by Hannah Jayne
“After coming inside!”
“You can see here where she must have slit the police tape,” the anchor started.
“No, no, no!” I was standing on the bed now, yelling. “He did that!”
Nate groaned. “They can’t hear you, Andi, but everyone in this motel can.”
I think I growled.
“We can’t go inside as this is obviously a crime scene, but police tell us that Mr. McNulty’s office was vandalized, allegedly by Andrea McNulty. Police aren’t saying what the motive was or what has gone missing, only acknowledging that someone was certainly in the house last night and had gone through and destroyed, damaged, or removed files from the residence.”
“Nobody would have known I took that bag, Nate.”
“Not unless they knew what to look for.”
The news bounced back to Jerry and the anchor. “Sir, we understand you know Andrea McNulty well.”
Jerry nodded. “She’s my daughter’s best friend, yes. I don’t think she’s involved in this. I really don’t.”
My head spun.
“She is a good kid. Maybe she just got confused or caught up in something.”
“So what would you like Andrea to know right now? Go ahead. Speak right to the camera.”
The anchorman pointed, and Jerry blinked, his eyes going soft, his brows two sympathetic downturns. “We love you, Andrea. We don’t know how or what you’re involved in, but we’re concerned about you. Come home, hon. Just come home to our house, and we can work this all out. You’re not in trouble. We can help you.” He bobbed his head and licked his lips, a small, pleading smile on his face. “Lynelle misses you. We all miss you. Come back, honey.”
Thirty-One
I don’t know how I fell back to sleep after the newscast with Jerry on it, but Nate and I both did. When I woke again, I was bleary-eyed and anxious, Nate asleep across from me with his hands behind his head like all was right with the world. I sat up and looked around. I couldn’t grab a book to read or call a friend or even run out to grab a couple of coffees and something sticky-gooey for breakfast. I was a fugitive, and my world was getting smaller and smaller by the day. The police were going to find me, and I would have to stand trial and listen to every horrid detail of my parents’ attack and deny that it was me and defend myself from people who had already made up their minds that I was a killer. I had been lied to and lied about, Jerry’s eyes earnest and forthright even as he lied through his teeth on national television, and everything had been taken away from me.
Nate stirred and rolled over, wiping sleep from his eyes but smiling when he saw me. “You’re up early.”
I sucked in a shaky breath. “I couldn’t sleep. Or maybe I slept. Look, Nate, this whole thing is a shit show. You’re right, the police will never believe a thing I say, and if I tell them Jerry was at the house—well, he’s already told his side, so it’s just my word against his.”
“And our evidence is clearly stolen.”
My voice started to shake. “Right. There’s no way out for me, Nate.”
“So what are you thinking of doing? Giving up?” Nate was sitting up now, incredulousness clear on his face.
“I don’t even know. I want to find Josh—I need to find him. But—”
“But he’s with the person who did this or…”
I could feel my eyes flash, could feel something hard and dark cut through me. I wanted to protest that of course Josh was alive, that if this guy hadn’t killed me, why would he kill Josh? But I knew Nate was right.
“Josh could be dead.” The words hung in the air. “I have no leads. It could be Cal; it could be Jerry. It could be anyone.”
“So?”
“So I can’t just sit here in this stupid motel room and let whatever is going to happen happen. I have to do something. Maybe I’ll even go talk to Jerry myself.”
Nate let out something between a snort and a laugh.
“You can’t do that, Andi.”
“Look, everything I have done so far has made me look guiltier and guiltier. I need to do something concrete. I need to talk to someone who can give me some answers.”
“That’s suicide, and you know it, Andi.”
“I’m not asking your permission, Nate. This isn’t about you anyway. It’s about me and getting justice for my family. And what if Josh is alive? If I find out who did this, maybe I could still save Josh. I’m doing this.”
