by Kelley York
An amused smile tugs at his face. “’Fraid not. Just checking in with the employees.”
“If you had a lead, you wouldn’t tell me anyway,” I point out. He might tell Dad. Maybe. But he wouldn’t tell me.
Roger shakes his head. “Go on and get out of here, Hunter. I’ll see you around. Stop trying to play detective.” He pats the roof of the car and takes a step back, then waits until I roll up the window and drive away. Halfway down the block, I still see him in the parking lot, watching me go. Making sure I’m heading back to the right part of town, I guess.
I’m twenty minutes late reaching Ash’s work, and she’s already standing outside, head down, a fresh wash of snow on her shoulders and the crown of her head. Guiltily, I crank the heater up full blast as she crawls into the passenger’s seat, shivering.
“I’m sorry. I completely lost track of time.”
“No big deal,” she mutters. “Not like it’s cold or anything.”
I get her being grouchy; I would be, too, but it isn’t just a me-forgetting-to-pick-her-up thing. She twists her body in a way that clearly says she’s not happy. She’s also giving off a vibe that, whatever it is, she doesn’t want to talk about it, but when we pull onto our street and the house is in sight, I decide I don’t feel like abiding by those unspoken rules today.
“Bad day?” I ask.
Ashlin makes an affirmative noise. “Wasn’t yours?”
Every day has been a bad one since we found out about Mrs. Harvey. I may not have liked the woman much, considering she did a shit job at keeping her son safe, but it never meant I wanted her dead. More than that, the idea of Chance out there somewhere, dealing with all of this alone, makes me sick to my stomach.
“Work was fine. What happened?”
“That makes your coworkers better than mine.” Ash shifts, twisting almost entirely away from me and pressing her forehead to the window.
I grimace. “The police came to question everyone, huh?”
“Everyone knew him, so of course they’re all drawing their own conclusions. And trying to get me to talk about it. Or trying to get me to say if I know where he is.”
“Sorry.” I turn into the driveway next to Dad’s truck. “I’m sure he’s okay, though. Wherever he’s at.”
“I know he is. I saw him today.” Ash pops open her door and gets out. I sit behind the wheel, stunned into immobility, before I kill the engine and hurry after her.
I catch her in the entryway where she’s toeing off her shoes, grab her arm, and keep my voice down so Dad—wherever he is—doesn’t overhear. “What do you mean, you saw him today?”
“Just what I said.” She tugs her arm out of my grasp. “He stopped by the shop while I was on lunch. He said we needed to stop looking for him because he didn’t want us to get in trouble.”
The rest of what she says hardly sinks in; I’m too busy focusing on the fact that Ash saw him. She saw that he was all right, alive, in one piece. Legs suddenly weak, I sink back against the front door and try to remember to breathe.
Ash resumes pulling off her snowy sneakers. “He’s not going to the police, Hunt. He thinks he has to wait until Zeke gets caught first. I tried talking sense into him, but, well…”
Well. Yeah. What more can you say? Chance is Chance. Infuriatingly so. “You could’ve called the cops on him.”
“Could have.” She hangs up her coat then swivels to look at me. “Would you have?”
I meet her gaze levelly, giving the question due consideration. Which is useless because, “I have no idea.”
Ash’s smile is a sad one. “Yeah.” She heads farther inside and leaves me to get out of my coat and boots so Dad doesn’t kill me for leaving wet footprints halfway across the house. He isn’t watching TV in the living room, which means he’s probably reading in his bed. I follow Ash upstairs, where talking about all of this is safer, away from prying ears. She deposits her purse on her nightstand and flops across her bed with a sigh. I ease the door shut, taking a seat in her computer chair.
“Are you going to tell me what he said or are you going to have me guess?”
“A guessing game might be fun.” Ash squints at the ceiling. “I already told you: the cops won’t believe anything he says, it’s his word against his dad’s, and he wants to stay in hiding. That about sums it up.”
