by S. Massery
My phone buzzes, and Baker’s name scrolls across the screen. He and I are meeting up after this for a run, but maybe he’s early.
“What’s up?” I answer.
He hesitates. “Why did I just see you go into a Hamilton building?”
I squint around. “Huh?”
He’s one of the few people who I became closer to after Sky’s video caught national attention. A fellow senior at Ashburn, he drew some of the scrutiny—especially since the video starts with him beating my face in. Not nearly as much as I did, but we bonded over the disruption to our lives.
“I’m visiting my parents, who live across the street,” he says shortly. “Mara Hamilton owns half the block, and I’m pretty sure you don’t know anyone in that apartment building. Did you miss her gold-plated name over the door on your way in?”
I cross to the window and peek out, wondering if Baker is doing the same.
I could lie… or I could just be straight with him. He isn’t the sort to call the cops, not with underground fighting hanging over his head.
“Mitchel Norton,” I say. “You know him?”
“Nice enough guy,” he replies. “Why?”
“He’s been paying a little too much attention to Sky.”
I continue my perusal of his bedroom. He has a king-sized bed in the center with some fancy duvet in dark blue and gold on top. It reminds me of that bracelet Caleb was always wearing in high school.
“Morrison.”
I ignore his warning tone.
“Please tell me you’re not in Mitchel’s apartment right now.”
I scoff. “Do I look like the type to break into a fellow student’s apartment after they left for class?” I pause, then add, “He has a cat.”
“Fuck,” Baker groans. “Why?”
“I’m searching for something to lord over him,” I admit. “He doesn’t seem particularly interested in leaving her alone, and I’m trying the high road for once.”
“You could just trick him into signing up for the next Howl, then bludgeon his face in.”
I lift the corner of his mattress, but there’s nothing under it. His nightstand has a small bottle of lube (which I consider dripping across all the doorknobs in his apartment), a box of condoms (thank God the man isn’t interested in procreating), and… I suppress my gag… handcuffs.
Skylar would be out of here faster than a roadrunner.
I close it and chuckle. “If I beat him up in public, he’d just win everyone’s sympathy. He’s a scumbag, I can feel it. I just need to find evidence.”
Baker huffs. “Good luck. You know the name over the door? That’s Norton’s mommy.”
Ah, I knew the last name sounded familiar. Part of my deep-dive research at one a.m. last night. I knew his mom was rich, but owning an apartment building in Boston seemed to escape me.
Maybe I should’ve focused on her more than him.
“You still there?” Baker asks.
“Yeah, I’m checking to see if there’s a false bottom in any of his drawers.” I knock on the wood loud enough for him to hear it.
“Well, he’s coming in through the front so you might want to get out of there.”
Fuck.
I hang up and slide the phone into my back pocket. Adrenaline surges through me at the prospect of getting caught. It’s a bit different than breaking into Sky’s apartment. I know she won’t hurt me, but Mitchel could call the police.
The headline blazes in my mind: Underground fighter turns to a life of crime. My mother would have a heart attack. Dad would disown me—it was already a close call two years ago.
I slam the drawer shut and jog to the door. On my way out, a piece of paper sticking out of a drawer in the kitchen catches my attention. It’s the one thing I’ve seen that’s out of place in this spotless apartment. I hesitate for the briefest moment but ultimately abandon it. It’s probably nothing.
And Mitchel will be close.
I crack the door open. Footsteps in the stairwell urge me back into the apartment, and I duck into the hall closet.
Smooth.
The damn cat hops off its perch, stopping directly in front of the closet. The door is slatted, giving me a partially obstructed view of the door and living room.
It lets out a warbling meow just as the lock turns, and Mitchel enters.
I glance around the closet. There’s a chance he might want something in here, and then I’ll be screwed. There’s a vacuum in the corner, a row of neatly hung winter jackets—a boring assortment of dark-colored peacoats and a puffy one—and some boots. A mop and broom lean against the wall. Above the jackets are stacks of games. Trivia, board games, charades.
It’s like the guy really wants friends but he has no idea how twenty-year-olds live.
“Hey, little buddy,” Mitchel says to the cat. “I forgot the notes I promised you-know-who. Wouldn’t want her mad at me, right?”
The fucker squats right in front of the closet, scratching the cat’s chin.
I struggle not to lose it. He has to be talking about Skylar. The way he watches her, held her fucking hand on campus… He’s giving her notes now? They have more classes together than just the math class we all share?
Maybe she asked for them… Ignored me and continued on her mission to fuck with my mind.
His phone chimes. “Fucking parents,” he whispers to the cat. He stands, placing a hand on the closet door to keep his balance.
It clicks, and I realize with horror that I hadn’t closed it all the way. Blood sings through my ears, blocking out my breathing.
But he doesn’t seem to notice. “Shoot, I’m gonna be late.”
He moves deeper into the apartment, grabs something, then hurries out. The door slams, the lock flips, and I let out a slow breath. Talk about a close one.
And then I realize he’s going to meet Sky. As in, right fucking now.
