The Last Confession of Autumn Casterly

by Meredith Tate

  Adrenaline spikes inside me. It’s almost sunrise. We’ve got an hour, maybe two, tops.

  “Go, Ivy! Go, go, go!”

  Something yanks at my wrists, and I’m swept off my feet and thrust through a cold, dark tunnel. I blink, those familiar shards cutting into my ribs, that same cloth blacking out my eyes.

  Oh my God. No. Not yet. It can’t be time.

  Fear turns my veins to ice. My heart slams against my ribs.

  Come on, Ivy. Come on.

  Someone’s clammy hand latches around my wrist. I lurch at the touch. I hate not seeing what’s happening.

  I squint, desperate to soak up anything through the fabric, any final detail that could delay it and save my life.

  “She’s awake.” A hand brushes my forehead. My muscles tense, and with one swift tug, my blindfold is yanked off.

  It’s Nick—or whatever his real name is.

  I jerk away from him. He strokes that shitty attempt at a goatee. “How’re you feeling, sweetheart?” A click echoes in the room, a bolt sliding into place. He’s got a pistol, locked and loaded, clenched between his hands.

  Ivy can’t take on a gun by herself. She needs the police.

  Hollow breaths rip through me. This is the end.

  Nick bends over, and I catch another glimmer of silver from his holster.

  Guns. So many guns. I clamp my eyes shut, waiting for it to come.

  “Put the damn blindfold back on,” a deep voice growls. It strikes me with a pang of familiarity again. “Mark’s coming with the truck in an hour. We’ve gotta do this before the whole town wakes up. I’m not dumping a body in broad daylight.”

  I whip my head toward the familiar voice.

  The revelation smashes into me.

  I know where I am.

  I’m thrust back out of my body as quickly as I was pushed into it. It takes me a second to catch my breath, back in the hallway at home. A spark of hope explodes in my chest.

  “I know where I am.” I whirl toward my sister. “I know where I am!”

  Ivy sits on the bottom step, putting her boots on.

  Her phone lies open on the ground, with Google Maps pointing toward the Mountain Road address she found online.

  It’s the wrong way.

  “You’re going the wrong way.” I rip my hands through my hair. “Ivy. Listen to me. Don’t go to that address. That’s the wrong place. You’ll be too late.”

  Another tug wrenches the breath from my lungs, throwing me back through a long tube of darkness.

  I’m in my body. A man stands with his back to me, a long rifle clenched in his grip. Another gun. They’ve left the blindfold off after all. My captors file out of the small wooden prison, their heavy boots clomping against the cedar, and bolt the door. That chain rattles through the hole, sealing me inside.

  They’ll be back with the truck in an hour.

  I close my eyes, forcing myself back to Ivy. The familiar tunnel encapsulates me, spitting me back out at home.

  I steady myself against the banister.

  Ivy buttons her coat, her face rigid with determination.

  Ivy. My sister, Ivy. The only sister I have. She can find me. All I have to do is send her there. It’s so easy. I know how to do it; if I focus hard enough, if I grab on to that invisible connection binding us together, she’ll hear me.

  I swallow hard as it hits me.

  She’ll go without question. She’ll charge right into the lions’ den, unarmed and unaware.

  I hesitate as she slides her purse strap over her shoulder. She’s risked everything for me this weekend. She could’ve lost her best friends, could’ve gotten arrested, could’ve ruined her reputation at school. All for me.

  I press my hand to her cheek and close my eyes, feeling her warmth beneath my palm. That familiar connection thrums to life between us.

  “You’re going the right way.” The words gum up in my throat. “You did it. You found me. I’m in the barn on Mountain Road. And I’ll see you . . . soon.” My voice breaks.

  Ivy’s brows lower. She takes a deep breath and pushes open the front door, cringing when the hinges squeak. I watch as she plows outside, into the soft morning darkness tinged with pink.

  A new sense of finality settles deep in my bones. I’ll go back to my body. I’ll wait for the end.

  “Goodbye, Ivy,” I say to no one. And then I let myself drift away.

