Watch Over Me

by Mila Gray

“Did they catch him?” I croak.

  Zoey shakes her head. “And he’s taken Cole.”

  “Taken him where?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  I reach for her, and she tumbles forward, across my lap, and into my arms. I suppress a howl of pain when I move my bandaged arm. “I don’t know where he is,” she cries. “They’ve put out an Amber Alert. We just have to wait.”

  I squeeze her hand.

  “Your parents and Dahlia are here. They’re outside talking to the doctors.”

  “What if Cole left a note?” I say. It’s a struggle to talk. My brain still feels groggy from the anesthetic and my eyelids are heavy as lead.

  “You think he would?”

  “I don’t know. But you should go and check. If he knew he was going with your dad, he might have wanted to say good-bye.”

  “But the police were at the apartment. If there was a note, they would have found it.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “I don’t want to leave the hospital,” she says, but I can tell she’s mulling on it.

  “Go,” I urge her. “Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid. If you find a note, call the cops.”

  She nods, but as soon as she’s out the door, I start to regret the idea. What if her dad is there waiting for her? No. The last place he’ll be is the apartment, which has been crawling with cops. He’s probably crossed state lines already. I glance at the IV line into my arm, which hooks up to a bag of blood. Damn it, I think to myself as my head sinks back into the pillows in frustration. I shouldn’t have sent her out there alone.

  ZOEY

  Crime scene tape crisscrosses the water heater by the front door. It’s been dusted for fingerprints, and so has the door. I wonder if that’s what my dad was doing—tampering with the water heater—when Tristan spotted him that time on camera. Or if he noticed it then and came back later to mess with it.

  Inside, everything seems normal. I keep the door open and notice that the cops, or maybe Robert, have opened all the windows to air out the place. I turn on the lights and run into Cole’s room, searching for a note. I come up empty but do discover he’s taken his schoolbag and most of his clothes. I check my room too, hoping Cole had left a good-bye of some kind at least to my mom if not to me. But I find nothing in there, either.

  Disappointment hits me hard, and I sink to the sofa, clutching my hands together as though praying. I’ve heard it said that the first few hours are key in a child abduction, that after twenty-four, the chances of ever seeing the child alive again are almost nil. I know he’s gone willingly, and I don’t think my dad plans to harm him—Cole is the only one of us who believes his innocence—but still, the statistic terrifies me.

  What if the police don’t find him?

  Think, Zoey. Where might he have gone? But I can’t think of anywhere. I don’t know. Cole never said anything, never gave anything away. He and my dad have been communicating somehow, ever since Vegas. I should have pushed Cole to find out how. I should have made him tell me. If I had, then I could have stopped all this from happening.

  But how did they talk? Cole doesn’t have a phone. He doesn’t have an iPad or access to a laptop, and I have checked with the school to make sure about that. He never gets mail. I look around the room, frustrated that I can’t figure it out. I’m staring at the Xbox for a good minute before I realize I’m staring the answer in the face.

  Isn’t it possible to send e-mails or messages via Xbox games?

  I turn on the console and watch the TV screen come alive. I’ve played a handful of times with Cole, so it doesn’t take me long to find the inbox. It’s full of hundreds of messages, all of them between “daddysback” and “Colestar.”

  I want to read them all, trace this toxic relationship and its path and find out how it started, but there’s no time, so I open the last message, sent today at 5:51 p.m. See you there, buddy, my dad writes.

  I click back to the previous message. Are we going to go fishing and on the wheel like you promised? Cole writes.

  Sure thing bud, my dad responds.

  What are they talking about? A wheel? I start flicking through all the other messages, but there’s nothing about a wheel or fishing. I stand up and start pacing the living room, gnawing my already bitten fingernails. I think back to my childhood, digging through memories I’ve long since buried. Anything I can think of.

  We went on a road trip once. My dad told us we were going to the beach—to LA—but we never made it that far, since we got stuck in Vegas, where he lost all our money gambling before driving us home to Scottsdale in a stinking rage. I think Cole was probably about four at the time.

