by Kim Purcell
“I can take you home,” Josh says.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Come on, hon.” Steph’s fingers curl around my arm. “This is stupid.”
“I’m staying.” I pull my arm back and she looks surprised, like she actually thought I might come. “You can go. I’m not going.”
“Are you kidding me?” She plants her hands on her hips. “I’m not going if you’re not going.”
Detective McFerson tromps over the bushes toward us, through the crowd. The glove is off, thank god. He stops a few feet away. “Are you sick, Jessie?”
“Not anymore. It’s all out of me—it’s on the ground.” And on that guy’s shoe.
“You’re certain?”
“Is it his blood?” My eyes fill up.
“No, I don’t think so,” he says, and then, softly, “I think you should go home, Jessie.”
“I don’t want to go,” I say, a bit loudly. My voice squeals. Maybe I sound like I’m about to go bat-shit crazy because people turn to look. I make my voice even out. Steady now. “I need to be here. It’s just the shock, you know? I heard someone say blood.”
He gestures back at the SAR guys, who are digging up dirt and putting it in bags. “It’s probably from an animal.”
“Oh.”
He glances at the pistachio bag crunched in my hand. “What’s that?”
“I found it, right there. I saw he had a receipt in his wallet?” Maybe he doesn’t know about the receipt. “He bought pistachios on Friday.”
“That’s right.” He puts on a glove. “Good job, Jessie.” He takes the bag from me and puts it in an evidence bag.
Above us, there’s the crackle of lightning. Everyone looks up. The detective walks back to the search and rescue team and they talk in low, anxious voices.
3:34 PM Monday, Matheson Trail parking lot
Even though the lightning seems to be to the left of us, and it’s not coming any closer, they call the damn search off. Everyone’s back at the parking lot and buses are already taking kids back to the school.
I slosh toward the detective, the mud squishing through my toes in my running shoes. He looks up at me, raising those big eyebrows, spotted with beads of rain, like birds nesting on branches.
“We can’t stop because of a little lightning,” I say, clenching my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. “We got lots of hours of light left.”
The detective gives me a steady look. “We’re not stopping; we just can’t have a bunch of kids out in this weather. It’s a liability issue.”
“Oh,” I say.
Josh moves in next to me. “You look cold, Jess.”
The sweatpants are drenched, my shoes are filled with water, my hoodie is soaked, despite the rain cape, and I’m shaking. “Did you find anything else?” I ask the detective.
“Maybe.” He frowns. Like he’s thinking. “Jessie, I have a question for you.”
It makes me mad, him and his questions for me. “Why do you always got to do that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Say my name and then say you have a question. It freaks the crap out of me. I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, but you should just ask the question.”
“Fair enough.” His eyes crinkle at me. “Do you have Chris’s phone?”
“What? No!” I exclaim. “Weren’t we looking for his phone all day?”
“Relax, I’m just asking.”
“Why?” Josh says.
“We just got the phone records back,” he says with a sigh. “His phone has been pinging all over the place. Last night, it was pinging by Jessie’s house, around midnight.”
“Midnight? That’s when Steph came over. She saw a car there.” What if your killer has your phone and he was outside my house? “And I got this call last night on our home phone?” I say. “Not from Chris’s phone. It was this creepy guy. He called me a bitch. I thought it was just like one of those online troll guys who found my phone number. But it’s unlisted, so maybe it’s the guy who has Chris’s phone.”
The detective looks worried. “Okay, we’ll get that call traced.”
“Has his phone made any calls?” I ask.
“No, it’s just on,” he says. “Like you told me.”
“If he has Chris’s password, it means he did something to Chris.”
“We don’t know that, Jessie.” He shakes his head. “It’s too hard to guess. Anyone could have his phone. Maybe he gave it to someone.”
“Well, I don’t have the phone. And Chris wouldn’t have given it to anyone else. I bought it for him.” My teeth are chattering.
The detective looks back and forth between us. “You kids did a great job out there today. You should go get warmed up.” He’s trying to get rid of us.
I don’t move. “Did you talk to Dave Johnson?”
“He has an alibi.” He clears his throat. “He was down by the Pitt the whole night with his friends.”
“But that’s where they beat him up before,” I say.
“I know, Jessie. Relax.” He waves his hand, trying to get me to calm down, but good luck with that.
“That’s not an alibi!”
“Actually, Jessie, it’s a pretty good alibi, backed up by plenty of good witnesses, kids from nice families.”
I glance at Josh, hurt. We all know I don’t come from that sort of family, the kind that has a normal mom and a dad who comes home every night, the kind of family that has flower beds in their backyard where no one can see.
“Don’t you think they could have lied for him?” Josh says.
“We interviewed everyone separately. The boys admitted the other incident, and some girls were there this Friday. We interviewed them too. They wouldn’t have a reason to put themselves on the line for those guys.”
I can think of a whole bunch of reasons. “Did you ask Johnson to whistle?”
He shakes his head. “No, Jessie.”
“Then I’m going to ask him to whistle.”
“You stay away from that boy. It won’t do you any good.”
I walk away and toss back over my shoulder, “Whatever.”
