Avery could hear her father rustling around before the sun rose. She pushed herself out of bed and dressed quickly. She didn’t need to ask what had happened—she already knew.
Her father had been the Dan River Falls chief of police since Avery was fifteen. That was the last year her family had been all together. One of her favorite memories was when they rode in the Founder’s Day parade. The chief’s black-and-white SUV had been wrapped with red, white, and blue crepe-paper streamers, and she and her mother had practiced waving delicately, her mother’s lips upturned in a permanent smile.
Avery remembered the way her father had pulled her mother close, just before they turned onto the parade route. His fingers had tangled in her chestnut-brown hair as he kissed her. When they’d pulled away, her parents had both laughed. Her prim and pressed father had now sported bright red lips, a transfer of her mother’s lipstick. Avery had groaned or gagged at her parents’ unbelievably gross public display of affection, though secretly she’d liked that they were always touching, always smiling.
The next year, Avery and her father had ridden in the same car in the parade, but this time in silence. It was just the two of them driving slowly behind the marching band. Avery’s mother’s absence had been palpable, and Avery had gritted her teeth the whole time, trying to force a smile, knowing her father was doing the same thing.
After a few more blocks, the parade would be over, and Avery and her father would pretend they weren’t watching for the clock to strike eight seventeen, the moment Caroline Templeton had been struck by a drunk driver on her way home from the Founder’s Day barbeque, the moment she had been killed.
Avery’s father had the coffee going and his travel mug out, so Avery started breakfast, pulling out a carton of eggs and the frying pan.
“No word on—”
Her father shook his head and filled both mugs, fixing hers with enough milk and sugar to turn it a pale brown while leaving his black. He screwed the lids on both, then took a sip and dropped two pieces of bread in the toaster as Avery cracked two eggs.
“No word. Green and Howard went in last night just before sunset but didn’t see anything.”
“Nothing?”
“Car was in the lot. Last one there. As far as we know, neither boy contacted anyone at home or any friends.”
The toast popped up and Chief Templeton slathered each slice with butter, laying them on separate paper towels.
Avery flipped the eggs. “Well, if neither of them made contact, that could be a good sign, right? They’re probably together.”
The chief salted and peppered the eggs over Avery’s shoulder. She nudged him out of the way and slipped a fried egg onto each slab of toast. He handed her a bright-orange Windbreaker; she handed him one of the egg sandwiches.
“You know you’re basically just keeping the kids out of the way, right?” The chief’s tone was calm, but his eyes were wary.
Avery stiffened. She had been on more missing-person searches—unofficially, as she was underage—than most of the officers on her father’s staff. But being sixteen kept her on “kid patrol,” basically babysitting while the adult volunteers tromped through the forest, potentially ruining scads of evidence while pretending they were a bunch of television CSIs, no doubt.
“Yeah,” she said through a mouthful of fried egg. “I know.”
He chucked her shoulder. “Don’t be like that. When you’re of age, you can show off your detective skills. Until then, we do things by the book.”
Avery looked away, thinking about her mother, about how she would zing the chief in the ribs and remind him not to be so serious. “By the book,” she would mock in a terrible baritone. “I’m the big, bad chief.”
Avery let out a tight sigh. “I know, Dad. By the book.”
? ? ?
Is this what it feels like to die?
He wheezed, imagining his breath leaving his body around jags of broken bones and swollen flesh. He didn’t really know what was broken and what was swollen, but judging by the pain, he guessed everything. He tried to swallow and winced when saliva laced with blood slid down his throat. His head hadn’t stopped pounding and his stomach lurched.
He turned his head to the side, ignoring the twigs that dug into his cheek. Eyes closed, he vomited. He kept them closed—not at the pain, but in an effort to avoid seeing his innards, which he was sure he was spitting up. Then everything went black.