The Space Between Heartbeats

by Melissa Pearl

  Dale stops short at the end of the path and watches Dad jerk the driver’s side door open. I scramble into the car before he can close the door on me, and flop into the passenger’s seat. With a sharp frown, he fires up the engine and screams out of the driveway so fast Dale has to jump out of the way to avoid getting hit.

  “Dad, what the hell? Where are you going?”

  It takes only ten minutes at the speed he’s traveling until we’re sitting in the Hutton’s driveway beside the sheriff’s white cruiser. Dad barrels out of the car and stomps to the front door.

  After several forceful knocks, the porch light comes on and Sheriff Hutton opens the door, wearing navy blue sweatpants, a Denver Broncos sweater, and a confused glower.

  “Mitchell? What are you doing here?” He puts his hands on his hips, filling up the doorway.

  Dad looks down at his shoes, squeezing the back of his neck. “Sorry to show up like this, Gerry, but I need to talk to you.”

  The sheriff gives him a long, steady stare before moving aside to let Dad pass. “Okay.”

  I follow him inside and stand in the living room. The house is smaller than I remember. The new couches are oversized and boxy, and the only light in the main room is coming from a tall reading lamp in the corner. Just off the living area is a brightly lit dining room. Adam sits at the dining room table with open books, a laptop, and sheets of paper scattered around him. He glances at my dad, his face creasing with worry.

  “Hey, Adam.” Dad nods at him.

  Adam stands and smiles a greeting, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Is everything okay, Mr. Tepper?”

  “Adam,” his dad warns quietly. “He came to see me.”

  Adam glances at the floor. “Sorry, I was just wondering if this is about Nicole. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you yet, Dad, but she wasn’t at school today and . . . well, is that why you’re here Mr. Tepper?”

  Dad gives Adam a glum smile. “Yes, that’s why I’m here.”

  Worry swirls in Adam’s clear blue eyes and I’m reminded why I used to hang out with him so much. He’s always cared so much about people. I’ll never forget the time he gave up his umbrella and walked home in the rain so that Jody and I could get home dry, or the time he invited Jody to play Monopoly Empire with us, even though she had no idea what she was doing. He gently talked her through each move and she ended up winning the game. I think she fell in love with him that day.

  I close my eyes, trying to shut off the memory of her adoring blue gaze and lovestruck giggle.

  “Adam, why don’t you go finish up your homework in your room. You’ve still got a lot to get through,” Sheriff Hutton says. Adam opens his mouth to protest, but is cut off by a stern look from his father. “Don’t wake your mother.”

  Drooping his head, Adam mutters a good-night, slapping his laptop closed and slipping from the room. The sheriff waits until we hear the quiet click of a bedroom door down the hallway before turning to face my father. “How can I help you?”

  “Dale Finnigan came to see us just now,” my dad begins. “He says he spoke to you today . . . about Nicole being missing? But that you didn’t take him seriously.”

  The sheriff puffs out a sigh, rubbing his chin.

  “Why didn’t you call me immediately?” Dad frowns at him, the pale light casting ominous shadows over my father’s already pasty complexion.

  The sheriff raises his large hand before my dad can speak again. “I thought someone had. I told one of my deputies to call you.”

  “Your deputy? Gerry, Nicole used to play here as a kid. We used to be friends. We—”

  “I’ll have a chat with Deputy Peck tomorrow, make sure this doesn’t happen again.” The sheriff brushes off my dad’s complaints with a flick of his hand and quickly changes the subject. “Did Dale tell you why I didn’t trust his little hunch?”

  Dad crosses his arms, obviously annoyed at the sheriff’s evasive technique. “No. What do you mean?”

  “First off, I know more about Dale Finnigan than I care to. That kid has a dark past, and frankly, Mitchell, so does your daughter. She posted to a social media account just last night that she wants to take off to LA . . . with your stolen credit card.”