Josh follows me, sloshing behind through a mud puddle. “Hey,” he says. “They’re trying their best.”
I feel like crying, but I don’t. We walk toward the car.
Someone behind us says, “You’re Josh, right?”
Josh turns. It’s your dad. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you very much.” He shakes Josh’s hand for what feels like a long time. “Rosemary told me all about you. You’ve been a good friend to my boy. I appreciate it. He’s had a rough time.”
It chokes Josh up. “He’s a good guy.”
What does he mean by a rough time? Because of me?
Your dad’s face folds into a map of sad lines. “He sure is.” He turns my way. “You must be Jessie?”
“Yeah.”
He shakes my hand too, and I’m real grateful. I was getting worried he might just ignore me. He stares into my face with his serious eyes, taking an inventory of my tangerine hair with the ash-blond roots, my upturned nose with the ring, my too-small chin, the zit on my forehead. Yep, it’s all there.
Is he trying to figure out what you see in me? Sometimes I don’t even know myself. I stare back.
He reminds me of you. Something about his intensity, how he looks right into me. I wonder if he laughs like you.
“Thank you,” he says.
Nothing about how I’ve been a great girlfriend. I don’t blame him, though.
“Sure,” I say, awkwardly.
Your dad says good-bye and strides over to the detective. We keep walking toward Steph, who’s standing by the highway. She waves us over. “I want you to meet Pete.”
A truck with huge tires pulls up, and the driver waves. Now that it’s time to meet this boyfriend, I sort of don’t want to. These guys never last long and they’re always jerks and I don’t want to think of Steph’s boyfriend when you’re lost and possibly in danger.
But right off, this one seems different.
Normally, her dudes would beep and she’d go running. But he jumps out of the truck and lopes toward us.
Then, I’m like, Yep, he’s her type. He’s got the same longish hair, and he’s wearing jeans and the standard black T-shirt with a heavy metal band on the front.
He grins at her. And Steph’s smiling back at him real sweet, which is odd. She’s usually anxious around her guys, but she’s looking at him like she looks at me, only sexier.
When he comes up, she wraps her arms around him and gives him this long, inappropriate kiss, shoving her tongue down his throat. Which is classic Steph. But for once, the guy is embarrassed. He steps back with a cough. Steph introduces him and he actually shakes our hands. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says to me. “It’s so good to finally meet you.”
Has she been hiding him from me because he’s nice? “Same,” I say.
He gives me a shy smile. I smile back, quickly, even though I’m weirded out. I was wrong. This guy is so not her normal type.
“You want a ride home?” Pete asks me.
Steph grins. She didn’t have to ask him if he would drop me off. “I think I’m going with Josh?” I say, glancing at him.
I hope he says yes. I really don’t want to be in that truck with Steph and her new guy, while Steph’s groping him like a maniac. I want to grope you like a maniac. I want to give you a big old inappropriate kiss. I want to shove my tongue down your throat. I want to run my hands across your back, bury my nose in your neck. I want to smell you.
“Sure, no problem,” Josh says.
We say bye.
I drop down into Josh’s car, exhausted. Smash my shoes against those energy drink cans again.
Josh lowers himself into the driver side. Gives me a worried look. I hold it together long enough for Pete’s huge truck to drive by and to wave back at Steph, and then it’s just too much.
I drop my head down into my palms and sob.
Josh turns on the car so that the heat’s blasting on me, but he doesn’t drive off. We sit there. He rubs my back slowly in small circles. Just waits. Finally, when it’s all out of me, and I feel exhausted, he hands me something. “Here.”
It’s a hand towel. It feels clean.
I wipe off my face, soaked with rain and tears, and then, I’m not even thinking, because I blow my nose in it.
“Did you just blow your nose in my towel?”
I look down at it and laugh. “Oh my god, I did. I’m sorry.” I try to hand it back. “Here.”
“Oh no,” he says with a laugh. “You can just keep that puppy.”
It’s funny how we can still laugh, right? Then, he starts up the car, and we drive down the road.
4:10 PM Monday, Scott’s Donutes
It’s still early, so we decide to stop by Scott’s. The manager will know if you came in—you’re always talking to her. She even sits down with us sometimes. When I’m with you, she always says hi to me too, and remembers my name, which is nice, because most people don’t bother.
There’s a long line, but I see her up front, taking orders in her smiley way.
I glance at our empty table. I can see you sitting there with your shimmering eyes, your dimple sliding into your cheek. I wave at you, in my brain. But you won’t wave back. You just stare at me. Like you hate me.
When we get to the front, Roberta looks at me in surprise, and then at Josh, like she’s trying to figure out if we’re together.
I speak fast, “We were wondering if you saw my boyfriend, Chris, on Friday after school? He’s missing.”
“I saw you kids on the news.”
I hold my breath, scared of what she’s about to say, like maybe that our town isn’t racist, that everybody loves you.
“I’m so sorry, honey.” She gazes at me with sympathy. Maybe she can see that my eyes are all puffy. “You and Chris are so sweet together. This must be hard for you.”
I did not expect that. That’s one thing about our town, sometimes people surprise me with their kindness.
