How to Disappear

by Ann Redisch Stampler

  But why would she believe this? How would I prove it?

  Hey, Nick, look at me. I’m through the first three months of my first semester of college with a 3.8, and I haven’t once tried to kill anybody? I’ve returned from the dark side, and now I’m into college sports?

  Why should she trust me? I don’t trust me.

  But I’m planning to get there.

  I’m planning to get there, risk my life to walk past her dad and, if I survive that, talk to her: I get what I did to you. I’m sorry. I love you.

  Nicolette Says

  Now that it’s officially behind me, I can breathe. The untrue story of what happened is such old news, nobody even wonders anymore.

  Anytime I get slightly upset, people think I have PTSD. They make me sit down, and they get me a glass of water and a doughnut.

  (I say, “Oh no, it’s a frosted doughnut from my hideous past. I’m having a flashback.”

  Jack says, “Shut up and eat your frosted doughnut.”

  Jack so gets me.

  Almost.)

  I was a perfect, pure girl for six months.

  No infractions.

  No detention.

  No back talk.

  I sent the real Catherine Davis a thank-you card. (Plus her license and four hundred dollars.) For Luna, eight honest words. “I’m safe. Thank you for taking me in.”

  Steve finally relented about Jack. It took a while, but how could he miss that Jack was trying to save me? And that I would never give up.

  Five seconds later, I’m on the green burner. I’m pretty sure Jack’s crying. God knows, I am.

  Jack says, “Before you say anything, I love you.”

  I say, “You better. I’m not loving some guy who doesn’t love me back.”

  I’m safe.

  Jack’s safe—he doesn’t even know how safe.

  We’re all safe, and it’s all kind of over.

  Steve says I ought to thank my lawyer for the story of what happened. The one that got me back into Cotter’s Mill Unified High School and straight onto homecoming court. Treated like I was a kitten that got rescued from a drainpipe.

  The fake yet useful story.

  Which is, Jack Manx has self-control and I don’t.

  Which is, I was a total victim and therefore can’t be blamed for anything.

  (The part where I was good at hiding, jumped on a flatbed truck, took cross-country buses, hitched, changed my name repeatedly, got jobs, gained thirteen pounds, stole things, disarmed Jack, had a plan—not in the story. Nothing that makes me sound like Xena, Warrior Princess made it into the story.)

  My part of the action is screaming, “Knife, knife, knife!” like an out-of-control wind-up toy. Reaching for the gun because I was scared that Jack would hurt my daddy. That’s what my lawyer keeps calling Steve. My daddy. It makes me sound like a crazed, blameless little kid.

  I’m nobody’s crazed, blameless kid.

  As soon as I figured out Jack wasn’t lying to me anymore, in the mountains, in California, I knew what had to happen.

  Here’s the thing:

  When Jack said it was Yeager who wanted me dead, I knew he was right.

  It wasn’t Steve sending Jack after me at all. This made me almost happy it was Yeager.

  And I knew which Yeager.

  The one with the reason to want me dead.

  Alex.

  Not Karl Yeager. Alex.

  “The whole Yeager clan is rabid pit bulls,” Jack said.

  “They won’t stop until they stop breathing,” he said. “As long as they’re breathing, they keep coming at you.”

  Alex Yeager wouldn’t have quit coming after me until I was dead.

  And after Alex disposed of me, he would have found Jack. On Jack’s secret eggplant plantation in Paraguay or wherever. And Alex’s guys would have killed Jack too for not doing the job. For not tossing me off a cliff.

  But with Alex Yeager gone, there would be no reason to get rid of me or Jack.

  Jack, in his effort to show me how illogical I am, demonstrated how syllogisms work.

  Bob is a crow. All crows are black. Therefore Bob must be black.

  Alexis Yeager was going to keep coming at me until he stopped breathing. Alex Yeager had to be stopped. Therefore?

  Alex Yeager had to die.

  And I had to take care of it.

  I mean, Jack wasn’t going to—at least not on purpose. Try going, Hey, Jack, let’s go kill someone who’s really bad on purpose.

  His big brother already tried telling him to do that to me, and look what happened. Look at me. Not dead.

