twenty-eight

I’d like to tell Jude where to stick his ride, but I’m not making a statement at the cost of a ten-mile walk. So I sit behind him on the bike, gripping the sides of the seat as I fume.

I have ample reason for investigating Edie’s and Lennon’s disappearances. That reason? Because I choose to, and no one is going to “order” me to stop.

Jude might have given up his congressman’s son life, but he’s still the guy who thinks he can boss others around. The birthright of money and position. What rankles even more is that off-hand Southern “chivalry” he uses to justify it.

I’ve decided this is too dangerous for you, little girl. So you’ll go home while I handle it.

I understand where that mind-set comes from. Old-timers really do see it as good and proper behavior toward the “fairer” sex. Here, let me carry that for you. Let me open that door. Let me give you my jacket.

I’m not going to throw a hissy fit if a boy insists on opening my car door. That’s how their mommas raised them, and they’d catch a whupping if they didn’t. But I expect them to understand that I’m capable of opening a door myself. And if that attitude spills over into “it ain’t right for a girl to go to college,” then we have a problem. Same goes for “here, let me decide what’s best for you,” like Jude was doing.

I have Jude drop me off outside town. I walk away without a word, and I think he’ll call after me, at least say he’ll be in touch, let me know what happens. The motorcycle revs, and then the tires spin as he turns around. Another rev and he’s gone.

I check my watch as I walk. It’s barely seven, and I’m not ready to turn in for the night, not when that means staying at the trailer, since I don’t dare return to my shack. The library is closed, and I’m not sure what research I’d do there anyway.

What I really need is to start tackling my list—filling in the blanks for missing kids. Maybe a parent would have more clout with the sheriff’s department than I do. I’m certainly not convinced we have an epidemic of kidnapped teens in Reeve’s End, but if someone starts the conversation, it will help us plead Edie’s case.

After Cady’s, the first name on my list is Marty Lawson. That’s definitely not going to accomplish my goal. I knew Marty—he dated Cadence in her freshman year, and I was sore when she broke it off. He was a nice guy and he got hurt, and it didn’t help that she dumped him for Colton, who was not a nice guy.

Marty left nearly three years ago. No one was surprised—he struggled in school but he was a hard worker who dreamed of taking up a trade. He left a note saying he was going to the city to do exactly that. There’s no point asking his mother if he’s made contact. She’s a drinking buddy of Bert’s, meaning it’s unlikely she’s around on a Saturday night, unlikely Marty wants to speak to her again, and even more unlikely she’s concerned enough to talk to the sheriff.

The next name is Tanya Tate. Her family lives just outside the town proper. I stop by there and her folks tell me she just called last month to say she’d found a boy and got engaged.

Next on my list, Susie McCall, a friend of Cadence’s whose father lives three doors down from the Tates. In Reeve’s End, “three doors down” isn’t like in the city. It’s a bit of a hike, and when I reach the house, dusk is falling. That makes me nervous. Word is that Owen McCall turned to drink about three years back, which might have been one reason Susie didn’t bother waiting until she graduated high school to leave. But rumor also says he’s harmless, a sad drunk rather than an angry one like Bert.

McCall used to be one of the preeminent pot farmers in the county. I remember Cadence telling me how she and Susie would hang out in a storage bunker under his field before he shut down his crop. Colton used to rant about what a waste that was, how Owen McCall was a whiz with hybrids and he’d regret it when pot was legalized in Kentucky. Folks here track the spread of legalization the way others track the NBA draft.

Mr. McCall’s happy to talk about Susie. We settle in on the front porch and I ask when’s the last time he heard from Susie.

“Couple months back,” he says. “She sent an article from the Cincy Enquirer with her name in it.” His thin face broadens in a smile. “Can you believe that? My girl, getting her name in the paper. And you know what for? Volunteer work with the homeless.” He shakes his head. “Never would have guessed.”

“I’m not surprised. Susie always had a good heart.”

He beams. “She does, doesn’t she? Took after her momma, God rest her soul. You were friends with Susie, weren’t you?” He pauses. “No, wait, that was your sister, Cadence. How’s she doing?”

I can imagine the look on my face, because he says, “Haven’t heard from her, huh? Don’t worry too much. That’s what Susie did too. Needed some space. All kids do at that age. They take off, and they don’t want nothing to do with family, and then the next thing you know, they’re sending an article with their name in it. Just needed that bit of space to find themselves. I’ve got the newspaper clipping right inside, if you’d like to see it. Might make you feel better about your sister.”

