In the Blood (Entangled Teen)

by Sara Hantz

  You’d think losing a few hours would be a welcome release for me after all that’s happened, but it’s freaking me out because I’ve no idea what I did.

  I force myself to take some more deep breaths. Anything that might help me remember what happened these last… I glance down at my watch to work out how long I’ve been out of it and get a huge shock. It’s eight. As in eight in the morning. For some reason, I thought it was still yesterday. Which is crazy when you think about it, but I’m not thinking straight at the moment.

  So, I’ve been out all night, doing fuck knows what, and how the hell am I going to explain it to Mom? She’s bound to want an explanation. It’s not like I stay out all night regularly. Unless she didn’t notice I was gone. That’s always a possibility. She might think I’m in my room. It’s not like she’ll go in there to check.

  If it wasn’t for the fact that I’d never see Amy again, it would be tempting not to bother going home at all. But I can’t leave. Not yet. Then again, if I stay and Amy finds out the truth about Dad and then finds out that I could end up just like him, well that would be my worst nightmare ever.

  The smell of vomit invades my nostrils and drags me from my thoughts. While holding my breath to avoid the urge to chuck again, I take off my shoes (touching only the heels, which are vomit-free) and wipe them on the grass beside me. When they’re as clean as they’re gonna be, I put them back on then think about standing up. The trouble is thinking is as far I get, because my legs feel like cotton wool and aren’t ready to have any weight on them.

  Instead, I lie back down on the bench and close my eyes. I’m so late, another half hour or so won’t make any difference. I guess I could call Mom. Actually, that’s a point, how come she didn’t call or text? I reach into the pocket of my pants, but it’s empty. I try the other pocket and then my hoodie. Nothing. Apart from my wallet. I check all the pockets again, just in case. Still nothing. I peer through the slats of the bench to see if it’s fallen on the ground, but it’s not there, either. So, I must have dropped it or left it somewhere. Or it’s been stolen or I didn’t take it with me when I left home yesterday.

  Whatever.

  This day couldn’t get any worse if it tried.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “Where have you been?” Mom asks as I sneak into the kitchen through the garage, hoping to get cleaned up before bumping into anyone. She’s leaning against the counter, staring right at me; it’s almost as if she knew the very moment I’d be back. Either that or she’s been standing there for a long time waiting, which I doubt.

  “Out,” I say.

  “I know you’ve been out, but where have you been all night?” Her voice tremors, and my eyes widen. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d been worrying about me.

  “Sorry. I was at Troy’s. I meant to call but forgot.”

  “Well, everyone’s looking for you.”

  I knew as soon as I stepped off the bus something was wrong. For a start, loads of people were hanging around talking, which they don’t normally do because they’re supposedly too busy with their own lives. Plus there were two police cars parked across from our house.

  Initially I panicked, thinking that something had happened to Amy, or that it was something to do with Dad again, but I told myself I was overreacting, especially as the police cars weren’t outside our house. I had no idea I was the problem.

  “Why? I’ve only been gone a night. Nothing happened, I’m fine.” Okay, so that’s a lie, but she doesn’t need to know. There’s plenty of time for her to find out the truth.

  I fold my arms in front of my chest, hoping that Mom won’t see the mess on the front of my shirt. Though she’s gonna find out soon enough when she does the laundry, unless I can soak it off in the bathroom.

  “You?” Mom says, a frown etching itself across her face. “It’s not about you, it’s Dawson.”

  “Dawson? Why?”

  This doesn’t make sense. She says they’re all worried about Dawson and yet everyone’s searching for me.

  “He’s missing. You were the last person to see him.”

  A shiver runs down my spine. This isn’t what I think it is. That Dawson’s missing and in my drunken stupor I did something to him. No. It can’t be. I’m jumping to conclusions. For a start, after Dawson left the garage, I went downtown and we definitely weren’t together. Unless he followed me. He could’ve. But wouldn’t I have noticed? I think back to yesterday. There were quite a few people getting on the bus when I did, but I don’t remember what they looked like, I was too wrapped up in myself. But even so, if Dawson was there, surely I’d have noticed. Though he could’ve hidden behind someone so I wouldn’t see him, because he knew that I’d have sent him back home.

  “And they don’t know where he is,” I state, the absolute horror of the situation striking me.

  It doesn’t make sense. How can he disappear off the face of the earth without anyone seeing him? And why? Where would he go? He could have been abducted. Jesus, I hope not.

  “No. And now the police want to speak to you because you saw him last when he was over here yesterday.”

  “How do they know he was here?”

  Shit, this is bad. But it’s not like I did anything to him while he was here.

  “I heard you talking to him in the garage yesterday, which is what I told the police when they called.”

  This changes everything. I’ve got to remember what I did last night.

  What if I took Dawson? Just the thought that it could have been me is making me want to vomit all over again. Jesus, this is crazy. I could’ve already turned into my father and I don’t even know it.

  Or what if I spent my time checking out children? Or worse, what if I befriended a child and took him somewhere, say to the movies or something? Or what if I abducted a child and then took him to a park? And then did stuff to him.

  And if the cops ask all I can say is I don’t remember.