  I just needed Jack to think it was Steve he had to protect me from for as long as it took to get from that ugly California forest to Cotter’s Mill. I thought it was Steve who was after me for so long. Why wouldn’t Jack believe it for a couple of days?

  And so I called up Alex. When Jack and I were halfway to Ohio, and I was supposed to be taking an extra-long shower in a motel bathroom. Several extra-long showers.

  I said, “It’s me.”

  “Nicky?”

  “Zandy, why are you hounding me? Don’t you know I’d do anything for you—just like what you did for me? You’re amazing. I want to be with you. Which won’t work if I’m planning my funeral. Don’t you want me?”

  “It isn’t me who’s after you,” he says.

  Liar.

  “It’s my dad,” he says.

  Double liar. I heard you whine, “Don’t tell my dad,” so many times while you were digging the hole. Over and over.

  “Oh God, Nicky, can I see you?” Alex says.

  Bingo.

  Come into my kitchen, said the spider to the guy who stabbed Connie Marino eleven times. When, where, and unarmed because if Steve is there, he’ll take your gun and your stupid SOG SEAL knife right off you. He keeps a pistol loaded in the drawer under the toaster in the kitchen if you need one.

  Not.

  Steve keeps his guns locked up, not rattling around with bread knives.

  Guns versus knives? Guns take it.

  Steve’s arm was collateral damage. I’m truly sorry. That was not supposed to happen.

  Jack was supposed to shoot just Alex in defense of me.

  Steve was right there. He saw me pitch a fit over a dull knife. He knows his arm getting shot was my fault.

  But how could he blame me?

  Alex Yeager was going to kill me. And if I turned him in, his dad was going to kill me. Anyone. Anywhere. Anytime. Just like Jack said.

  But if Alex turned a knife on a five-foot-two-inch high school cheerleader in her own house, how could anybody call out me or Jack or Steve for stopping him?

  If all else failed, I would have done it myself.

  Terrified teen girl clutches gun, fires wildly, fatally wounds assailant. Followed by a lot of prayer that nobody who ever saw me shoot the bull’s-eye right out of a target would ask too many questions.

  But Alex took the knife.

  I screamed.

  Jack shot.

  Alex went down.

  What happened afterward was improv. But all those first responders running around? It was kind of ideal. A great big free-for-all. Terrible tragedy. Look around. Arrest everybody in sight. Interrogate us right and left. Call it self-defense and file it. They already knew Alex Yeager was a very bad guy.

  I wanted my life back.

  The outcome couldn’t have been better. Except for messing up Jack.

  Jack feels guilty as hell. Jack thinks that civilization rises and falls on whether he personally follows the rules. He’s going to feel bad about what he thinks he did forever. He’s going to go through life believing he killed someone when it could have been avoided. The exact opposite of what he wanted. He takes this as proof that any minute he could morph into his dick dad.

  He keeps telling me he’s going to reform. He’s going to be a stand-up guy I can count on.

  I tell him he has nothing to reform from. He’s the most stand-up guy I’ve
ever met. Plus, I already count on him.

  He doesn’t buy it.

  Jack judges himself so hard.

  As for me not having self-control: wrong. I’ll never tell him what actually happened. Him or anyone else.

  What good would it do? Alex would still be dead, and Jack would still have gunshot residue all over him. He’d just hate himself that much more.

  Plus, he’d leave me.

  When I told him how Connie Marino ended up dead by Green Lake (what I did, what I shouldn’t have done, what I knew I shouldn’t have done but did anyway), he said the right words. Not your fault. There, there. So not your fault.

  But his eyes.

  Different story.

  The way he saw me. The way there was an anyway in the middle of his liking me. He liked me anyway.

  This time he wouldn’t like me.

  I swear to God, if I could think of some way I could tell him and not crush him and not lose him, I’d do it. This guy so deserves not to suffer.

  But it beats being dead.

  I saved him.

  I saved his life. I got rid of the asshat who tried to make him kill me and threatened his mother and would have killed him, too.

  But he’d still blame me. And he’d blame himself worse. If he knew.

  He’ll never know.

  I saved us.

  Ask me if I’m sorry.

  Or not.

  You know the answer.

