“What do you mean you’ve seen him?” I ask.
Kennedy stares at this new photo on the wall, and her hands are shaking. The statistics are listed below: last reported seen; location; date of birth. He’s seventeen—just barely making the youth list, just barely getting the attention of an organization like this. And he’s from North Carolina, not close enough to make our news, as he didn’t disappear from the middle of a picnic, like magic; but in the middle of the night, with a bag.
Her hand lingers on the letters of his name, and the fine-print details below. “Last fall. With my brother. I thought he was a friend from college.”
But he’s too young for college. And the details don’t fit.
She turns to me, suddenly, looking me over slowly. Her eyes searching my face for something. I try not to look away. “Do you believe the universe can talk to us?” she asks.
I open my mouth to say no, then instead I remember the image of my brother in the corner of the room, his mouth moving. “Maybe.” Maybe not the universe. But something.
“Maybe,” she repeats, like for the first time, it feels almost possible to her, too. “Because I’m thinking that maybe I was supposed to come here.”
I look to the wall, at the image of the missing kid. “For this?” I ask, jutting my thumb in his direction, but she doesn’t answer.
Her eyes widen, and then I hear it, too—a car engine turning off, the beep of the door automatically locking. I gently push her toward the steps. “Go,” I say, my voice low and urgent.
“Where—”
“Upstairs, first door on the left. My room,” I whisper quickly, knowing no one will look in there.
I brace myself for my parents’ return, but instead the key turns twice and, realizing the door is already unlocked, Mike pokes his head inside tentatively. “Hello? Nolan?”
Well, my car is parked out front.
“Hey, Mike,” I say, stepping out from the kitchen.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”
I nod. “Forgot a project due after lunch. Rather take the skipped class than a zero on the assignment.” He makes a face, like he knows I’m lying, but he also won’t turn me in. Mike was Liam’s volunteer supervisor at the shelter and has been working with my parents since they moved the headquarters of their foundation to our house. He sees what it’s like for me here, day in and day out. And I know he’s been through it, too.
He steps inside, shutting the door behind him. “Your parents called me,” he says, as if he needs to defend himself for his presence as well, “to cover the lines today. The interns should be here any minute. What’s been going on?”
“Hey, Mike,” I say, cutting him off, gesturing toward the wall. I don’t want to talk about the picture of Liam. “What can you tell me about this newest face on the board?”
“What?” He’s confused, and I don’t even blame him. The number of times I’ve expressed an interest in any of these faces, in any of the things my parents have gotten involved with, can be summed up to a grand total of zero.
Mike steps closer, answering anyway. This is what he does, why he’s here. Bringing the missing to life. It consumed his own life, the not knowing—he’s dedicated his life to this. As if he can atone for what he missed in his own history.
There’s a spark in his eyes now, even as he doubts me. “Hunter Long. New case. Just been added to the system. I did it myself last week.” He shakes his head. “He up and left his home sometime in the fall, but it wasn’t reported until much later, in the winter.”
“So, over six months ago? And it’s just being added now?”
“It’s complicated. It wasn’t reported for weeks because he had a habit of doing this; of leaving home for a while and then coming back. Had some issue with the stepfather, spent some time crashing with friends. The investigation, it seems, was sort of half-assed.” He cringes at his language, but I nod.
Children are children, is my parents’ philosophy. Danger is danger. It’s not our job to judge the circumstances; no one is to be seen as worthier than anyone else. I’m glad this kid eventually made it onto our wall, because sometimes I’m not so sure if that statement is true.
Still, he’s here now. Every day, reminding us, just like all the rest.
“Thanks, Mike. I’m just gonna grab my stuff now.”
Mike settles in front of the long table, puts a headset over his ears while I bound up the steps, two at a time, to my room.