  “That’s not exactly what I said.” I dig the toe of my boot into the paisley carpet, knowing that my Instagram pic could easily be construed as more than just a shopping spree.

  “I know she’s lost her way a little bit, but she’s a good girl, Gerry.” Dad dips his head, then looks up like a lost kid, tears glinting in his eyes. “We can’t find her. She didn’t come home last night and none of her friends have seen her.”

  The sheriff scratches the stubble on his chin again. “Well, have you called her?”

  “Several times,” Dad says emphatically. “It just keeps going to voice mail.”

  The sheriff’s dark eyes glitter. “I hate caller ID. You can’t surprise people anymore.”

  Dad nods stupidly. It’s obvious he’s only now realizing I may have been dodging their calls. I’d love to tell him I’ve never done that, but it’s not true. I actually have designated ringtones for them, so I won’t reach for the phone when my parents call. When I don’t want to talk to them, I can just listen to the tone and ignore them. I flush with guilt.

  The sheriff studies my father. “I put a call into the LAPD earlier today, but no one matching her description has been seen at any of the bus stations.”

  My dad shakes his head. “I don’t know, Gerry. Something about this just doesn’t feel right. I called the credit card company earlier and no charges have been made. What if . . . what if something bad’s happened to her?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Dad.” I move to his side. “Finally. Listen to him, Sheriff.”

  “What are you thinking?” The sheriff plants his feet, his critical gaze softening a little.

  “That maybe she’s hurt or maybe someone’s taken her.” His voice cracks. “What if something terrible has happened and we’re all assuming she’s just run away? I can’t live with that, Gerry. I need to find my daughter.”

  “Mitchell, I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now”—Sheriff Hutton puts a hand on my dad’s shoulder—“especially with everything that happened to Jody. But nine times out of ten in these situations, the teen has run away. They show up a few days later, a little tired and embarrassed, but fine.”

  “I’m not fine!” I scream at the sheriff.

  “Still, let’s generate some posters of her and put out some feelers. If she’s not in LA, maybe someone around here saw something helpful. Does that sound okay?”

  Dad looks relieved. “Should we start a search as well?”

  “Let’s see what we hear first. If we have to start a search, we need to know where to look.” Sheriff Hutton pats Dad’s arm. “I’ll do everything I can to help you out, but right now, you need to go home and rest. If someone’s taken her or hurt her, we’ll find them. I can promise you that.”

  Dad turns to leave, then hesitates, opening his mouth to say something. A quiet despair washes over him. “Thanks, Gerry.”

  “I’ll call you in the morning.” The sheriff leads him to the front door.

  Dad moves in slow motion as he waves good-bye and gets into his car. He drives home in robot mode. We pull into our driveway and he cuts the engine, places his hands on the wheel, and lets out a long, slow sigh.

  “Dad?” Laying my hand gently on his arm, I try to get a response, even a shiver as my fingers pass through him, but he gives me nothing. He just keeps staring ahead, looking lost and afraid.

  I want to lean my head on his shoulder and tell him it’s going to be okay, but I can’t. I’ve already been missing for a day, and by the time the sheriff finally authorizes a search, I may be dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WEDNESDAY, 10:17 PM

  Dad remains in
the car in front of our house with his head pressed against the steering wheel. The minutes tick by with painful slowness and it soon makes me antsy.

  “Fine,” I huff. “I’ll go check on Mom, then.”

  The house is cold as I move through it. I follow the white glow coming from the kitchen and find my mother sitting at the counter, picking at a microwave meal. She’s still dressed in her black skirt and blue blouse, but her feet are bare.

  “Mom?”

  I step in front of her. Her blue eyes are unfocused, staring at the flimsy plastic tray. Her fork is poised above her food. It’s like she knows she needs to eat, but she can’t quite bring herself to do it.

  When I put my hand over hers, my mother blinks and finally comes to with a shiver. She looks at the clock and scoffs, throwing her fork into the sink. With practiced efficiency, she goes to the cupboard and grabs a large wineglass. She selects a bottle, uncaps it, and pours a full glass of dark crimson liquid. It’s gone after four big swigs.

