But it’s not an ideal world, and I have a feeling that’s not a conversation my father is capable of having. Not right now, anyway.
I can, however, try to figure out how to make sure he doesn’t try to keep me away again and how to get him to help Aunt Jet save Montgomery House—assuming that’s what she decides she wants.
And then there’s Lacey. I need to figure out how to talk to her about what I saw the night I touched her and how to tell her that she was right: I had used her just as much as she’d used me. Spending more time with Skylar has helped me realize how much I kept Lacey at a distance.
None of that cancels out what happened after the party—I’m not sure anything will ever cancel that out—but I have to own up to it. Maybe what happened is too big to be fixed, but I have to try. Just like I should have tried with Riley. I used to think that once things broke, you couldn’t put them back together, that the cracks would always be present and there was no point in trying. I think I’m starting to realize, though, that if all you ever do is walk away, you end up with nothing in the end.
Aunt Jet still looks doubtful.
“Really,” I say, “the bus is fine.”
The skepticism on her face remains unchanged, but she stops trying to talk me out of it. “You have everything?”
I hand my duffel bag over to the driver, who tosses it into the luggage bin. “Everything.”
“And you’ll call me when you get home?”
“As soon as I get in.”
Jet hugs me, carefully, and then watches as I board the bus and find a seat. I wave to her through the window, and she waves back before turning away and heading to the car.
I settle more deeply into my seat, trying to get comfortable. More than 900 miles. Lots and lots of time to think.
I pull my journal out of my backpack. Dad had insisted I see a counselor before I had even left the hospital; it was like he was worried I’d end up irrevocably broken if I didn’t talk to someone with a degree on the wall within a week of being carried away from those tunnels. It was one of the few things upon which he and Aunt Jet had agreed.
When the counselor first suggested I keep a journal, I’d balked, but then I asked Jet if I could have one of the blank, leather-bound books from the old desk downstairs.
I’ve caught her sneaking looks at it over the last few weeks: this black book with the yellowed pages that smells permanently like forgotten things. The sight of it seems to make her uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the fact that the police found three identical journals in Aidan’s room. Three journals, all taken from the basement, the first entry dated a month after he moved into Montgomery House.
I don’t know what’s in them—but there are rumors. Fantasies about the things Aidan wanted to do. The ways he wanted other people to hurt. Plans for attacks he hadn’t carried out. Photographs and sketches.
Reporters have dubbed him the “Heartthrob Killer.” Because he’s over eighteen, there’s no media ban on his name. Because he’s over eighteen, he’ll be tried as an adult.
He’s not in Montgomery Falls. There’s a psychiatric hospital up on the north shore—three or four hours away, depending on which roads you take—where they send people like him for evaluation before trial. He’s asked to see me, a request passed from his lawyer to Aunt Jet.
Some dark part of me wants to see him, to try to understand things that can’t possibly be understood. To try to figure out how much of the Aidan I thought I knew was ever really there. I keep thinking about what he did to Joey. About how he had lured Joey to the mill by tipping him off about the trailer and the police and then locked him in one of the old offices. About how Joey had been found injured and dehydrated, but otherwise unharmed.
I think a lot about the fact that he didn’t kill Joey and how he let me find Skylar. Probably more than is healthy. Definitely more than
I should.
Despite the things he told me, part of me wants to believe he didn’t kill Joey because he couldn’t bring himself to hurt his friend or because he wanted someone to stop him. That there is some spark of humanity or loyalty in him.
I’m probably just kidding myself. After all, Riley had been his friend, too, and Aidan had watched him die.
It’s strange, me wanting to write in an identical book. I don’t need worried looks from Aunt Jet to know this.
Aidan claimed he understood me in a way no one else ever could. That he alone would never be scared of the things I can do.
Maybe the journal is my one small way of proving him wrong. A reminder that some lines should never be crossed. I slip my makeshift bookmark out from between the pages. It’s a Polaroid of Riley and me—one we took after finding an old camera in the basement. My hair is a red, frizzy cloud, and Riley’s knees are scraped and bruised. I’m smiling. He’s not. He’s not even looking at the camera. He’s staring off to the side, at something I can’t see.
I wish I knew what he was thinking in that moment. I wish I could read all of those letters he supposedly wrote—letters Aidan claimed exist but that no one has been able to find.
Someone stops next to my seat. The two spots across the aisle are both free, but they flop down beside me. “So how long is it to New York, anyway?”