“You know Jerry told the police what you look like now, so even if you miraculously do make it to his place”—he opened his hands to me—“this is what every cop in the Bay Area is going to be looking for. The short cute girl with the teal flattop.”
Nothing inside me fluttered or spun when he called me cute. I was beyond being complimented, having a crush, believing that my world would go on after I walked out of Nate’s motel room.
“I don’t care.”
“You need to lie low, at least for a day. At least until I get off work, okay? Promise me.”
“I don’t—”
“If you walk out now, the police will get you before you even make it to the drugstore. They’ll put you in jail, and you’ll be no help to Josh whatsoever, whether he’s dead or alive. And you’ll be no help to your mom either. You feel me?”
I wanted to be strong and resilient and tough and hard, but Nate was right. I had nothing to go on, I was out of ideas, and I had no way to get anywhere other than thumbing or public transportation.
Nate clamped his hands on my forearms and squeezed gently, his hot-chocolate eyes staring into mine. “Please. Just wait for me, okay? Just wait for me today. We’re in this together, okay?”
I pressed my forehead against Nate’s, and we stood that way, in complete silence for a beat. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
He slipped off his T-shirt, and I tried to look away, my face flushing. He pulled on a button-down shirt and raked his hands through his hair.
“Where are you going?”
Nate jutted his chin toward the front door. “Work. You going to be okay? You could always come down and keep me company.”
I thought about the fluorescent lights in the lobby, so yellow and bright and glaring, the glass door and walls; people could see me from all angles. The police, Jerry, anyone. I already felt raw and exposed, so I shook my head. “I’ll just stay here if that’s okay.”
Nate nodded, said a few words about food, pointed toward the case of warm bottled water and a six-pack of orange Crush, and was out the door. I was alone in his little motel room, nothing about it comforting or familiar.
I had been chased out of my own home.
My chest started to heave, and I could have sworn I felt my heart breaking. Everything inside me ached, my head in a vise as the tears started to fall. I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the tears that wouldn’t stop coming.
How was I supposed to find evidence? How was I supposed to find anything? Then there, under the weak water spout, I stiffened.
I had the iPad.
There was a blossom of hope deep in my gut, and I turned the water off, wrapped myself in a towel, and beelined to my bag on the bed. I rifled through it, half laughing at the horrible array of clothes I had grabbed and squealing when I pulled out the iPad. Before I turned it on, I wondered if I should mention it to Nate, if I should be careful because the police might trace it, but then I thought they probably didn’t even know it existed. Right?
The screen illuminated with a picture of Josh and me, arms entwined, both of us caught in mid-laugh as we sat on the grass at the park. I remembered when that picture was taken; it was after field hockey pictures were done, which was why I was still in my uniform, and Josh had been mad that no one wanted to take a picture of him. Mom pulled over, and we did an impromptu photoshoot that embarrassed the hell out o
f me but made Josh laugh like a madman, and I stopped being embarrassed. Josh had the uncanny ability of laughing at every situation, and he had one of those laughs that ripped right through you, and you couldn’t help but laugh because his joy was nearly palpable.
“I’m going to find you, Josh. I’m going to find you if it kills me.”
Thirty-Two
I thumbed through the stuff on the iPad, a bunch of games that Josh wasn’t supposed to download, some other random stuff, and then a computer-generated voice said, “Hello!”
My dad’s email.
It wasn’t a current one; I knew he had updated and upgraded, but this was an old account for a host I wasn’t sure even existed anymore. I clicked it anyway, and the jaunty purple WELCOME BACK, EDDIE! popped up and made my eyes water. I clicked through a bunch of old work emails, potluck invites, game night evites, and clicked on one from my mom. It felt sad and nice to see that my parents wrote to each other; I hoped for a sappy-sweet email, something I could print out and hold to my heart, but it was short and curt.
Hon—
Social worker suggested Thomasina Chadwick, MD. Great with kids, esp displaced/blended family stuff. She can get A in right away.
I swallowed hard, felt myself blink.