* * *
—
Kennedy isn’t in my room. The door is open, but I can tell it’s empty even before I step inside. Down the hall, the door to Liam’s room is uncharacteristically ajar, and a shadow stretches out the door. I watch her from the doorway—she’s standing in the middle of the empty room, surrounded by the moss-green walls, her hands at her sides, staring straight ahead, as if she’s in a trance. I’m scared to spook her.
“Kennedy?” I whisper.
She jumps anyway before spinning around. Sorry, she mouths.
I ease the door shut behind us. “It’s okay. The guy downstairs works for my parents. He’s got headphones on, so he’s not going to hear us. But more people will be showing up soon.”
“Is this it?” she asks, frowning.
It. My brother’s room. The source of the signal, of everything.
“Yep, this is it.” She’s staring at the room the way I did, like she’s looking for something that isn’t there. I’m too embarrassed to mention that I actually whispered his name, looking for him.
I clear my throat. “I told Mike I was on my way out, back to school, so…”
She raises an eyebrow, and it turns her more carefree, like I can picture the girl inside, underneath everything that’s happened: the signal, the house, her devastating history. “Is this why you questioned my stealth mode?” she asks, and I laugh.
* * *
—
In the end, I have her sneak out the back door, behind the kitchen. Mike was right—the interns arrived right after him. Dave and Clara (or Sara). Clara/Sara looks at me when I come downstairs, notebook in hand. Her face pinches into both recognition and pity, and I can’t stand it. She smiles warmly. She reminds me of Abby: pretty, friendly.
“Hey there,” she says. “Nolan, right?” Dave runs a hand through his red hair, looks from her to me, and lowers his eyes again.
I half-wave and walk by the table. I can’t stand that still, two years later, I am something to be seen in relation to an event. It’s the only reason she’s looking at me like that. Head tipped to the side, mouth pursed, so tragic.
Like Kennedy said, the spectators do come out, drawn to the scene. Like there’s something alluring about our tragedy.
“Sara, right?” I say, pressing my fingers into the surface of the table, waiting for Mike to look up.
“Clara,” she corrects.
Dave has inched closer, but he’s fidgeting with the papers, like he’s hoping I won’t notice he’s totally eavesdropping. “I remember you,” I say, and he flinches.
Dave nods slowly. “I was at your school when…” When it happened. When Liam disappeared. He looks back down again. “I didn’t really know him. But he was always friendly.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. As if I didn’t know this about my brother.
Mike’s talking on the phone and barely notices the exchange. He probably wouldn’t have noticed if Kennedy had walked right by him, either.
“Well,” I say, channeling my parents, “thanks for your help.”
Clara leans across the table, just as I’m backing away. “You know, Abby is a friend of mine,” she says, and I feel my cheeks start to heat. I wonder what Abby told her, about Liam, about me. I wonder if she knows about the email. Dave looks up again. Maybe everyone knows. Abby’s friends, the police, Dave, who thinks he knows us.
“Late for next period,” I say, turning away.
I’m out the door before anyone can call me back.
I wait for Kennedy in the driveway, weaving past either Clara’s or Dave’s black SUV and Mike’s blue car, which is much nicer than my own. It only makes it more obvious that mine is in desperate need of a cleaning. They’ve both got a decal of my parents’ organization in their back windows, whereas I’ve always refused. I felt like a walking billboard as it was—no need to add a sticker for people to know.
I like to avoid the attention magnets as much as possible.
Kennedy slips into the passenger seat, and she’s looking at me in a way I can already interpret: she wants to boss me around. “Okay, Kennedy,” I say. “Where to?”
“Well, I sort of need my bike back. Maybe you can drop me at my house and I can take it to Joe’s? As you can see, I’m pretty stealthy. I’ll sneak around back when the buyers aren’t looking.”
“That’s kind of a long bike ride.”
She shrugs. “I do it every couple of nights.”
“Wait, when do you sleep?”
“Naps, Nolan. Give them a shot. I’m big on the after-school nap before Joe gets home for dinner. At this point, I think I have him convinced it’s just a normal part of female adolescence.”
“You know, I can just drive you instead.”