  “Oh,” I mutter, looking down at the floor and wondering how quickly I can get away from here to do some digging of my own to find out where I went and whether Dawson was with me.

  “The police are at Dawson’s house, and they want to see you. I don’t know what you and Troy got up to last night, but you don’t smell good, so clean yourself up first.”

  She turns and heads out of the kitchen, leaving me standing there, my mind whirring with crazy thoughts.

  I clench my fist and thump the wall. Pain rockets through my arm, but it fails to eradicate the feeling of utter despair from my mind. The feeling that I could’ve done something so awful to Dawson. But the thing is, I don’t have any awful thoughts toward him. God, no. I’ve only known him a few months, but already he’s like the younger brother I always wanted. Oh fuck, scrap that. Because who knows what that could lead to. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Chapter Thirty

  To avoid speaking to Mom again or seeing Amy, I decide to change in the garage, and, as I pull off my shirt, several buttons go flying across the floor. Screwing it up in my hand, I throw it as hard as possible into the trash can, where it belongs. I don’t want to see or hear anything that reminds me of last night.

  Except I do. I have to find out what happened to Dawson. Where is he? Is he lost? Is he hiding somewhere? Has someone taken him? Have I taken him?

  But first the police, so they can get on with the search. I know from my research the first twenty-four hours are crucial in any missing child investigation.

  I pull on an old green tee that’s hanging on the hook by the door leading to the kitchen, pop some gum in my mouth to try and get rid of the dry, disgusting vomit taste, and head for the yard. On the way out, I glance at my shirt in the trash and stop as suddenly it hits me.

  Evidence.

  It’s evidence.

  I can’t throw it out, because when they discover about me being out all night and not remembering anything, the police will likely want to test it for Dawson’s DNA, especially knowing who my dad is.

 
Then again, am I just being melodramatic? Fuck if I know.

  I take the shirt from the trash, fold it, put it in a plastic bag and then place it under the bench. Not to hide it, just to keep it from getting lost and also to contain the vomit smell, which is really strong. Then I turn off the light and head out the garage, down the driveway and onto the street.

  Just as I get to the other side, I hear someone shouting.

  “That’s him. That’s Jed Franklin, over there.”

  I stop dead in my tracks and stare at Mrs. Williams who’s pointing at me. She looks awful. Her hair’s messy, and there are black makeup stains under her eyes. I doubt she slept all night.

  A police officer in uniform strides past her and heads toward me. A little voice inside tells me to run in the opposite direction, then common sense takes over and I stay put, even though I start to sweat profusely.

  “Jed Franklin?” the officer asks when he reaches me.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, nodding my head.

  “I’m Officer Halstead. We’d like to ask you some questions about Dawson Williams. At your house?”

  “Sure,” I say, turning back.

  “I’ll get my colleague, and we’ll meet you over there.”

  I shrug and then walk away. How weird is it that he’s letting me go on my own? Though why wouldn’t he? It’s not like I’m under arrest or anything.

  Walking through the garage, I toss a glance in the direction of the shirt and wonder whether I should give it to them. Then I decide against it. It would be like admitting my involvement when in fact I’ve no idea whether I was or not.

  “Mom,” I say, when finding her sitting in the living room reading a magazine. “Where’s Amy?”

  “Try the den,” she says, not looking up.

  “The police are coming over to question me. If I bring them in here, will you go and sit with Amy and make sure she doesn’t try to find me? I don’t want her to get upset by the police being here.”

  Mom frowns. “Worrying about Amy isn’t important right now.”

  Yeah, maybe from her perspective it isn’t.

  “You’re wrong. It is. And finding out what’s happened to Dawson, obviously. So will you stay with her?”

  “Okay,” she finally replies.

  That’s good, because I don’t want her overhearing the police accuse me of being like Dad. Though why would they? All they know is I was the last person to see Dawson. They don’t know about my drinking or my blackout. But it won’t take them long to take the same leap I did and focus their attention on me once they do find out.

  Crap. I could be in a lot of trouble. If only I could remember what happened. I’m so desperate not to have hurt Dawson. And I’m desperate for him to be found.

  A ring at the door interrupts my thoughts.

  “It’s them,” I say to Mom. “I’ll let them in and you go to Amy.”

  We both head out of the living room, Mom in the direction of the den and me to the front door, my heart pounding in anticipation of what’s gonna happen.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I pause for a moment before opening the front door, to think. Am I guilty? Am I innocent?

  As much as it would destroy me, being guilty would prove my theory correct. And then I’d be locked up, and it would stop anything bad from happening to other boys. I keep saying “boys” but, for all I know, it could be girls, too. There’s nothing to say my predilections are going to be the same as Dad’s. Except I don’t want it to be Dawson that I harmed. Christ, no. It really would be too awful to bear if I destroyed his life. And let’s not even think about Amy.

  The bell rings again, and this time I do open the door. There’s a far different expression on these guys’ faces than there was on the detectives who came to ask me to visit Dad. The officers in front of me look like they mean business. Especially the one I haven’t met before, whose arms are folded across his huge barrel chest. His face is marked by a deep frown and narrow, piercing eyes.