“I wanted to join the search today,” she says. “But I had to work.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “We had lots of people.”
“Did you see Chris on Friday?” Josh asks, like he doesn’t want to know the answer.
She nods slowly. “I see him almost every day. On Friday, he came by around four thirty, sat in the back corner, ate a couple doughnuts, then left. Didn’t talk to anyone. You know, usually he’s so friendly. He asks about my kids. But not on Friday. He was spaced-out….” She frowns. “He had his headphones on, and he looked like he didn’t want anyone to bother him. Left without saying good-bye.”
I’m probably staring at her like I’ve just seen a car accident, but I can’t help myself. This is not what I want to hear.
“I’m really sorry.” She sighs. “I wish I’d said something to him. It wasn’t busy. I could’ve gone up, brought him an extra doughnut on the house. I could tell he wasn’t right. His eyes were—” She sees how we’re looking at her and shakes her head. “Anyway, I sure hope he shows up. Most kids do.” She manages a little smile. “What can I get for you two?”
I don’t feel like anything now, not even my jelly-filled, but we order coffees and she hands us a bag of doughnut holes. I try to give her some money, but she waves it away. “It’s on the house.”
Josh thanks her and takes the bag of doughnuts. I pick up the coffees, and then I pause. “Why do you spell doughnuts wrong on the sign outside? Chris always wants to know.”
Her eyes crinkle sadly. “I think it was a mistake at the sign shop.”
“Oh,” I say, sucking my lip. “I’ll let him know, when he comes home.”
So now you know, blame the sign people. I lead Josh to our table in the corner. He places the doughnuts between us. The fluorescent lights blare down from the ceiling.
Over the speakers, Norah Jones is singing “Come Away with Me.” You sang that song to me a couple weeks ago, right here, at this table with the crack in the linoleum. They must have it on their playlist.
You begged me to come away with you and I said no.
I wish I could talk to you. I mean, I want to kiss you and run my hand along the sharp curve of your back where it meets your ass and do nasty things with you, but even more than that, I want you to be here with me at Scott’s Donutes. I want to hold your hand across the table and tell you I’ll come with you to North Carolina, or any other damn place you want me to go.
This song is so beautiful.
“I can’t eat those,” I say.
Josh swallows. “Me neither.”
We get up and Josh grabs the bag, but when we’re outside and Roberta can’t see, he tosses it in the garbage.
4:45 PM Monday, Josh’s car
Josh speeds through the streets. He’s probably going to crash the damn car if you don’t get back soon. We’re heading into our fourth night. I fire a series of texts at your phone:
Me: Hello person who has Chris’s phone
Me: Better turn yourself in, you sick fuck
No response.
Me: Hello?? Whoever has this phone, I dare you to answer me.
Me: Hey, small dick
Me: Puny tiny ball-less wonder
Me: The cops are onto you
No response.
I look back on our old texts, refreshing. I guess the cops have read them all by now.
There are about four times the number of texts from you to me than from me to you. Most of my recent texts to you are okay, a few are pissy. At least before the fight.
My last text before the fight is Nice elbow. Code for butt. You do have a nice elbow. It really bugs me that the person who has your phone might be able to read our texts. Especially my grumpy ones.
Our fight was on Wednesday. You weren’t supposed to call or text, but that night, you texted that you were sorry and to please call. I didn’t answer. On Thursday, you wrote a couple texts in a row about how you miss me
and you needed me, etc. They sound desperate.
I told you: STOP.
And then you wrote: Please, let’s meet.
Me: No.
You: Five minutes. We have to plan our trip.
Me: One week.
You didn’t text again.
I glance at Josh. We’re at a stoplight. “He hasn’t texted me since Thursday. But he was talking about our trip, look.”
I show him the text about the trip. His jaw flexes, and he drives forward, staring out the window. Rain is hammering the car now.
“Do you think he went on the trip without me?” I say.
Josh says sarcastically, “Have you met Chris?”
My chest aches. I speak in a low voice because I have to know. “Josh?” I say. “Did he say anything that might have made you think he’d do anything to himself? I mean, I know he was upset, but—I just want to know.”
He is silent way too long. “There was one thing.”
4:55 PM Monday, Josh’s story
Josh turns down my street and pulls up in front of my house. The rain is beating down on his car. By my feet, the cans shift as he jerks to a stop. He swallows. His Adam’s apple jumps like a little mouse stuck in his throat.
“Just fucking tell me,” I say, gritting my teeth. I am not ready for this. I am not ready. Please don’t.
“I keep thinking about something that happened last Thursday,” he says. “I can’t get it out of my head.”
“What can’t you get out of your head?”
“We were on a run and we were crossing the highway?” He glances at me, briefly, like he’s not sure if he should say it.
Get it over with.
“There was this rig coming at us. I thought we had more time, but it was going too fast. I started sprinting. Chris didn’t. He saw the rig, just like I did. I know he did. For Christ’s sake, he looked right at it. Then he slowed down, like he didn’t care. His face, I can’t explain it. He was really out of it, like he wasn’t even there. I shook him and yelled at him, asked him what the hell he was doing.” He stops.
My face is flushing with heat. I wait, but he’s silent. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?