seventeen

He’s returned my arrows to me.

Mocking me with them.

I slam my fist into the wall. I hit it again and again, and I’ve never done anything like that, never vented my anger like that, and once I start, I can’t stop until I have to, my hand throbbing, my lungs burning. I double over, catching my breath and struggling to rein in my temper, and I realize I’m crying.

It’s not just this. It’s everything, piled up, and this seems like the culmination of the rest, proof that no matter how carefully I organize my life, no matter how much control I try to exercise over it, I’m like an ant meticulously constructing my hill, only to have a boot stomp out all my work and continue on, oblivious.

Edie is missing, and I don’t know how to prove it. Then Lennon goes missing too, and I pray he’s just out there looking for Edie, but he tried that before and look where it got him. Now I’ve attracted the attention of almost certainly the same person who took Edie, who mocks me, lining up those arrows, so helpfully returning my prizes.

This is all you get, Winter Crane. I’ll take Edie and Lennon; you can have the arrows. It’s a fair exchange, don’t you think? Oh, you can certainly run to the police if you want. Maybe Mrs. Reid can testify that she saw you with a boy—the trailer park busybody whose cataracts are so bad she can’t see five feet in front of her nose.

I want to curl up in the corner and sob. Call my big sister and tell her what happened and get her sympathy and her help. Except I have no idea how to contact her. I’m not sure she’d even take my call.

The only person who promised she’d be there for me is Edie. Who is missing. Almost certainly more than missing.

Poor Winter. Poor little Winter. Just have a good cry, then. Maybe that’ll help.

I shake it off, and I’m rising when I hear a noise at the door. I turn sharply, see a dark-haired young man, and let out a sigh of relief so deep it shudders through me.

“Lennon,” I say.

He’s standing in the shadow of the doorway. Then he steps through, and I realize my mistake.

He looks like Lennon; he is not Lennon.

He’s about the same age. A little taller. Bigger build. Longer hair, worn in a black mop of curls. Brighter blue eyes. Features that were classically handsome on Lennon are skewed on him, not quite right, like seeing Lennon through a warped mirror.

The biggest difference, though, is his expression. I’ve seen Lennon angry, frightened, charming, even goofy, but always animated, always expressive. This guy’s face is a stone mask.

“Where’s my brother?” he says as he advances on me.

“J-Jude?”

Of course that’s the obvious explanation for a guy who looks like Lennon yet isn’t. But I’m thrown. I don’t know how Jude could be here. It’s as if I somehow summoned him, and now, seeing the look in his eyes, I really wish I hadn’t.

“Lennon isn’t here,” I say.

“I see that.”

He keeps coming at me. I back away. I can’t help it. That look sends ice through my veins, and I know it’s foolish, but I hear myself saying, “Let’s step outside and talk,” as if the shack is suddenly too small.

“No,” he says.

I square my shoulders and go to step around him.

He blocks me, saying, “You’re not leaving until we talk. So get comfortable.”

“You can’t—”

“Yeah, I can.”

My hand taps my pocket, reassuring me the switchblade is still there.

“No, actually, you can’t,” I say as calmly as I can. “It’s called unlawful confinement. Obviously you’re upset—”

“Upset? My brother calls me last night from a pay phone, saying he’s in trouble. I get the message at four in the morning. I find out where it came from and haul ass here. I’m checking the town and this old lady walks over and chews me out for sneaking around with some girl in a trailer park last night. Girl named Winter. I ask some kid and he tells me you’ve got a shack this way. I find you in here and see my brother’s jacket over there…with blood on it.”

“I can explain.”

“Good. Sit down—”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re obviously mixed up in my brother’s disappearance, so I’m sure as hell not letting you outside, where you can run.”

I walk to him and look up. “Move.”

“No.”

I try to sidestep. He blocks. When I dodge past, he backs up fast and slams the door shut with his hip and then plants himself in front of it.

I glance up at the skylight hatch.

“Yeah,” he says. “Try that. See how far you get.”

I slide the knife from my pocket and hit the switch. His hand chops my wrist so fast I don’t even see it coming. There’s a flash of blinding pain and my switchblade clatters to the floor. I dive for it. He’s faster again and steps on it. I grab him by the pant leg to wrench his foot off the knife. When he doesn’t budge, I leap up. His hands fly up to block and he gives me a shove that sends me to the floor. When I rise, he’s just standing there, with that same impassive expression.

“Don’t,” he says.

I see that cold emptiness on his face, and somehow it’s worse than Bert’s rage.

I charge, and Jude steps aside and grabs me by my shirt. He lifts me at arm’s length, onto my tiptoes, and just holds me there, saying in that same calm tone, “You done?” and fresh rage whips through me as tears fill my eyes. They’re angry tears, but the shame of crying only makes things worse, and my blows rain down on the arm holding me. The only change to his expression is a flicker of annoyance, as if I’m a three-year-old throwing a tantrum.

“Done now?” he asks finally. “Or am I going to have to tie you up to have this conversation? I’m sure I can find rope in here somewhere.”

“That’s—”

“Unlawful confinement. Yeah, you mentioned that. Feel free to report me later. All I care about right now is finding my brother. If you insist on hitting me, I’ll have to make sure you can’t.”

He says it so calmly, like he’s explaining a very simple concept. I look down at my knife on the floor.

“Whoever gave you that should have told you not to pull it unless you plan to use it,” he says, “and should have taught you how to hold on to it.”

He tosses me aside. Literally tosses me, no rancor in it but no care either. As I hit the floor, pain jolts through my shoulder. He walks over and bends to scoop up the knife. He has his back to me and I tense, ready to—

“Don’t bother,” he says, rising as he pockets my knife. “Now sit down and tell me where my brother is.”