  “Come in,” I say, holding the door open. “We can talk in the living room, through the door on the right.”

  “Thank you,” Officer Halstead says as they both walk into the house and head toward the living room.

  I don’t know if they do it intentionally, but they manage to sit on either side of me. Halstead on the couch, me on one of the matching easy chairs, and the other officer only a couple of feet from me on an upright chair he dragged over from where it usually stands by the wall. If their aim is to intimidate me, then they’re succeeding. I feel really freaked by it all, and I can barely stop myself from shaking. Which is a pathetic look for a seventeen-year-old with a hangover and the hugest guilty conscience ever, whether or not it’s justified.

  “Jed, this is Officer Strong,” Halstead says, nodding at Strong. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Dawson Williams.”

  “Sure,” I say, trying to hide the trepidation in my voice.

  Hey, how come they can question me on my own, yet Spalding, the other detective, insisted on speaking to Mom first? Then again, at the time Spalding said it was a matter of courtesy because I live at home. Plus Halstead did speak to Mom earlier, so she probably gave her permission then. But really, does it matter? I don’t know why I’m getting so caught up in worrying about it.

  “We understand Dawson came to see you yesterday in your garage,” Halstead states in a very matter-of-fact tone.

  “Yep. At around three.” I’m finding it really hard to sit still; a body language expert would have a field day with me.

  “Why?” Halstead asks.

  “Why what?” I reply, frowning, unsure of what he’s getting at.

  “Why did he come to see you?” Strong says, a slight edge to his voice.

  It’s like they’re playing a good cop/bad cop routine. I bet they didn’t speak to Mom like this.

  “He’s visits me all the time. He likes to talk about cars and trucks and—”

  “So why tell his mom you hadn’t seen him?” Strong interrupts.

  “He didn’t want his mom to know.” I shift awkwardly in my seat, waiting for them to freak about that.

  “Why not?” Strong leans in and fixes me with an icy stare from his pale gray eyes.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. Strong arches an eyebrow in disbelief. “Okay, because of my dad and the court case and all the media interest. She didn’t want him to come here.”

  Why are they acting like it’s such a crime to help Dawson out? I didn’t know yesterday was going to turn out as it did. If I had, I wouldn’t have hidden him. I wouldn’t have had a drink, and I wouldn’t have gone out. Then none of us would be sitting here worrying ourselves to death about where he is and whether he’s okay or not.

  “So you were looking out for him?” Halstead asks.

  I turn to look at him. “Yes. Which is why I said he wasn’t here when she came by.”

  The two of them exchange a glance, and then both stare at me. I look from one to the other. What the fuck have I said now?

  “So, you’re saying that Dawson was still with you when his mom came over? That you told her you hadn’t seen him, when really he was with you in your garage all the time?” Strong asks.

  “Yes. He was hiding.”

  Am I dumb, or what? I don’t get why it matters whether he was with me or not when I told his mom I hadn’t seen him. But, clearly, they think it’s bad.

  “May we see where exactly?”

  “Sure.” I stand and they immediately do the same. “This way.”

  They follow in silence as we go into the kitchen and through the door leading to the garage.

  “You work in here?” Halstead asks, sounding surprised.

  “Yeah.”

  Now what? I look around and it seems perfectly okay to me.

  “It’s nothing like mine. It’s too clean and tidy.” He scans the garage, goes over to my toolbox, opens the top drawer, and stares in. Is he allowed to go through my things without a warrant? Like I’m gonna ask.


  “I like things tidy,” I say, an edge to my voice. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, we’re just trying to get a picture of Dawson’s last known movements,” Halstead replies.

  Strong looks as if he’s just about to say something else, when Halstead begins to speak.

  “Where did Dawson hide?”

  I point to under the bench. “Under there.”

  “Of his own free will?” Strong asks, going over to the bench and peering under it.

  “Of course of his own free will. What do you think I did, tie him up and shove him under there?” I snap.

  I didn’t mean to lose it. I know they’re only doing their job. And it’s hard because I want to tell them all about me, how my life could be in the future. But I can’t because it will make a huge impact on everything. And I can’t risk them changing the direction of their inquiries without proof that I’m to blame.

  “And what time was this?” Halstead asks, ignoring my little outburst.

  “Three-fifteen, maybe. I didn’t check.”

  “And when did you let him go?” Strong asks, standing up and moving toward the other bench, which has my shirt underneath.

  I hold my breath, praying he doesn’t see it. This probably isn’t a good moment for my shirt to be found.

  “He left shortly after his mom.” I can feel the tension brewing in the pit of my stomach, and I clench and unclench my fists at my side.

  “Where did he go?” Halstead asks.

  “I don’t know. He just left.” I run my hand through my hair, and my fingers get stuck in some knots. I feel really dirty not having had the chance to clean myself up since last night. And I’m guessing I don’t smell too great, either.

  “And what did you do then?”

  Here it comes, the question that’s gonna incriminate me.

  “I went out.”

  “Where?” Strong asks.

  “Why? I thought it was Dawson you’re looking for, not checking up on me.”

  They do suspect, I can see. It’s written all over their faces, even if they don’t have anything to base it on.