Wait, what?
I didn’t have a doctor named Chadwick, but I was the only A in the family. I clicked the response.
Maybe we should see her on our own first? I don’t think we can get A in there without upsetting her.
I clicked on the date. It was a little over two years ago, so I would have been sixteen. “What the heck was I doing when I was sixteen that they’d want me to see a therapist?” I said out loud.
I had had the usual teenage angst—a couple of months where I wore only black, blasted moaning songs about death and unrequited love, and rolled my eyes at my parents and Josh whenever they came near. But I was really only doing it because Lynelle was doing it, and I wanted to support her in her time of need. And at the time, I thought black eyeliner and hating everything as well was the way to do it.
They thought I needed a shrink for that?
My stomach churned, and I wanted to talk to my parents, to explain, to understand.
Sounds good.
I really hope they don’t want to put her on drugs though.
We’ll do whatever is best for the family.
The family? It almost felt like they were pushing me out, like I was somehow against “the family.” My vision started to blur, and the first tear burned a track down my cheek. What did my parents think of me?
My mom answered back, and I bit down bile.
With her history of addiction—I just don’t want to go down that road again.
I was crying now, hiccuping and wailing. Did my parents think I was some kind of druggie with my “history of addiction”? I hadn’t ever even smoked an e-cigarette let alone did drugs. I signed a contract for the field hockey team that said I wouldn’t, and the worst thing I’d ever done was huff a whipped cream cartridge in the back of Lynelle’s car about a thousand years ago. It made me giggle for about five minutes before I got a massive headache and had to go home.
I wasn’t an addict.
I thumbed through the rest of the emails and clicked on one from the bank. It pretty much mimicked the paperwork we had found in the briefcase, except that I learned that the five-hundred-dollar checks my dad was writing went out on the twenty-eighth of every month, were cashed by the first or second, and were made out to something called DRM.
“What is DRM? Doctor M?” I swallowed, my saliva sour. Was he another doctor they had gotten for me? Maybe someone assessed me and I didn’t even know it? I thought of an old-fashioned lobotomist with one of those screw-in tools that bored through the skull, and I shivered. They didn’t use those anymore, right? Even if they did, I couldn’t see my mom and dad wanting that for me. But then again, I thought I was normal. I thought I was well-adjusted and happy, but apparently, I was the only one who thought that way. I thought about all the people I saw on a monthly basis: my teachers, coaches, dance teacher… Unless Dr. M was moonlighting as a Starbucks barista, I didn’t know him. I was fairly confident of that. But what, then, was DRM?
The signature on the back was illegible. I googled “DRM,” and my eyes crossed at hit after hit about digital rights management and gaming. Maybe my dad was investing in a game or something for Josh? I was too angsty to look into it further.
I kept scanning Dad’s emails and picked through a few from Jerry: Pizza at 5pm, Giorgio’s. Surprise party for Delia. Then, House/Payment Information. I read:
Hey Buddy,
Things have gotten a little rough again over here. Any chance we can reevaluate the terms of the deal? Just the monthly for the next 2, maybe 3 months?
I hesitated before clicking on my dad’s response. Was this where it started? Was this where my father became some sort of land baron tyrant, causing Jerry to turn to murder?
Jerry,
That really shouldn’t be a problem. Let’s talk about it Friday.
I tossed the iPad and thunked my head against the faux wood headboard. Great. My dad was a saint who thought I needed a doctor and some drugs. I snatched the iPad back again and googled Dr. Thomasina Chadwick, confirming my suspicions: Thomasina Chadwick, MD, licensed therapist, marriage and family counselor. Specializing in disturbed/troubled adolescents, foster/adoption/divorce/blended family.
They never even adopted you.