I say sure, I’d love to see it. He goes inside, and I take out my notepad and draw a line through Susie’s name. He returns sooner than I expect, and I set the notebook on the chair arm as I read the article. It’s about a new homeless shelter where Susie volunteered, saying she used places like it when she first came to the city and now wanted to give back.

“She sounds very happy,” I say. “Congratulations.”

When McCall doesn’t answer, I look up to see he’s still standing beside my chair. His gaze is fixed on my open notebook. When he picks it up, there’s a slight tremor in his hand.

“What’s this?”

I take it as gently as I can. “It’s just a list—”

“Of kids who’ve left Reeve’s End. I can see that. What are you doing with it?”

“It’s my senior year project, on kids who leave. I’m following up on them.”

His voice chills. “I thought you came by to ask about Susie because she was your sister’s friend and you were interested.”

“I am. I—”

“Your sister took off and now you’re poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, asking questions, upsetting folks who lost their kids and won’t appreciate the reminder. You want a reminder, missy? Remember why your sister left.”

My mouth opens. Shuts.

He continues. “You think I don’t know? Everyone knows. But you seem like a nice girl, and I figured you made a mistake and you’ve paid for it. We all make mistakes. We all pay. But you don’t go rooting through other folks’ miseries so you can feel better about yours.”

He’s hit full-steam boil, and I’m just staring. I can see how he might be a little put off that my interest has turned out to be a school project, but that doesn’t explain this Jekyll/Hyde transformation. I try getting to my feet, which requires bending almost backward to slide past him as he looms over me.

“I—I’m sorry,” I say. “I really was interested in how Susie’s doing. It’s reassuring to know that kids find success when they leave Reeve’s End.”

“They do,” he says, spitting the words on a snarl. “They get away from this hellhole and they make good lives for themselves, and that’s all you need to know. You go digging like that, and you’re just stirring up trouble for the folks who don’t get a newspaper article with their baby’s name in it. No one here needs that. We’ve got enough problems as it is.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Why don’t you give me that notebook, then?”

“Wh-what?”

“You’re done with this nonsense, aren’t you, missy?”

“I…I’m going to reconsider the focus of my project. You’ve given me a lot to think about. I—I’ll speak to my teachers, and see what I should do.”

He goes still. “Your teachers know what you’re up to?”

I glance around. There’s no one on the road. No one in sight.

When he asks if my teachers know, it feels like having a guy in a white van pull over and ask if your parents know where you are.

“Yes,” I lie. “They know exactly what I’m doing.”

“And they’ve seen that list? They know who’s on it?”

Oh, shit.

There is one very serious problem with going around Reeve’s End inquiring after missing kids. Namely, that the person I’m asking could be the very one making them disappear.

“Yes,” I say as calmly as I can. “They have a copy of the list and all my notes so far. I appreciate you pointing out potential issues with the project. I’ll stop asking around and revisit it with my teachers on Tuesday. I’ll let you know what happens.”

I retreat cautiously, spouting apologies in my wake, as if I’m just upset that I’ve angered him and I want to go before I make it worse.

I reach the top of the steps when McCall grabs me. My hand is already in my pocket, fingers wrapping around my switchblade as he’s twisting my other arm up. I pull out the knife and hit the switch, and the blade flicks, and my brain screams Now, what? because Jude was right—I don’t know how to use it properly. McCall will wrest it away from me before I can do more than blindly slash.

McCall sees the knife and flings me away—flings me hard. I’m at the top of the porch steps, and I fall straight backward, and there’s no time to catch myself. I hit the paving stones flat on my back, head striking down with a crack, and then everything goes dark.

When I come to, McCall is holding me, saying, “Wake up. Please wake up.” My eyelids flicker, and when I see his face, I scramble from his grip.

“You tripped,” he says.

“Wh-what?”

“You were leaving, and you tripped down the steps.”

I blink hard. I know that’s not what happened, but I say, “R-right,” and rub my face hard. “We were talking…I don’t remember…”

“We talked about Susie. I showed you an article.”

“Right.” I push up. My switchblade is in the grass, and I manage to scoop it up discreetly as I fake more hard blinks. “I should go.”

I get out of there as fast as I can. Only once I’m down the road and around a corner do I pause, heaving breaths as I run my fingers over my head. A bump is rising. I’ll have to do concussion checks later, but that’s the least of my concerns. Right now, I’m thinking of that bunker Susie and Cadence used to hang out in. The one McCall bolted up when he stopped growing pot. Which was about three years ago.

And most of the kids on my list? They left less than three years ago.