I look up and stare. “What are you doing here?”
Skylar shrugs, like her being here is no big deal, like she can always just be found riding around on random buses to foreign countries. “Thought you could use the company.”
Despite the heat, she’s wearing a pair of big, black boots over black-and-white-striped tights. She kicks the seat in front of her.
“Skylar—you can’t come with me. There’s no way they’ll let you into the US.”
“I know that. Little credit, please.” She nods toward the window. “I’ll ride with you to the border. Joey and Chase are going to follow and drive me back.”
Sure enough, in the corner of the parking lot, Chase and Joey sit in Mrs. Walker’s Malibu. Chase is gesturing wildly, and Joey is shaking his head.
“What are they arguing about?”
“Who will play them in the inevitable made-for-TV movie once all of this is over. Chase wants you to text your casting choices.” Her expression becomes serious. “We didn’t think you should go on your own. Chase wanted to drive you to New York—until he realized his passport was expired and his folks would kill him.”
Something in my chest feels inexplicably tight. “You guys don’t have to do this.”
“Please. You’re one of us. We stick together.”
I grin. A big, ridiculous grin that makes my cheeks hurt.
What I had said to Skylar all those weeks ago was true: I want to be the kind of person who fights monsters and slays dragons. I want to be the kind of person who doesn’t run away. But maybe it’s easier if I don’t try to do it on my own. If I let people in.
The way I let Riley in all those summers ago before I allowed one horrible day to undo all the good. The way I’ve been scared to really let anyone in since.
Montgomery Falls will always be the place where I lost Riley. But it’s also the place where I found Skylar and Chase and even Joey. It’s the place where I found Noah.
It’s where I learned to fight monsters.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my amazing and talented agent, Emmanuelle Morgen of Stonesong. Emmanuelle, you were endlessly supportive and patient, and this book is so, so much stronger because of your feedback. On top of all that, you found it the perfect home. You are a gem and a marvel.
I cannot imagine this book without my fabulous editor, Catherine Wallace. Catherine, your insight and guidance took this book to the next level. You always seemed to know just how to coax me when I was subconsciously holding back and you made edits a joy. Thank you!
The team at HarperCollins is absolutely terrific, including Kathryn Silsand, Cindy Nixon, Christine Corcoran Cox, Lisa Lester Kelly, Chris Kwon, Meghan Pettit, Shannon Cox, and Mitchell Thorpe. Thanks, also, to the team at HarperCollinsCanada who always take such good care of my books north of the border.
Thanks, also, to Whitney Lee of the Fielding Agency, who so tirelessly helps my books reach countries I hope to someday visit.
Sanaa Ali-Virani read an early draft of this manuscript and her feedback was invaluable. Jodi Meadows patiently listened to early pitches and helped when I was torn between projects; as always, I am deeply grateful for her kindness. Krystal answered my questions about film without once pointing out that I really should have paid more attention in photography class—any mistakes in the subject are mine alone.
Much appreciation to the Department of English at UNB Fredericton for being incredibly supportive.
A special thank you to booksellers and librarians and to readers and bloggers. Thanks, also, to the literary festivals who have been kind enough to host me over the years.
Finally, a heartfelt thank-you to my friends and family, particularly my parents and sister who have always been unfailingly supportive.
About the Author
Photo credit Kathleen Peacock
KATHLEEN PEACOCK spent most of her teen years writing short stories. She put her writing dreams on hold while attending college but rediscovered them when office life started leaving her with an allergy to cubicles. She is the author of the Hemlock series.
You can visit her at www.kathleenpeacock.com.
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Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
YOU WERE NEVER HERE. Copyright © 2020 by Kathleen Peacock. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover photograph © 2020 by Olivia Bee / Trunk Archive
Cover design by Chris Kwon
Digital Edition OCTOBER 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-300253-1
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-300251-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Peacock, Kathleen, author.
Title: You were never here / Kathleen Peacock.
Description: First edition. | New York, NY : HarperTeen, [2020] | Audience: Ages 13 up. | Audience: Grades 10-12. | Summary: “Cat sets out to discover what happened to her childhood friend when she discovers that he’s been missing for months”— Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020000850 | ISBN 9780063002517 (hardcover)
Subjects: CYAC: Missing persons—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Psychic ability—Fiction. | Canada—Fiction. | Mystery and detective stories.
Classification: LCC PZ7.P31172 You 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020000850
2021222324PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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You Were Never Here Page 31