  Acknowledgments

  First, thanks to my agent, Brenda Bowen, without whom this book (not to mention my life as a novelist) would not exist.

  The team at Simon Pulse has been stellar. Thanks to editors Patrick Price, who acquired How to Disappear; Sara Sargent, who inherited it, but embraced, nurtured, and shaped it as her own; and Sarah McCabe, who has run with it, energetically and brilliantly, toward release. Thanks also to Mara Anastas, Jodie Hockensmith, Carolyn Swerdloff, Tara Grieco, Mary Marotta, Lucille Rettino, Kayley Hoffman, Sara Berko, Michael Rosamilia, Michelle Leo and her team, my sales rep Kelly Stidham and the entire S&S sales force, and jacket artist Regina Flath.

  As for the team at JKS—Marissa DeCuir, Chelsea Apple, Caroline Davidson, Jenna Smith, and Angelle Barbazon—magic!!!

  To my primary beta reader, Rick, who goes through every word of every draft; to Laura, whose close reading and notes have been spectacular; and to Michael, who gets story structure so well it’s scary, more thanks than can fit in this space.

  I am so fortunate to have Alexis O’Neill, Carolyn Arnold, Gretchen Woelfle, and Nina Kidd as my critique group, not only because of their expertise and their constant encouragement, but because it’s a pleasure to know them.

  I came close to fan-girling when Sarah Aronson offered to trade manuscripts. Her strong, fresh perspective moved me forward when I was stuck. And having writers whose work I so admire—Carrie Mesrobian, Gretchen McNeil, and Martina Boone—take time from their own work and deadlines to blurb this book put me on the giddy side of grateful.

  As for the generous and incisive April Henry, who started off as a blurber and ended up as a forensic expert/plot wrangler/editor/hand holder/and general thriller writer’s best friend and resource, thank you!

  The experts who’ve helped me with this book have been extraordinary in the depth of their knowledge and their ability to convey it to a novice in their fields. Special thanks to Robin Burcell in equal measures for her forensic expertise and creativity, and to Jason Scott, whose insights into technology and privacy (or lack thereof) on electronic devices was indispensible. Any technical errors in this book are entirely my fault, not theirs.

  Alethea Allarey has made it possible for me to hold my head up online, and Lissa Price has been my voice of sanity throughout this process. (And to the secret FB group that’s been so enlightening, helpful, and just generally wonderful . . . you know who you are, and thanks!)

  Finally, thanks Mom!!! You started cheerleading for my writing when I could barely hold a pencil, and you’re still going strong.

  ANN REDISCH STAMPLER is the author of the young adult novels Afterparty and Where It Began as well as half a dozen picture books. Her work has garnered an Aesop accolade, the National Jewish Book Award, Sydney Taylor honors, the Middle East Book Award, and Bank Street Best Books of the Year mentions. She lives in Los Angeles, California, with her husband, Rick.

  Simon Pulse

  Simon & Schuster, New York

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  Also by

  ANN REDISCH STAMPLER

  Afterparty

  Where It Began

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division | 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 | www.SimonandSchuster.com | First Simon Pulse hardcover edition June 2016 | Text copyright © 2016 by Ann Redisch Stampler | All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. | SIMON PULSE, logo, and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. | For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or business@simonandschuster.com. | The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. | Designed by Gail Ghezzi | Jacket design by Regina Flath | Jacket photograph copyright © 2016 by Thinkstock | Author photograph by Sonya Sones | Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Name: Stampler, Ann Redisch, author. | Title: How to disappear / by Ann Stampler. | Description: First Simon Pulse hardcover edition. | New York : Simon Pulse, 2016. | Summary: “A sexy road trip thriller, told from alternate perspectives, following a girl on the run after witnessing or committing a murder and the boy who has been sent to kill her”—Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2015027340  | ISBN 9781481443937 (hc) | ISBN 9781481443951 (ebook) | Subjects: | CYAC: Mystery and detective stories. | Love—Fiction. | Murder—Fiction. | Organized crime—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Physical & Emotional Abuse (see also Social Issues / Sexual Abuse). | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Dating & Sex. | Classification: LCC PZ7.S78614 Ho 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23