Sounds like Chance. Being as fucking cryptic and vague as humanly possible. I could strangle him. “He didn’t even tell you what happened?”
“Just that he was there. No details.” She drapes an arm across her face.
He was there. He was in the house when his mother was murdered.
I try to imagine being in his shoes. My mom and I have a strained relationship, but I love her. And I know Chance resents his mom, but he also loves her and wants to keep her safe. This was what he meant that night in my room. He thinks he let her down because he couldn’t protect her from being murdered. To have witnessed her death and to be out there all alone, feeling like he can’t trust even the law to help…
What is it like?
What is going through his head, in this very moment?
What am I supposed to do?
“Whether he thinks it is or not, his eyewitness testimony is evidence,” I say.
“He said he has actual evidence, he just doesn’t have it…whatever the hell that means.”
A frown tugs at my brows. “So, like, he has evidence…but it’s not on his person at this exact moment in time? Did he lose it?”
A second ticks by, and Ash looks off at nothing in particular as though she’s grasping for an answer to that. But she finally says, “I have no idea. Look, I’m totally exhausted. Can we talk about this tomorrow? Do you have to work?”
“Evening shift again,” I lament.
“I’m off. Thank God. Sooner this is over with, the sooner people will stop looking at me like I hooked up with Charles Manson.” She rolls her eyes and gives a wave of her hand, effectively dismissing me from her room.
I would argue, but I’m tired, too. Work wasn’t draining, exactly, but I think Ash, Dad, and I have all felt sucked dry of our energy these last few days. I’ve heard Dad on the phone with Roger more than once, asking for updates, for any shred of information Roger might be willing to feed him.
Everything will be okay, I tell myself again and again.
There’s a reply from Rachael in my inbox again. Her letters still read stilted and distant, but at least she’s e-mailing. I haven’t told her about what’s going on with Chance. I can’t bring myself to. Isn’t that bad form? Talking to your ex about the person who, technically, was the reason your relationship ended?
Not that Chance and I are together now. Right? Whatever the other night was—
I don’t know.
Sometimes, I get a brief glimmer, a flicker of certainty on how all this will end. Zeke will be arrested, Chance will come stay with us, he and I can fumble our way through whatever the hell this is between us, and things will be good.
He will be safe. We will be happy.
Then I remember I have no idea where he even is right now, and whether he’s going to end up doing something stupid. Because Chance is a complicated, wild creature who can be as idiotic as he can be brilliant.
These are all things I can’t tell Rachael. Hell, they’re things I can’t even tell Dad, and Ashlin has enough worries of her own right now than to have to listen to mine. I can’t imagine what it was like for her, seeing Chance in person, being unable to help him, unable to get any solid answers out of him.
I can’t say I would’ve had any better luck.
Ashlin
Sleep doesn’t come easy that night. I toss and turn and pace the room repeatedly, mind racing a hundred miles a minute. Plotting. Thinking. Planning.
The camera.
Why didn’t I think of it sooner?
Evidence, Chance said. He had evidence, but he didn’t have it. What sort of evidence could he possibly have that authorities wouldn’t have fou
nd already at the scene of the murder? Blood samples, clips of carpet, bullet fragments, DNA, fingerprints…they would’ve found all of it.
But would they have found the camera Chance borrowed? And does it contain something that could clear his name?
The problem being, Chance isn’t likely to go anywhere near his house. By this point, the police would be done with it. The yellow tape might still be up to prevent anyone from coming in, but they would’ve collected anything they were going to collect. Dad hasn’t said anything about a camera.
I don’t tell Hunter because I’m well aware my idea is seriously out there. We’ve already lied to the police and Dad, and I didn’t report seeing Chance like I should have. How much further are we willing to break the rules for this?
What worries me is that Hunter won’t stop. Whether he’s aware of it, whether he’s told Chance, I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that my brother is in love with one of my best friends. That sort of devotion and protective instinct isn’t easily swayed. I love Chance, too, but in this, I trust my own judgment better than Hunter’s.
