“She would.”
“How could you possibly be sure of that?”
Because Colleen wouldn’t just leave.
Because she felt guilty, even though she shouldn’t have.
Because she knew I had nobody else.
Because she loved me.
I opened my mouth and said, “Because I know her.”
Because some things don’t ever die, not even with death. Like my grandma, putting my hand on her chest. Not her bones, not her heart, not her soul. Just reminding me of the connection between us. It had consequence. It mattered.
Mom stood and rocked back and forth on her heels for a bit. “All right, honey. Go ahead and call her.”
I raced for the phone and punched in the number for her cell. Then frantically hung up, dialed 9 to get out of the hotel, and tried again.
“Straight to voice mail.”
“She probably didn’t turn it on. Or she’s in another no-service zone. The mountains are like that. I’ll call her mother tonight to make sure she got in. Okay?”
I shook my head. It was not okay. Not at all. I went to my room and stared at the unmade bed, at my dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. I pulled back the sheets, looking for a note or maybe a clue. Anything. But there was nothing. I checked the dresser, the drawers she’d never opened, the empty spot where her shoes had been. Nothing. I checked the bathroom, felt the dry bristles of her toothbrush, and guessed it hadn’t been used this morning.
And suddenly my room filled up with the lack of her. Like I could feel the absence of her as much as I could feel her presence. Like Dad, unable to bear the absence of Reid’s father. Or Brian’s mom, standing at the edge of my kitchen, feeling something in the emptiness.
Real as anything.
It looked like it was going to rain again, but it didn’t. But the clouds sat, gray and thick and ominous. Time ticked by painstakingly slowly. I picked up the phone at eleven and called again. Straight to her voice mail. I called again at noon. And that time I waited for the tone and said, “Call this number, damn it,” and hung up.
Mom watched me each time, and I could tell she was starting to get worried as well. Only she was worried there had been some sort of car accident in the woods on the way home. I felt like I was going through the motions, making these phone calls, every hour on the hour, until Mom would call Colleen’s mom or the police or something. By two, I started to get anxious. I really hoped she was driving, had been a jerk, and left without telling me. I wanted to believe she’d do it.
I needed to believe she’d do it.
“I need to go look for her.”
“She took her car, Mallory. She could be anywhere.”
So I sat in front of the window, rocking back and forth, watching the empty road. Leaning a little closer every time I’d hear a car approaching. But it was never Colleen.
Mom finally called the Dabner house at five, but she shook her head at me. “She probably doesn’t even get off work until now.” Then she turned her mouth back to the phone and said, “This is Lori. We’re just calling to check that Colleen made it home. Please call this number when you get in.”
“She should be back by now,” I said. “Colleen would’ve picked up the phone at home.”
Mom looked at her watch. “Only if she didn’t make any stops. I’m sure she stopped for food. And she’s bound to hit rush-hour traffic . . .”
“Mom . . .”
The sky started to shift, from light gray to dark gray. Mom looked out the window. “I’m going to pick up some dinner.” But before she left, she called Dad. She cleared her throat and said, “Would you please swing by the Dabner house on the way back from work and make sure Colleen made it home?” Which is how I knew she was seriously worried.
The second she left, I threw on my sneakers.
I knew what I’d be doing to Mom. I knew it. I knew the way she looked at me now, remembering how I came to her that night, covered in blood. How she came home to an empty house with a dead body. I knew what it had done to her. The weeks when she couldn’t keep the tremor from her hand, when she couldn’t focus enough to remember which windows were locked and which weren’t. What doors should be locked and which shouldn’t. When she couldn’t even focus on me.
I knew what this—coming home to an empty hotel room—could do to her. But this was a thing worth risking it for.
The only question I’d been thinking about since I woke up and Colleen was gone was this: where the hell did she go?
She took her car.
She took her bag. Well, she’d need that, since it had her wallet.
And she’d left sometime before I woke.
She could’ve been anywhere, it’s true. But it also wasn’t.
Because she hadn’t meant to leave me for good. Which meant there was only one place she could’ve gone.
Monroe.
Chapter 21
I left a note for Mom. Told her to call someone—Colleen’s mom, the cops, the school, just someone. I told her I was going to find Colleen.
I started off down the road at a brisk walk. And then I started to jog. And then, picturing Colleen waiting at the end, I ran.
At first I could see the road just fine. The cracks at the edge of the pavement, the way it ended abruptly, like a cliff, where the weeds and grass and trees grew. I looked down at the pavement as I ran, watched it blur beneath my feet, same as when I ran to see Reid.
But then the sun must’ve dropped, or the clouds grew thicker, or maybe just darker. I could still see, but I couldn’t make out the details, the contrast. Just the shapes. I was halfway there, I had to be. I was breathing heavily, but I didn’t feel out of breath. Just desperate. Because if Colleen hadn’t come back, there must’ve been a reason. And I was guessing it wasn’t because she ran into some hot guy.
My foot slipped off the edge of the pavement, and my ankle rolled, and I came down hard on my hands and knees. My right hand landed on something sharp—a piece of glass, I thought. But when I pulled my hand up, I saw a split rock—an edge like someone had taken a knife to it. The corner was dark with blood. My blood.
I held my palm to my face and saw the gash along my palm. Blood dripped from the wound down my wrist. Not too much, I’d be fine. But my heart sped up. I imagined my hands that night. Covered in Brian’s blood.
I pounded my fist into the pavement, then flattened my hands to push myself up off the ground. And as I rose, I saw my handprint. A dark stain on the pavement. I couldn’t move. Because I remembered something else.
Brian slid to the floor, barely making a sound. Like the way people say that life slips away. He just . . . slipped. And at first there was just a little blood on my hands, warm, but just a little. Like the knife had only scratched him, maybe. Except he was on the floor, and his mouth was gasping.
I fell beside him and stared at the knife. His chest should have been moving, but it wasn’t. “Oh God,” I said. “Brian.” His eyes were open, but he wasn’t looking, or maybe he was. Maybe he was looking for something else. “Brian!” I screamed. But he still didn’t look at me.
The spot on the front of his shirt was spreading. I put both hands on the knife and tugged. It came free, as effortlessly as it had gone in. And then the blood started, even more than before. Flowing, pouring out. “No!” I cried. “No, no, no.”