  But Vegas isn’t near the ocean. So I don’t think they are talking about going back there. He must mean somewhere near the ocean if there’s fishing, or maybe a lake, I guess. What if he means Mexico? Then I remember that on that same trip we were meant to stay in a hotel on the beach in LA, by the Santa Monica Pier. My dad told us all he’d take us on a wheel over the ocean and then fishing.

  Like you promised? Cole’s words in his message to dad ring in my mind. On the trip to LA, Cole was so excited he wouldn’t stop talking about it in the car. He’d never seen the ocean. Never been on a Ferris wheel. None of us had.

  That’s where they’re going.

  TRISTAN

  Zoey,” I say, “I’m calling the police. You can’t go on your own.”

  I hear her beeping open her car door. Damn it. She’s not listening. I know how she feels about the police, so pushing her on the subject isn’t going to help.

  I stare again at the IV in my hand. I wish I weren’t stuck in this damn bed. My parents are just outside in the hall, talking to the hospital’s insurance person, and my sister has gone to get me something to eat. For some reason, I’m starving after waking up from the anesthetic.

  “Zoey, don’t go on your own.”

  “I have to do this, Tristan.”

  I grip the phone tightly in my hand. There’s no reasoning with her, and I know I can’t stop her from going. “Please be careful,” I say to her.

  “I will,” she says. And then she hangs up.

  Straightaway, I call the detectives who gave their cards to Zoey. Detective Fredericks answers on the first ring. I explain to him what Zoey told me, about the messages she found on the Xbox and her guess as to the hotel in Santa Monica they might have gone to. I explain everything to him, and he says he’ll pass it on to the LAPD and get right back to me.

  As I hang up, Dahlia walks into the room carrying a take-out pizza. “Extra pepperoni,” she says, laying the box on the bed. Then she stops and stares at me. “What the hell are you doing?”

  I’m struggling out of bed and yanking the IV out of my hand. “I have to go,” I tell her.

  “Where?” she asks, jumping backward as the blood spurts out of the IV line and splashes her high heels and gold sheath dress. She must have come straight from the wedding. The wedding that already feels like it happened a decade ago.

  “Where are you going?” she asks again, trying to get me back into bed.

  I’m woozy and light-headed from standing up too fast, and dots dance in front of my eyes. “Zoey’s going to LA to find Cole.”

  “What?” Dahlia hisses, propping a shoulder under my arm to stabilize me.

  “She thinks she knows where he is.”

  “I thought her dad abducted him.”

  I nod, looking around for my clothes. My shirt must have been put in the trash, unsalvageable thanks to the blood. I don’t know what happened to my jacket, so all I can do is pull on the bloodstained white T-shirt I was wearing beneath my dress shirt. It’ll have to do. I bend down and rummage in the little closet by the bed for my shoes and pants, almost passing out from the effort.

  “Tristan,” Dahlia says, trying to force me back into bed. “You need to stay here. You just had an operation.”

  “It was just a few stitches,” I say.

  “It was not j
ust stitches! You lost a load of blood. This is stupid.”

  “I can’t let her go alone,” I say, sitting down on the bed to pull on my pants, but one-handed and with pain shooting arrows up my injured arm, it’s all but impossible.

  “The doctor won’t let you leave,” Dahlia says, staring at me with her hands on her hips. “Get back in bed.”

  “I’m not asking permission,” I tell her, straining to pull up my pants.

  Dahlia glances at the doorway, where our parents are still talking to the doctor. “Shit,” she murmurs, glowering at me.

  “Either help me or don’t,” I tell her, knowing that she doesn’t have a choice. She’s my twin. We’re in this thing together.

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Fine,” she hisses, grabbing my pants and helping me on with them. She then hurries to help me with my shoes. We don’t need to discuss the plan. Dahlia and I have been covering for each other since we were toddlers, helping each other out of binds, distracting our parents while the other one hid their vegetables in the dog’s bowl, stole the ice cream from the freezer, or snuck down a drainpipe to go out and party. She stands up, nods at me, her face still set in a disapproving scowl, then turns and yanks open the door.