Baker waits for me across the street. His arms are folded over his chest, and I get the distinct impression that he’s trying to hide his amusement.
“Thought for sure I’d have to come to your rescue,” he says when I stop in front of him. “What happened?”
“He forgot a paper or something. I hid in the closet.”
He snorts. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m gonna kill him,” I reply. “He’s going to meet her right now.”
“Well, there’s time to intercept him,” he says. “If we run toward school instead of toward the Fens.”
Yeah… that could work.
I nod sharply, and we take off.
Running brings back the strangest memories. Not bad ones, necessarily, but flashes of a past I’m not sure I’m proud of. Running with my friends, yes. The football and lacrosse teams in the fall and spring, staying in shape on the treadmill in the high school’s basement workout room when snow made the roads tough to travel.
I would slip out the house when my parents argued and run through the woods.
Looking back, I shouldn’t have abandoned Jake at the house. Sometimes he followed me, stumbling in my wake, but most of the time, I was alone.
“What’s the plan, exactly?” Baker asks.
People on the street dodge out of our way, but I’m not sure if it’s his large frame or the scowl on my face that does it. Half intimidating, half adored. The girls who came to our parties always tried to flirt with me. For a while, I leaned into it.
They wanted to fuck the Howl fighter, and I gave it to them.
I involuntarily shudder. The sex wasn’t the problem—it was that I didn’t care. Each lay was just another notch on the post, so to speak. None of them mattered.
We round the corner and come into view of the school. The gates are open—they have been since the dead girl’s boyfriend was arrested—and I immediately spot Sky. She’s gnawing her lip, staring down at her phone.
And it appears we beat Mitchel here, because she’s alone.
Almost like fate.
Her head jerks up, and she meets my
stare. I’m not sure what I’m expecting—maybe her usual glare—but her eyes are wide.
It isn’t anger or annoyance on her face…
Her terror is familiar. Easily recognizable, like a favorite scent. But this feels off. Tainted, somehow. Her fear isn’t my doing.
She rushes toward me instead of away, and the world crackles around me. We’re in a jar filled with lightning, and I have tunnel vision.
Sky stops just in front of me, shoving her phone under my nose.
I snatch it and read the headline, and my stomach bottoms out.
Another girl reported missing in Boston.
10
Sky
Liam and his friend walk me back to my apartment.
It wasn’t so much the headline as who.
Whitney’s best friend, Natalie.
He probably doesn’t realize. He thinks I’m just upset that another Ashburn girl was taken. While that is unsettling, it’s the fact that this time I know her. We have a class together. My roommate is her best friend.
She and I have rotated in similar circles for the last two years, ever since Whitney invited me along with them to Howl. For the record, that wasn’t the best impression I could’ve made.
My phone has been eerily silent. No one’s called to see how I’m taking the news. No check-in from Whitney, either. The news must not have reached my parents, but I’m not in a rush to tell them about this.
Mom will want me to come home.
Dad will insist to let the police do their jobs, that the school will take care of us.
And Mom would retort that clearly the school isn’t taking care of us, as two girls have gone missing in the past three weeks.
I swallow. My hands are in my pockets, but they’re clammy and frozen. We approach my building’s walkway, and Liam’s friend stops.
I glance at him, but Liam’s hand on my back propels me forward. He focuses straight ahead, but the muscle in his jaw tics intermittently. We stop at the door, and I pull out my keys. They slip through my fingers, crashing to the concrete steps.
He snags them and unlocks the door. Everything is blunted—my emotions, my senses. I don’t even have enough wherewithal to be alarmed at Liam’s accompaniment. Or the fact that I’m not freaking out.
I mean… I am freaking out, but I’m not. I can’t feel it. I know my body is shaking, and I keep scanning the street like someone’s going to hop out of a black van and chuck me into it. But my fear is wrapped in whiskey-soaked cotton, dulling the edge of it just enough for me to be okay.
To survive it.
Liam still has my keys, and he doesn’t hesitate to let us in and type in the alarm code.
Whitney should be home. It’s early enough in the day that she would still be here, getting ready for her later classes. The apartment is empty. Silent. I don’t know why it’s eerie, except for maybe the fact that I could easily imagine Whitney missing in Natalie’s place.
What’s the difference?
What separates Whitney from Natalie from Amber Huck from me?
Nothing, as far as I can tell.
“Sit,” Liam says.
I cross to the window and put my hand on the glass. It was just snowing the other day, and frost still clings to the outer pane. After a moment of contemplating the rows of brownstones stretching out across the next six, seven blocks, I sit on the couch.
One of my favorite blankets, hand-knit by one of my high school friends, is draped over the back of it. I wrap it like a shawl and tuck my chin into it. I make myself as small as possible—legs drawn up, arms and blanket wrapped around.
I can’t get warm.
Liam sets a glass of water on the coffee table, scanning the room. “Where’s your roommate?”
I shrug.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” he states.
“She’s my roommate’s best friend,” I whisper. “It’s not the fact that there’s another girl from our small school missing, it’s….” I stop and take a breath. “I know her. Whitney will be devastated. The article—”
“Oh, yes,” he interrupts, cutting me off. “I didn’t finish reading it. Did you?”