Isobel is over when I get up in the morning. She’s been a quiet presence this last week, trying to be supportive and help out while we’re going through a difficult time. She smiles at me when I sit down to breakfast. I could get used to someone cooking for me all the time, to be honest.
“You look like you haven’t slept a wink, honey.” She places a glass of orange juice beside my plate.
“A lot on my mind.” I rub my eyes. How am I the first one here when I was probably the last one to go to sleep?
Isobel pulls up the seat next to me. “Anything you want to talk about?”
Plenty. But I can’t trust that whatever I say to her won’t go right back to Dad. Even if it didn’t, I wouldn’t put her in the situation of having to keep my secrets. I shrug and take a sip of my OJ, not feeling very hungry no matter how good the eggs look. “I don’t think you’d want to hear it.”
“Try me.”
I take a deep breath and straighten up, pivoting slightly in my chair to better face her. “Well…okay. Can I ask you a question?”
Her eyes light up in that way that says she’s delighted at the idea of me possibly opening up to her about something. Isobel walks this fine line of wanting to be involved with us but never seeming to know how. Which is kind of amusing in a sad way, because Hunter and I both adore her. “Go for it.”
I hmm, putting serious thought into this very serious question. “How long is it going to be before you and Dad tell us you’re officially dating?”
First, all the color drains from Isobel’s face, and is then replaced with a bright red flush to her cheeks. “Who said…?”
“No one, but we’re not dumb.” I prop my elbows on the table, chin in my hands, basking in the flustered look on her face. She’s adorable, and I want to give her a hug. “The movie you two went to the other night, it was a romantic comedy, wasn’t it?”
“Well, yes.”
I pick up my fork and gesture at her with it before taking a bite of food. “Dad makes this big secret out of liking romantic comedies. If he’s admitted to you he enjoys them and went out in public with you to see one? That means he really likes you.”
Isobel leans back in her chair, fingers against her lips where she’s trying not to smile. I see her gaze flick behind me and hear the telltale sounds of Dad shuffling into the kitchen. We both turn to watch him as he walks to the counter to get his coffee.
When he turns around with mug in hand and catches us staring, he pauses. “What did I do?”
“Nothing.” Isobel winks at me. “Your daughter wants to know why we haven’t told them we’re dating.”
Dad nearly chokes on his coffee mid-sip. He clears his throat and places the mug on the table. “Is the phone ringing? I think I hear the phone ringing…”
There is no phone ringing. Mainly because we don’t have a landline, but I let him off the hook this one time. After he’s wandered out of the kitchen, mumbling, Isobel rises to her feet to make herself a plate of food. Before she sits down again, she leans over, kisses the top of my head, and murmurs, “I’m here if you want to talk.”
I don’t know how to explain to her that I feel a little bit better already without having said a word.
…
Hunter heads off for work in the late afternoon, bundled up against the blizzard brewing outside. I taunt him as he walks out the door about how glad I am not to have work today. He flips me off with a grim smile before disappearing out the door.
Now it’s a waiting game.
Dad and Isobel are going out tomorrow morning, which means Dad will hit the sack at a decent hour. Hunter works until midnight, which should give me some time if I’m going to pull off this crazy idea of mine. I make an early dinner and, like clockwork, Dad heads to bed around nine. I wait until the light vanishes from beneath his door before flicking off the TV and creeping upstairs.
I get dressed all in black, as warm as I can manage, tucking my hair beneath a knit cap and pulling on gloves. I shove a flashlight into my pocket—a little one, because the ones we took to the island are in the car and this is all I’ve got—before heading out. The walk is going to be a long one and really flipping cold, but I remind myself Chance made this same walk for years so there’s no reason I can’t do it.
The mobile home park looks creepy and desolate under the shade of night and snow. I only see one set of lights on, far in the back, but I scout around to make sure there isn’t anyone roaming the premises before approaching Chance’s house. All I need is my own Mission: Impossible theme.