  IVY

  Crap, I did not think this through. I need a ride to Mountain Road. I hate not being able to drive. Dad will never take me; he probably wouldn’t even believe me. Worse—maybe he wouldn’t even let me go.

  I stand at the edge of the driveway, shivering. A glimmer of sunlight peeks up from the horizon, casting an orange glow over the star-speckled sky. I check my phone: 5:11 a.m. Dad will wake up for work in twenty minutes. I can’t let him catch me. I open up the group chat, bobbing up and down on the balls of my feet.

  Me: Can someone pick me up? I think I know where Autumn is.

  It’s a long shot. Sophie and Jason are the only ones with licenses, and they’re probably not even awake yet. And after yesterday’s blowout, I doubt Jason wants to see me. Frankly, I’m not so eager to see him, either.

  No response.

  Shit. Okay. This isn’t the worst. If I have to, I’ll use the emergency Uber account Dad made for me. Maybe I could even get there and back before school, and I won’t have to cut.

  My bike. It’s a long ride from here, but I’ll do it.

  Shit. It’s still at Jason’s. I can take Autumn’s—she hasn’t used it in years anyway.

  I’m about to sneak back into the garage when my phone vibrates—Jason.

  Be right there.

  My heart jumps. Okay. I have a ride.

  Me: You’re awake?!

  Jason: I am now.

  Another Jason text pops up in our private chat. PS—can we talk about yesterday? I feel really bad.

  This is absolutely the last thing I want to deal with right now.

  Me: Later. We need to hurry.

  Jason: OK. I’ll be there in ten.

  Me: I’m waiting at the end of my driveway.

  I hug my arms around my torso and jump around to create warmth. Everyone should be waking up for school soon.

  As if on cue, a text pops up from Patrick, and I realize I still never added him to the Nerd Herd group chat.

  Hey, just wanted to say thanks for being so cool about everything yesterday. There’s a smile emoji at the end.

  I check the time, wishing Jason would hurry the eff up. I type back, Of course. I’m here if you need anything.

  Me: Or, you know, if you have any questions about Concord stuff. Four years is a long time! Not that much changes here.

  Patrick: Actually, can you explain something to me?

  Patrick: What was that whole Coach Creepo thing? Everyone kept laughing about it, but I don’t get the joke.

  I roll my eyes.

  Me: It’s gross. He’s this pervy coach that has, like, immunity from being fired. You should ask Will about him. Creepo was probably still creeping around back then.

  Seriously, I wish we didn’t need the whisper network. Some dudes need to be put on blast.

  Ew, that’s not cool, he says, followed by a vomit emoji.

  Me: Not in the least.

  Patrick: Will probably doesn’t know about him though, he didn’t go to Concord High.

  Patrick: He went to Bow.

  My eyes stutter over the last text. I read the word ten times before it hits me.

  Bow.

  There are four things I know about the town of Bow: it’s in the middle of nowhere, Patrick used to live smack dab on the town border, Jason found a Bow yearbook in Liam’s room, and the town is super, super small. Like, their whole high school has a
few hundred kids at most. Assuming Liam’s around the same age as Pat’s brother, there’s a 99 percent chance they know each other.

  I quickly text back. Does your brother know any Bow guys named Liam?

  My heart races as I wait. I open my Facebook app and search for Will Perkins. I’m not friends with him, but it doesn’t take me long to find his profile. Thankfully, he kept his page public. I’m totally judging him for the fact that he’s on here as William Perkins III. Wow, he looks so different now. I hope poor Pat isn’t doomed to lose his hair this early. It’s hard to believe this is the cool guy we used to shoot hoops with when we were kids.

  I open up his friend list and search for Liam.

  No results.

  I scroll down Will’s profile. It’s a small chance, but maybe he was tagged in a photo with Liam back in the day and I can find his profile that way. Their high school isn’t that big. But Pat’s brother apparently never posts, because the most recent updates on here are an onslaught of birthday messages back in May.

  Happy Birthday, Will! Hope it’s a good one.