  “Easy, Mom.”

  She pours another glass and slams the bottle on the counter. A sudden sob spurts out of her mouth as she dips her head. Her hair falls over her face and her shoulders shake.

  “Don’t cry,” I whisper.

  The sobs keep coming out of her, slow and pitiful. I reach for her, but my hand moves right through her shoulder. She shivers, sucking in a breath and snatching her wineglass off the counter. Walking out of the kitchen, she heads through the living area and up the stairs. When she reaches my room, she pauses in the doorway. She sniffs, then flicks on the light and steps inside.

  My room is the polar opposite of Dale’s, filled with books lined up in height order so they look tidy at a glance. My clothes are neatly folded in drawers or hung precisely in my closet—shirts, pants, jackets grouped by item, then color. My understated bedspread is pulled tight to perfection, just the way I like it.

  Mom starts riffling through things on my desk.

  “Can you stop that, please?” I cringe as she ruins my system. I try to reach out and reshuffle what she’s mussed up, but my fingers go straight through everything.

  Mom takes a seat on my bed, flicking on my lamp and placing her glass down on my bedside table. Her gaze lands on a blue hardcover book, the one I’ve never thought to hide because my parents never really come into my room. My diary.

  Shit.

  The amber light casts an eerie glow on her as she stares down at it, indecision flitting over her beautiful face. She reaches for it, then pulls back, shaking her head. She picks up her wine and takes a gulp, but her eyes stay on the diary.

  “You don’t want to read it, Mom. Trust me.”

  The wineglass clunks back onto my table and Mom snatches the book.

  “No.” I lurch forward and try to grab the book from her, but my fingers pass straight through the pages. “Please,” I beg as she opens the cover. I slap at the book and this time it wobbles and falls to the floor. I gasp, a mixture of triumph and horror. Did I just do that? I stare at my fingers. Mom picks the diary up off the floor.

  I slap at it again, but to no avail. The book is now firmly in my mother’s hands. I close my eyes and cringe. I write everything in that book.

  I take a peek and see she’s starting at the beginning.

  “Great, Mom. Wouldn’t want you to miss anything.”

  This is bad. I turn away from her, pinching the bridge of my nose, and torture myself by listening to the flick of pages as she reads. Eventually, I can’t stand it anymore and spin around to see where she’s up to.

  Her eyes shimmer with tears, but she still continues to read.

  “Okay, that’s enough.” I lurch forward and try to grab the book from her again, but I don’t even ruffle the pages. She sniffs loudly and turns the next page. I move to lean over her shoulder and read what’s on the page.

  I can’t believe I did it. I lost my virginity to Chris Cooper!

  I cringe, utterly humiliated.

  “I thought it would be magical,” my mother murmurs my words aloud, “but it wasn’t. It actually really hurt and he’s barely spoken to me since. Not that I care.”

  My mother drops the book in her lap.

  “Not that you care? Oh, honey.” She covers her mouth and blinks away tears until they leak down her cheek.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” I sit down beside her, shame flooding through me. The truth is, my friends told me he was hot and super cool and I’d be an idiot not to go for it. It was just easier to give in. It kind of happened before I could stop it. The past few years are littered with decisions like that one, choices I made because they were easy, not because they were right.

  Mom swipes at her tears, inadvertently rubbing mascara around her face. She collects the book and flips to my final entry. Her already broken expression falls even further.

  “Oh, Nicky.”

  Dad appears in the doorway. “How you holding up?”

  Mom shakes her head, her chin trembling. “This is our fault.”

  “Hey, don’t say that.” Dad steps into the room and leans against the wall.

  “I found her diary.” Mom lifts the thick book, flicking the pages with her thumb. “I don’t know this girl.”

  “Do you really think you should be reading that?”