I frown. “I read most of it.”
He hums and sits beside me, pulling my phone from his pocket. He never gave it back after I shoved it at him. In a matter of seconds, he’s past my lock screen and scrolling through the article.
I ignore the fact that he knows my passcode. After the first time he got into it, I changed it. He had been right: setting it as my birthday was dumb. But this one was more creative, and he still was able to guess correctly.
“Her parents filed the report yesterday morning,” he tells me. “She’s been gone since Saturday.”
Today is Tuesday. It took them forty-eight hours to realize their daughter was gone.
I chew on my lip. “Whitney and Natalie went out on Friday after Whitney’s shift. So…”
The door bangs open, hitting the wall, and I flinch.
My roommate sweeps in, freezing when she spots Liam and me.
“You’re here,” she says.
I nod once.
“Did you see…”
“Yeah. Are you okay?”
Her lower lip quivers, and that’s the only warning we get. She bursts into tears, hiding her face in her hands.
“I have to go to the police station,” she says, hiccupping on her breath. She dabs at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “I was the last one to see her. Maybe you can come—”
Liam stands. “She can’t.”
Whitney’s jaw drops. “And who even are you? I mean, I know who you are. The better question is, why are you here? After all the shitty stuff you put us through?”
He appraises her, then glances down at me. “Stay inside.”
I frown.
He strides past Whitney, slamming the door shut behind him.
We’re both silent for a moment, then I pat the couch. “He walked me home. I was a bit shaken up.”
She drops down next to me, leaning her head back. Her eyes squeeze shut.
“I’m scared,” she admits. “She wouldn’t run away. That’s what people assumed about Amber, and maybe it’s unrelated, but… Natalie’s in trouble, and I’m fucking terrified.”
A lump forms in my throat that’s hard to swallow around. Whitney’s right: Natalie wouldn’t just leave without a trace.
Someone took her.
I take her hand. “Me, too.”
In the end, I do accompany Whitney to the police station. We order a car, because it’s dark by the time we manage to leave our apartment. Neither of us is in the mood to travel by foot, anyway.
The police station is half deserted by the time we arrive, a few cruisers in a side parking lot. The building is well-lit, and the front is mirrored glass. Inside, we go to the officer at the desk. Whitney gives her name, and soon enough, a plainclothes detective comes into the lobby.
“Ms. Travers?”
Whitney rises, casting a glance at me.
“I’ll be here,” I murmur.
She follows him into the back, and I resist the urge to fidget.
“Hi, are you Skylar?” A new detective approaches. Her light-blonde hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, and her face is makeup-free.
“Yes?”
She sits beside me and sticks out her hand. “Detective McAdams. My partner is talking to Whitney. She’s your roommate, right?”
“Yeah, I offered to come with her…”
My stomach flips. Why do they want to talk to me?
“How well did you know Natalie?”
Did? That isn’t good. The past tense, I mean. Have they given up on finding her already?
An imposing man sweeps into the lobby from the parking lot, with Liam right behind him. I automatically straighten.
“Detective,” the man barks.
McAdams flinches, rising to face him.
“I take it you didn’t read the case notes,” he says lightly. His gaze goes to me. “
Skylar Buckley?”
I stand, folding my arms over my stomach. “Yes.”
He grunts. “Get out of my sight, McAdams.”
Liam watches me.
“I’m Captain Davis. Please excuse McAdams’s behavior… she’s eager.”
“Right,” I say.
This captain just comes in here and orders one of his detectives to stop questioning me? That’s either a good thing or a really, really bad thing. I’ve heard that police will sometimes not question suspects right away when they’re strong persons of interest. It’s all a matter of not scaring them away.
I’m not scared away, but tepid fear has settled in my chest.
“Can you hold on a moment? I’ll retrieve your roommate.” A second later, the door closes behind him with a soft click.
I have too many questions for him. Like why he’s here, how he managed to bring a police captain to my rescue… “Liam—”
“Don’t,” he grits out.
Oh boy.
I fully face him, surprised at how angry he is. It doesn’t even make sense—of course I was going to go to the station with Whitney. Who else does she have?
He can’t even face me. He’s immobile in the center of the room. Even angry, jaw clenched, he’s beautiful. Loathing crawls up my throat. While his family struggled financially, he never struggled in high school. Liam and his friends ruled Emery-Rose Elite, and I guess I was expecting some sort of slide once he graduated.
Yet when I found him fighting at Howl, clearly adored by the crowd… Nothing had changed. He was still on top—albeit a bit more muscular.
Whitney is shepherded out, and I join her at the doors. Her eyes are red, and she sniffs once before meeting my gaze. Without looking at Liam, I push the door open and gesture for Whitney to leave.
The sooner we get out of here, the better.
And if Liam isn’t going to deign to speak to me, I can return the silence.
Instead of leaving us, he slides into the front seat of our waiting car. The driver nods to him and glances at us in the rearview mirror.