  “Mom, Dad,” she says, exiting in a flourish from the room, holding the pizza. “Tristan’s asleep. Want some pizza?” She opens the box lid, which is large enough to provide a screen of sorts while I slip out the door, and through sheer force of her personality, Dahlia manages to distract everyone while I hobble on weak legs down the hallway toward the exit.

  Two minutes later and out of breath, Dahlia meets me by the exit that leads to the parking lot. I’m leaning against the wall, out of breath, struggling to stay upright, my arm throbbing like it just had a bullet shot through it. I can tell by the angry purse of Dahlia’s lips that she’s still mad at me, but she says nothing, just takes my hand and half drags me toward her car.

  “You forgot the pizza,” I say as she unlocks the doors.

  She glares at me. “You want to go back for it, feel free.”

  We get in the car, and I painfully stretch the seat belt across my body with my one good arm as she starts the engine. Her phone starts chirping. I glance down at it, sitting in the seat well between us. It’s Dad.

  Dahlia gives me a look—it’s my problem to deal with. I press the ignore button. She checks her mirrors, wipes a smudge of lipstick. “Well, at least you have one mighty good-looking getaway driver,” she remarks, stepping on the gas.

  ZOEY

  I’ve plugged Santa Monica Pier into the app on my phone, and I arrive before dawn. As I pull into a beach parking lot alongside the pier, I get a call from Detective Fredericks, letting me know that LAPD detectives have visited almost all the hotels in Santa Monica, trying to find my dad and Cole. They’ve put out an APB, and all units are on alert, but they haven’t found them. He tells me I need to turn around and head back to San Diego and let the police do their job.

  “But you haven’t found him,” I point out.

  He hasn’t got an answer to that, so I hang up and get out of the car. The beach is empty at this hour, and the broad expanse of sand stretching to the ocean seems desolate and barren.

  I glance up at the pier and the funfair frozen on the end, the wheel stationary. It’s closed now, of course, but I imagine in the daytime the pier swarms with tourists.

  It’s cold, and I rub my bare arms. I changed last night into jeans and a T-shirt and a pair of sneakers but forgot to bring a sweater. Standing here reminds me of the first time I ever saw the ocean: when Tristan took us to the beach on our first morning in Oceanside. He didn’t know it was my first time seeing the ocean, and I was too embarrassed to tell him. I remember him giving me his sweater, and the memory makes me wish he were here now.

  I scan the row of hotels facing the beach. The cops apparently checked all of them after I called and didn’t find my dad or Cole. What if I got it wrong? I wonder. What if they’re not here after all? Should I still double-check? Pulling out my phone, I do a search of nearby hotels. Most of the ones on the beach cost five hundred dollars or more a night. No way my dad is spending that much on a hotel room. He’d always save money wherever possible so he could spend what he saved on beer and gambling.

  I expand the search radius, and the farther back from the beach, the cheaper the hotels get. If my dad promised Cole a hotel right by the pier, I’m sure he chose the cheapest one he could find. There’s a motel called the Pierpoint Inn a couple of blocks back from the ocean.

  It’s worth a shot. If I can’t find them, I can always come back to the pier and hope to spot them later. It’s a long shot, and hope is rapidly fading, but I may as well try. I have to do something.

  I get back in my car and drive the mile to the motel, pulling up a little way down the street. If he is here, I know my dad will be watchful. He just snatched a child, and although he won’t expect anyone to be looking for him here, he’s an ex-cop, and he isn’t stupid. It’s possible he has a plan to lie low for a while until the coast is clearer and it’s easier to drive long-distance without so much risk.

  I walk toward the motel’s reception, scanning every truck in the parking lot as I go. I skid to a stop in shock by the second one. The front bumper is completely mangled, and one of the lights cracked. I didn’t get a real look at the truck last night, so I don’t know for sure if it’s the same one, but what are the odds? It feels too easy though to have found it this fast.