The yellow police tape trembles in the wind, and it’s snapped in more than one place, which suggests the cops haven’t been here recently to check on things, or else they would have fixed it.
The front door could be locked and is otherwise too visible to any other homes, so I creep around the back. There is no other door, but I find a window I can reach by standing on a stack of old cinder blocks. It opens with a bit of effort, grinding and protesting every inch of the way.
Once I have it open, I pause. I’m about to enter the lion’s den. I don’t know what I’ll see, what I’ll find, if someone will catch me here. I stare into the blackness of the room before me. I don’t even know where to look or if I’m doing all this for nothing. I’m so used to having Hunter or Chance at my side whenever I do something that scares me. For the first time, I’m braving something completely alone.
But I have to try. I’ve come this far.
I haul myself up and through the window, hiking a leg over the pane and feeling around with my foot until I find something—a mattress—beneath it to ease onto.
The trailer is still and silent. It smells musty, closed-in. Like weed and something darker, more metallic. Dried blood, maybe? I can’t say I’m familiar with the smell, but whatever it is, it makes my stomach roll, and I can only be grateful for the chill weather because the heat would amplify the odor.
I ease the window shut behind me, figuring I can leave out Chance’s bedroom window when I find it. The camera, if it’s here, will be somewhere in his room, and where I am now has to be Zeke and Tabitha’s room. It’s cluttered, and I think maybe the police went through everything. Drawers are open, clothes are on the floor, the bed is unmade.
For a minute, I feel sick. Was this the room she was murdered in? On this very bed? That thought has me scooting off it and to my feet quickly, but a look around with the flashlight doesn’t show blood or any sign that someone was shot here.
Deep breaths, self. I’m here for a reason.
Cautious, I creep out the door and into the hall. It’s a small mobile home, so finding Chance’s room can’t be that hard. There’s a bathroom to my right, the living room to my left…which is blocked off with more police tape. That must be where it happened. Which means I only need to turn my eyes away as I move past and try not to think too much about it. Totally would not be okay for me to throw up when I’m t
aking care not to leave evidence behind that I was ever here.
Toward the end of the hall, I find an open door and, inside, what must be Chance’s room. I don’t dare go for the light switch, so my only reliance is on the tiny flashlight, which I use to scan around. If I thought Zeke’s room was a bit messy, Chance’s is chaotic.
Posters for bands I’ve never heard of line the walls. His bed has a few threadbare blankets shoved at the foot of it, but there is no sheet on the mattress. His clothing is in a pile in the corner beneath a window, and the floor is littered with magazines, clothes, and seashells. Five feet into the room, I step on, and almost stumble over, a sock with something in it. Upon closer inspection, it’s a rock. A sock with a rock inside it. What the hell?
There isn’t a lot in the way of furniture in here. Small blessing. A quick look through his dresser yields nothing but more clothes and random knick-knacks. A dragon lunchbox that looks vaguely familiar, and inside it a cheap dragon snow globe, and a few photos. Me, Chance, Hunter. All from when we were younger, taken by Dad before he was shot. There are a few of Chance and his mother, mostly from when he was little. The pictures are faded and frayed at the edges, like he’s had to fight just to keep them from vanishing altogether. Also inside is a lone Barbie head that makes me flash back to the day we met by the creek. Staring into its expressionless face for too long sends a chill down my spine. I close the box and put it back.
There is no door on the closet. The floor is a mess of shoes that have been there for God knows how long. They’re falling apart, some of them, and I spot a pair I recognize. Apple red sneakers, way too small for Chance’s feet. But they didn’t used to be. He still has shoes from when he was a kid. You could line them all up and see the progression of his growth.
I search through the junk on the floor, feel around under the bed, finding nothing but more clothes and a few Rolling Stone magazines. Sighing, I sit back and survey the room again, letting the flashlight roam every inch of space. Then, in the pile of clothes, the light catches off something shiny, and I pause, go over it again, and locate it near the bottom of the pile.