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Drive faster drive faster drive faster, my brain shouts. The minutes and miles tick by, but it still seems like we have a long way to go. Anniston’s only two hours away, mostly a straight shot on I-20. But I want to be there now. I need to be there now.
“Why do you think he went to Anniston?” Donal asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. I don’t know anything anymore. I thought Sam was okay. Christmas was so nice. He seemed so happy. I’m stupid for thinking that. So stupid.
“So, where do we go once we get there?” Donal asks.
“Damn,” I say. In all the rush I hadn’t really thought of that. I try to think—where would he go? All I can think of is the place where he lived with that man. “I can’t remember the name of the complex where he . . . where that man held him. But I think that’s where he might go.”
“Can you look it up on your phone?” Donal suggests.
“Yeah, good idea,” I say, my effort to stay calm like a constant battle inside my body. I whip out my phone and feel creepy but type in “Russell Hunnicutt apartment” and then a whole bunch of articles flash up. It’s almost eleven. We have about an hour to go till we get there. I scan through the articles, picking through the details, hoping some will name the neighborhood or apartment complex, but feeling the panic wash back over me. What if we can’t find him?
I know this is my fault. Living in my cocoon of ignorance. Not wanting to know anything about what my brother went through.
“Sam,” I say, looking at my screen. “Where are you?”
Donal steps on the gas.
CHAPTER 16
Meadowbrook Manor
Josh
Sam seems to drive around with no particular destination in mind, despite what he said. He doesn’t talk. It’s like he’s under a spell. A tingle of fear starts to spread through my body.
We drive past a strip of restaurants—Applebee’s, Denny’s, then a BBQ place called Smalley’s.
“That’s where Rusty worked,” he says, sounding normal again, not crazy, not broken, but my belly still feels tight, like I’m on guard. “I got so sick of barbecue. He brought it home all the time. I never want to eat it ever again as long as I live.”
“I hate barbecue, too,” I say, even though I know it’s not for the same reason.
Sam doesn’t respond. It’s like I’m not right next to him. All he can see are the places and people from his time here.
“That’s the mall. Where I met Kaylee.”
It looks like every other mall—a giant brick and glass fortress surrounded by a vast and half-empty parking lot. It’s getting close to noon. My stomach growls. But if we ate, I know I wouldn’t be able to keep anything down.
Suddenly he slows the car and takes a right, onto a street that goes up a hill. We pass a pawnshop, a shabby-looking beauty parlor, then a little church. After we pass a vacant lot, he turns left.
“Here we are,” he says.
The name of the complex is painted in fading black letters on a white sign, hanging by two chains from a wooden post: MEADOWBROOK MANOR.
Sam drives into the lot, which is only half filled. Parking spots are marked with faded painted numbers. A sign warns that cars will be towed if parked in reserved spots. Sam pulls into one of them.
“Is it okay to park here?”
“This is our spot. His spot.”
Where he would park the truck. The white truck he painted red.
He shuts off the engine and we sit there a minute, facing a gray-wooden wall that separates the parking lot from the road we just drove up. Finally, Sam opens his car door and gets out, and I follow him. He walks across the lot, toward a little set of cement stairs, which lead down to a courtyard. The complex is two-story, dirty white brick, and U-shaped. In the courtyard is a grill that looks charred and unusable, and two pocked cement picnic tables set on slabs of concrete. A deflated basketball lies on the yellowed grass.
Sam walks down the steps and veers right to one of the picnic tables and sits on the tabletop. He’s facing an apartment, just staring. I sit next to him. The cement is cold on my jeans.
“You okay?” I ask, and the fear starts snaking through my bones again, fear because I no longer know what Sam is capable of. He doesn’t respond to my question.
The apartments all have doors painted dark green. A black and rickety-looking metal railing runs around the second floor. God, this place is depressing. I try not to think of all the things Sam went through here, but all of the awfulness seems to hover in the air like a cloud.
Sam still stares, like he’s waiting for someone to walk out of that apartment.
I keep expecting the neighbors to look out their windows at us. Maybe someone will recognize Sam. But it’s like this place is abandoned. And wouldn’t people want to move, I think, after they found out what happened here? Maybe they’ve all left. Maybe this place is deserted.
Sam bolts up and walks toward the apartment he’d been studying. He tries the knob and jiggles it, but the door’s locked. He keeps jiggling, like going harder will make it open. Then he finally stops. He stands there in front of the door, and rests his head right where the peephole is.
I want to go home. I want to leave this place badly. My phone is back in the car. I could run to the car and call someone—Sam’s stepdad, or my parents. Or Beth. She’s probably awake by now. She’s probably flipping out.
Sam starts knocking his head against the door, but not forcefully. Knock. Knock. Knock. Then, the fourth time, he bangs it real hard, slamming it again and again.
“Sam!” I shout. I leap off the table and run over to him. I’m about to grab him when he stops. I can hear him making these awful sounds. Moaning mixed with crying. “Sam,” I say, but my voice is dry and weak.
Sam wiggles the knob again. Then he starts kicking the door. Kicking and kicking, still making that moaning sound. I cringe but creep closer and pat him on the back. “Sam.” He spins around. His face is red and angry and he looks at me like he doesn’t know who I am.
“Leave me alone!” He pushes me hard and I stumble back, but I don’t fall down. He turns back to the door and starts kicking again.
“Sam,” I plead, my heart pounding so hard I can almost hear it. “Sam, please, stop!” Tears start spilling from my eyes. Maybe he finally hears me. Maybe he hears my cry-soaked voice, or maybe he’s worn himself out, because he finally stops kicking.
“Sam,” I say. “Please, can we leave this place?”
For a few seconds he just stands there. I can hear him crying. We both are.
“He was right,” Sam says faintly.
“Who was right?” I ask.
“Rusty.” He rests his head on the door again. “No one will love me now.”
I wipe my eyes. “It’s not true,” I say.
“You saw Kaylee. You heard her.”