I pass Caleb’s house, and it looks like no one is home. I keep driving, and I park at Max’s house, thinking maybe he’s home—but he’s not. He still hasn’t responded. I send him another message: Back at their house.
And then I run. Through the backyards, to the back door, until I’m standing beside the empty spot where the garbage and recycling are usually kept—right now they’re at the front of the house, awaiting pickup.
I stand back, staring at the concrete pad. There’s nothing unusual about it, except that it’s been painted. An eggshell white. Was it always like this? I can’t remember. I’ve never paid it any attention.
I hear Mia’s words again, the day I showed up unannounced: I thought you were going to paint. We’d painted his bedroom door. But now I’m wondering if this is what she was talking about.
There’s nothing definitive here for me, only what I want to see. I barely cast a glance over my shoulder before letting myself inside with Caleb’s key that I’ve found in the attic.
I take the steps two at a time, until I see what’s left of Caleb’s room: a bed. The single bed. Empty shelves. An emptied backpack. A flashlight, on the bare desktop.
The undoing of Caleb Evers.
The carpet looks threadbare, has indentations from the pieces of furniture that have been moved, the pieces that felt so permanent. Just shadows left behind.
Vacuum tracks cover the floor. There’s a faint whiff of paint, and then I see the two cans just inside the door. The color is an eggshell white. The window is open. There’s a plastic tarp, underneath the paint can, fluttering in the wind, everything prepared. But she hasn’t yet begun.
But there are still the marks from where the bed used to be, that I remember from last weekend, after Max had been through the room. And now I’m thinking it was moved for a reason, even earlier. A plan. An order to the chaos.
Everything had a spot, even if it wasn’t obvious to anyone but himself.
This bed has been moved by Caleb.
I walk to the side of the bed, and I get onto my knees, planting my hands against the metal frame. And I push. It barely moves, with the box spring and mattress on top. I move to the other side, grip my hands to the underside, and pull with all my might, and it slides a few inches. I do it once, twice more, until the bed feet settle into their previous location.
The floor underneath looks the same, on both sides. I walk around, to the side next to the window, and my stomach falls, everything lurches. The wall that I’ve just exposed behind the bed, the foot of old gray paint just exposed. There’s a deep gouge in the wall, like the indentations on the other side of the room, where he’d thrown the letter opener long ago. But here, it’s cut down through the gray to the plaster. The swipe was strong, the line in the wall angry, starting and jumping, with force and intent behind it.
And it’s inches from the window.
The fight. The fight with Sean. He wasn’t lying.
If Sean hit him, what had Caleb done back? Had he grabbed the closest thing he could find? The letter opener on his desk? Had he swung it around, in a practiced maneuver?
I can picture it happening—Sean grabbing his wrist, the force wrenching the blade through the wall. Missing. Struggling. The chain of the pocket watch breaking. And then.
And then. I look to the open window. The screen is missing. Sean is missing.
I can’t breathe.
Caleb, no.
The door swings open downstairs, and I want to tell her. I want to show her. Look what happened. Look.
Except.
She knows. My blood runs cold. She must. Sean is gone; his clothes were here. The pocket watch in the garage. She knows—she’s always known.
The room hollows out: Why am I here in this room? Why did she ask me to come?
As I hear her heading up the steps, presumably to continue painting this room, I slink into the closet, pull the bookcase aside, and disappear into the hidden attic space, pulling the bookcase back into place behind me.
I listen to her footsteps. She walks into the room. She must see the wall I’ve exposed. She must know someone has been here. She opens the closet door. Peers inside. Steps back. I hear fabric moving, assume she must be checking under the bed.
It’s like she can feel the presence of another.
“Caleb?” she calls.
And the name, the very word, makes him come alive. Makes everything something other than what I assumed. Her steps circle the room slowly. And then, closer now, she calls, “Jessa?”
I reach my hands up, to the spot I cannot see, where the Swiss Army knife once was. There’s nothing but empty space. I know Max and I were passing it back and forth, but then Caleb’s mother arrived, and…I can’t remember what we did with it. I take out my phone to use as a flashlight, and there, between two wooden beams, the glint of light reflecting off metal.
I reach down and my grip tightens on the Swiss Army knife. It’s all I have. That, and my phone. I turn the volume down, and input the numbers 9-1-1 into the keypad. My finger hovers over the button, ready to hit Send.
Because I suddenly understand exactly why I’m here. Why she was keeping me so close. Following me.
She has sent me here to find her son. She believes he’s alive. It’s why she’s been following me, thinking I knew something more. And when it was clear I didn’t, she brought me here instead, hoping I’d find something and figure out where he was, where he went.
And I believe I have.