  HAPPY B-DAY!!

  Big L! When did we get so old? Lol

  My nose scrunches. Big L? Is that some sort of dick metaphor? Strange nickname.

  There’s another one. Old af big L, happy b-day, man.

  Okay, what the hell?

  Happy Birthday, Liam! Have a great day!

  I read it once, twice, three times.

  My eyes zero in on his name—William Perkins III—and only four letters stick out: LIAM.

  A chill courses through me.

  No way. It can’t be.

  A new text from Patrick pops up. Some of Will’s friends call him Liam, actually! Mom hates it though. Why?

  I swallow. Patrick did say Will was troubled. How troubled are we talking?

  My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I need to phrase this right. How do I ask is your brother a criminal who might be connected to Autumn’s disappearance? and not lose Patrick as a friend? What if I’m wrong?

  Me: What’s Will up to right now? He doesn’t live with you anymore, right?

  Patrick: Nope. He lives on Fisherville Road with a roommate. But he stays at Dad’s house a lot, because all his crap is still stored there. He’s currently monopolizing Dad’s basement and his shed. Dad won’t even let me go in there—I think he’s afraid I’ll mess with Will’s stuff or start using his drugs or something. He adds an eye-roll emoji.

  Fisherville Road—the site of Saturday’s infamous Ninja Turtle break-in.

  Patrick: Why are you so curious about my brother all of a sudden lol . . . please don’t date him.

  I shudder at the thought. I quickly open Safari and type in William Perkins, Concord Monitor, police log. The page immediately pops up—and there’s Will’s mug shot, right along with a report of a break-in at the corner store.

  The night before Autumn disappeared.

  The cops said some guy broke into the corner store with Autumn, but it wasn’t just some guy—it was Will. And Will was trying to get a plea bargain, handing over a bunch of texts implicating Autumn in the crime. If he’s throwing Autumn under the bus to save himself, maybe he doesn’t want Autumn to tell her side of the story.

  But Will’s in jail. He couldn’t have hurt Autumn. It had to be someone who’d care about Will and want to shield him.

  Or someone who wants to avenge him.

  I was jk, Patrick replies, with a wink face.

  Low, simmering fear spreads through me. Patrick couldn’t be involved. He wouldn’t be. He’s not like that. But part of me hesitates. How well do I really know him? What would he do to protect his brother? Part of me refuses to believe it.

  I think back to when we were kids, running through the woods behind his dad’s house.

  His dad’s house.

  If anyone would do something shitty to Autumn to protect Will, it’s their dad.

  I find Patrick’s dad’s house on Google Maps—4.2 miles from here. The opposite direction from this Collin Jameson guy’s house. I need a way to investigate both—somehow.

  Jason.

  I open my text with Jason. Scratch that. I need you to drive to Mountain Road, the big yellow house near that stop sign you ran last month when I spilled coffee all over my pants, and look in the old barn in the backyard. Make sure the mailbox says Jameson. Look for Autumn. Tell me what you find.

  He texts back, Wait, really? Why aren’t you coming?

  Me: I need to cover all my bases. I’m checking somewhere else.

  Me: If you crash because you’re texting me while driving, I will kill you.

  My pulse thrums in my ears. A sense of urgency whispers over my skin. I jump on Autumn’s bike and pedal as fast as I can, my phone clenched between my right hand and the handlebar, with the map on the screen.

  The entire ride, my brain is in total freak-out mode. Maybe she won’t be there. Or maybe she will. I don’t know what would be worse.

  I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m just going to check quickly, do a clean sweep of the yard, then pedal straight to school. Pat’s dad works weird hours, so he’s probably at work now. No one will see me.

  The longer I ride, the lighter the sky gets.

  I know people assume that fat girls are out of shape, but I have really strong thighs. I can outbike literally anyone. Okay, except maybe Olympians and professional cyclists. But it’s a long, uphill ride, and by the time I reach Mr. Perkins’s street, my legs are screaming and my lungs are burning and sweat is dripping down my face.