I crawled off the bed and pulled on clean clothes, the familiar smell now nauseating. I pulled a brush through what was left of my hair and stared at myself in the mirror. I didn’t recognize the girl who was looking back. I didn’t really expect to, but at least before, I had some semblance of self, some root in my past. Now there was nothing. I had bounced from place to place before I turned five, and this time in my life was no different. Only there were people who wanted me now—the police.
I was about to close up the iPad when I noticed the slew of games Josh had loaded on to it. He was technically only allowed to play educational games and download class assignments, but there was a bunch of animated monster truck rallies, army things, and booger-related games to keep a nine-year-old boy in his gaming glory. He even had Minecraft, which was supposed to have been deleted at least six times in the last two months. I clicked on it, and the list of top scorers popped up: DESI691, FORK9, HSOJ.
Josh.
He had recently learned to spell his name backward and thought it was hilarious and mysterious. He would pull pranks on me, and when I’d come screaming into his room after he took my homework or threw my laundry down the stairs, he’d go wide-eyed and innocent and tell me it wasn’t him, it was HSOJ.
This entry was dated yesterday.
Josh had accessed his account and played yesterday.
My heart went wild, aching in my chest.
I smiled, really smiled, the action feeling foreign and wonderful and making my eyes water. If Josh was playing his favorite game, then he was alive. He was safe. He had some form of comfort.
I jumped off the bed and was in the lobby before I had a chance to freak out, to panic that the whole world was after me and standing in the glass-enclosed lobby was basically putting myself under a magnifying glass.
“Nate, Nate!”
Nate’s eyes were huge as he turned to me, the phone receiver pushed up against his ear. On the phone, he mouthed. Shut up!
I stood in the lobby, bouncing from foot to foot, then dug my hands into my jeans pocket. There was a handful of ones in there, and I almost squealed: that had to be some sort of sign. I treated myself to an actual cold, bubbly Coke (what the heck was orange Crush anyway?) and a Snickers bar, drinking half the soda by the time Nate got off the phone.
“Way to lie low, Andi.”
“I found something, Nate!” I popped the last of the cand
y bar in my mouth and savored the taste—everything seemed richer and more alive now that I knew Josh was out there and he was, hopefully, safe.
“What?” Nate wanted to know.
I pushed the iPad onto the counter. “Josh.”
Nate blinked. “Are you kidding me? And where did you get that?”
“Uh, it was my dad’s, but Josh basically took it over.” I opened the cover and started poking at apps until I found the Minecraft one, then thumbed to the High Scores screen. HSOJ had dropped to number three.
“See? Look, right there. That’s my brother, Josh!”
“That’s Josh written backward, clever,” Nate deadpanned before snapping the case shut on the tablet. “How do you even know that’s your Josh? And you should disconnect this thing immediately. It’s probably pinging off every cell tower from here to San Francisco.”
“It’s pinging to Josh, Nate. My brother, Josh. He thinks HSOJ is cool and difficult to figure out. He used to call me Idna, say that was my old lady name, and then laugh hysterically.”
Nate cocked an unimpressed eyebrow.
“He’s nine. But that’s him, I swear it is. He’s not supposed to play Minecraft, and my parents thought this iPad was lost. Little did they know Josh didn’t leave it anywhere. He was stashing it at the foot of his bed.”
“Cheeky.”
I opened it again and pointed to the date. “Yesterday, Nate. My brother hit this high score yesterday.” I clicked. “This is his account, I know it.” I pulled down a list of previous usernames and nodded. “Booger56, Mybutt, Mybutt2, Mybutt3, Mysistersucks. Clearly, a nine-year-old boy.”
“Clearly, he isn’t crazy about you. But still. As long as this thing is online, it’s sending out a signal.”
“A signal to me that Josh is out there. A signal to him that I’m looking for him.” I swallowed hard. “That I love him.”
I don’t know if Nate was softening or just exhausted. He pushed the iPad back toward me and said, “Turn it off now. Check it every couple of hours, but just for a minute at a time. It’ll still probably be pretty easy to track, but maybe you can catch Josh online.”