  “Yes!” She opens it up again and slaps her hand on the page. “Yes, I should. I can’t believe we’ve let so much slide. Do you know she stole your credit card last week?”

  Dad shoves his hands in his pockets and looks to the floor with a heavy sigh. “Yeah, I know. I meant to talk to her about it . . .”

  “How could we let this happen?” Mom’s broken whisper rips into me.

  Dad scans the room. “We were letting her grieve, Trudy.”

  “For over two years?” Mom slams the book shut and tosses it to the floor. “We weren’t letting her grieve; we just didn’t know what to do with her.” She stands up and straightens her skirt. It’s futile, she still looks like a mess.

  Dad rubs a hand over his mouth, looking straight through me. “We’ve done the best we can.”

  “Have we?” She approaches my father.

  Before he can reply, she walks out the door, her wine forgotten on my bedside table.

  Dad turns to watch her leave. “Trudy.”

  I hear her descending the stairs. Dad punches the wall behind him and swears.

  “Follow her, Dad.” I walk toward him. “Please. She wants you to follow her.”

  Almost as if he can hear me, he pushes off the wall. We head down the stairs and into the kitchen. Mom is waiting for water to boil for tea while rinsing a few dishes.

  Dad slaps his hands against the island. “Jody’s death was hard on all of us. We’ve all been trying to find our way, Trudy.”

  “On our own.” She pauses to look at him. “How was that ever going to work?” The kettle whistles and Mom pours boiling water into a mug. “Maybe we should just stop pretending.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, come on, Mitchell. We’ve only stayed together for Nicole. And look at all the good that’s done.”

  Yanking on the knot in his tie, Dad pulls it off and shakes his head. A muscle in his jaw works overtime until he manages to pull off an even-keeled voice. “Not me. I’d never leave you.”

  Mom closes her eyes. “You left me the day Jody died.”

  “I stayed.” Dad throws his tie on the counter. “You just stopped letting me in.”

  Mom lifts the tea bag out of her cup and throws it in the sink. “I don’t know us anymore. I don’t even know my own daughter.” She turns and looks at Dad, her eyes awash with fresh tears. “Don’t you see? With her gone, we have nothing left.”

  The hopelessness engulfing us is almost too much to bear, but I don’t have to endure it for long. A cool breeze whistles over me, making me shiver.
My teeth start to chatter and a familiar, awful feeling runs through me.

  “No,” I whisper.

  My head starts pounding and bile swirls in my stomach. I cry out, clutching my temples in fear.

  “Not again,” I whimper.

  The room starts to spin and the walls rush toward me. I scream as inky blackness engulfs me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WEDNESDAY, 11:16 PM

  I open my eyes and realize with a gasp that I’m back in my body. The air around me is clear and cold and a few stars twinkle between the branches. I shiver as the wind whistles over my skin. It hurts to move, but I can’t stop my muscles from quivering in the night chill. Jacket. I need to put my jacket over me.

  Trying not to move my head, I scan the area and see a shadowy lump resting against my upper thigh. My bag. I stretch toward it, but pain slices through my side—an intense fire that steals my breath.

  “You can do this.” I will myself to fight through the stabbing pain, and thrust my right hand toward the bag. I make contact but can’t get a good grip on it. Squeezing my eyes shut, I mutter a curse, then try again. It hurts like hell, but this time I manage to wrap my fingers around the leather strap.

  A triumphant smile flutters over my lips as I drag it toward me, but the bag jerks to a stop and refuses to come any closer, like it’s stuck on a branch. I raise my head to get a better look, but I can’t make out anything in the darkness.

  I scowl, tugging a little harder and wrenching the strap. The leaves rustle as if they’re laughing at me. “Come here, you stubborn piece of—”

  The bag breaks free, bringing with it a pile of leaves and bracken. I scream and cover my face with my good arm. A spasm sears up my leg. I shift to try and ease it, which causes my body to slip to the side and before I can stop myself, I’m sliding down the embankment.

  Pain explodes in me like fireworks.