  I pull off the road and catch my breath. If anyone sees me, I’m totally screwed. I check my phone—5:45 a.m. I tense. Dad should be awake by now. Did he notice I’m missing?

  I stash Autumn’s bike in the patch of trees in the vacant space between Pat’s dad’s house and the neighbors’. I’m suddenly all too aware of how secluded this house is. Leaves rustle as I pass through the underbrush, creeping toward the house. I tiptoe, but branches still crack beneath my feet. When I can see the house clearly, I crouch behind a rock and peek out.

  The driveway’s empty, but I can’t see the garage from this angle.

  It doesn’t look like anyone is here. For a good five minutes I sit, and wait, and watch, probably stalling, but I blame it on being careful. He must be at work.

  Cold gray clouds blanket the lightening morning sky. I shiver, wrapping my arms around my torso.

  Now or never.

  The small wooden shed comes into view, shielded by trees, a good hundred yards behind the back of the house. I’m struck with a heavy dose of déjà vu. Pat and I spent so many hours in these woods, playing in this shed. I could be killing our friendship if someone sees me here.

  But Autumn’s life is more important.

  The moment I see the heavy silver padlock on the door, a veil of dread cascades over me. This shed was not locked when we were kids—why would anyone need a heavy-duty lock to guard some old gardening tools? If the Perkinses were going to hide something, this would be the place to keep it.

  “Autumn?” I whisper. My heart pounds against my ribs. “You there?”

  I press my ear to the wood, but my pulse thrumming in my ears and the wind whispering through the trees blocks out everything.

  A pile of heavy rocks sits beside the shed, marking the graves of countless goldfish and bettas Patrick refused to flush. I grimace, darting a glance up to the quiet house.

  Screw it.

  I wrap my fingers around the biggest rock I can carry. It’s a struggle, but I get it to the shed door. Using all my strength, I heave it against the wood above the lock. The metal crashes, but the wood doesn’t crack.

  I try again. Sweat beads on my hairline. Gritting my teeth, I throw all my strength into the push. A small crack spiders across the door.

  Again.

  With a grunt,
I plow into the wood. The door cracks, and the padlock falls to the grass with a thump. I yank the chain out of the door, my breath catching.

  My phone vibrates.

  Jason: I’m here, I don’t see anything. There’s like eight different pot plants though.

  A photo of the barn follows.

  Jason: One other thing. I took Fisherville to get here. I did a double take when I drove past the house. And, uh . . . I’ll just show you.

  Another photo comes through. There’s Liam’s house, the site of our break-in. Parked right there on the side of the road, a stone’s throw from where we parked Saturday night, is a green Toyota covered in bumper stickers, AL HAWKE FOR DELAWARE 2012 clear for all to see. The same car we followed from the vacant lot where I found Autumn’s keys—where those sketchy guys were lurking—is parked at Liam’s house. They’re connected.

  Somewhere, deep down, I know what’s coming.

  I rip open the shed door. My heart plummets.

  There, lying on the floor in a heap with her hands bound, is Autumn.

  AUTUMN

  When the wooden door opens, my heart practically explodes in my chest. But it’s not one of the men returning to kill me. Even through my swollen eyes, I can tell it’s Ivy framed in the doorway. My muscles turn to liquid. For the first time in days, I could cry from sheer relief.

  Ivy rushes over and drops to her knees. “Autumn. Oh my God.” She brushes the blood-caked hair off my forehead and rips the gag out of my mouth.

  She found me. She’s really here. I almost don’t believe it.

  “Ivy.” The word feels like sandpaper in my throat. Everything is swollen and sore, but oh my God, she found me. How?

  “Hang on.” She pulls out her phone and texts Jason, Call 911. Patrick’s dad’s place.

  My relief melts away into stone cold terror.

  “They’re . . . coming back.” I force the raspy words through the desert in my mouth. “Have to . . . leave.”

  “C’mon.” Ivy tucks her phone into her back pocket. She darts her eyes around the small space and grabs a rusty hacksaw off the wall. I cringe as she tears the saw back and forth through the rope binding my hands.