  I spin around, feeling a shiver run up my spine. Is he here with Cole right now? Are they in the room behind me? The curtains are drawn. I cup my eyes and peer inside the dark interior of the car. Fast-food wrappers and empty Coke cans litter the back seat, and on the floor, I spot a waving cat. It’s a toy just like the one that Tristan gave Kate. I wonder if Cole picked it up at the last moment and stuffed it in his bag as some kind of memento.

  I jog past the car and hurry into the motel’s office. There’s no one around, so I ring the bell, and a sleepy woman in her sixties with platinum-blond hair and skin like a tortoise comes out of a back room.

  “Looking for a room, hon?” she asks me.

  I shake my head. “No. I’m looking for my dad,” I say, forcing a smile. “He’s staying here with my brother. I want to surprise them.”

  She smiles back at me. “That’s sweet. Where are they visiting from?”

  “Arizona,” I stutter. “I’m at college here. At UCLA. They’ve come for the weekend. I thought I’d surprise them and take them for breakfast.”

  “What name?” she asks, glancing at her computer screen. I hesitate, not sure if my dad would have given a false name. I’m almost certain he would have.

  “That’s their car out there,” I say, pointing through the window and hoping to avoid answering her question. “The maroon truck.”

  “Oh yes, they got in a few hours ago,” she says, nodding and checking the screen. “They’re in room one-thirty-four. They’re probably still sleeping, though. Your brother looked tired.”

  Her words sink in. They are here. Oh my God. I’ve found them. For a second all I can do is stand there, mute. “I’ll come back later,” I finally garble. “Thanks.” And with that, I hurry outside and rush around the corner of the building. As soon as I’m out of earshot, I pull out my phone to dial 911, but before I can, it rings. It’s Tristan.

  “I found them,” I blurt.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I found them. At a motel.”

  “Where? What’s the address?” he asks.

  “The Pierpoint in Santa Monica.”

  “Stay right there,” Tristan says, his voice anxious. There’s a pause, and I hear the muffled sound of him talking to someone. He comes back on. “I’ll be there in less than ten minutes.”

  “What?” I ask in surprise. “Who are you with? Where are you?” I ask.

  “I’m with Dahlia. She broke me out of hospital—”

  “Tristan!” I say angrily. What’s he thinking? />
  “Zoey,” he interrupts. “Wait for me. Promise me you aren’t going to go charging in there. Call the police.”

  “I was just about to,” I tell him.

  “Okay,” Tristan says, sounding relieved. “And wait for them. Don’t do anything stupid. Promise me.”

  “I promise,” I tell him.

  “I love you,” he says.

  My heart kicks in my chest, as it does every time I hear him say the words. Tears spring to my eyes. Last night, I really thought I might lose him. “I love you more,” I tell him.

  “Not possible,” he whispers back.

  I hang up and call Detective Roper. When I explain I’ve found my dad and Cole, she doesn’t hide her irritation that I’ve gone against their orders to stay put and let them handle business. She puts me on hold for thirty seconds before coming back on the line to tell me LAPD officers will be with me shortly. “Get somewhere safe and hang tight. I’ll call you when the situation has been locked down.”

  I murmur in agreement, but when I hang up, I stay put. I’m not leaving. I’m staying until I know Cole is safe. I hide myself next to the ice machine in a little recessed alcove. Standing in the shadows, I bounce on my tiptoes and check the time repeatedly. What’s taking so damn long for the cops to get here?

  I hear a clanging metal sound and peek my head around the corner. The little metal door to the pool has just opened and banged shut behind someone. I see a small blond head on the other side of the railings, and my breath catches. Cole.

  My first instinct is to shout his name and run to him, but I stop myself. What if my dad is with him? I edge closer to get a better view. Cole’s walking along the edge of the pool, gazing down at the water. Maybe Dad told him he could swim in the morning, and he woke up at the first sign of light peeking through the curtains and decided that it was time to swim. He has a towel in one hand, dragging along the ground behind him.

  Is my dad still asleep? I wonder. Should I call Cole’s name? Should I approach him? But what if he yells? I know my dad has been spewing poison in his ear about me, so I shouldn’t risk it. He’s already chosen my dad over us. But something propels me forward anyway. He’s my brother, and he’s right there, in reach.