The auditorium is eerily quiet even though it’s jam-packed
with students. I spy Leyla and Bryan sitting near the front and go to join them but stop short in the aisle when I realize that Noah’s sitting directly in front of them. Even worse, Nicole is right next to him, their shoulders touching as she leans to whisper something in his ear. I grit my teeth and crane my neck behind me, looking for anywhere else to sit.
“Kailey! Over here!” Leyla waves at me and pats the seat next to her. Noah’s posture stiffens as she calls Kailey’s name, and my chest tightens. He clearly doesn’t want anything to do with me. Nor should he. But it still hurts.
I slide into the open seat, trying not to watch Noah, the way his messy black hair falls in waves around his neck. The way Nicole’s fingers dance on his arm as she speaks, her nails painted the same deep red as the curtain on the stage.
News of my breakup with Noah has saturated our group of friends, and the resulting whispers and concerned glances have cemented it into utter, heartbreaking finality. I texted him yesterday to tell him I’d find another ride to school, which thankfully Leyla was willing to give me. I’d had no option but to tell her and Bryan the news while squeezing my hands into fists in the pocket of my coat.
“But . . . why?” Leyla had asked me, her dark eyes searching. “I thought you guys were perfect for each other. Did something happen?”
“No . . .” My voice trailed off. “I just . . . decided that I
was leading him on. I didn’t care about him as much as I originally thought.”
“Uh-huh,” she’d responded, sounding unconvinced. “Well, I suppose that’s fair.”
“Right, I didn’t want him to waste his time with me. We should both see other people.”
Bryan never spoke—I’m sure he didn’t want to get in the middle of his sister and his friend. He’d just ruffled my hair. Somehow, the gesture had choked me up more than talking about Noah did.
“Is this seat taken?” Reed doesn’t wait for my answer before settling into the seat next to me. I have never considered myself claustrophobic—when I was a little girl, I used to wedge myself into the tightest places I could find to hide from my mother and my nurses. But now, with Reed’s solid presence effectively penning me in, I start to panic.
Rebecca follows Madison into the open seats in front of us, right next to Noah and Nicole.
“What happened to you the other night?” Reed asks. I can feel his eyes on the side of my face. I don’t want to look at him, but the only alternative is to stare forward at the back of Noah’s head.
“What do you mean?” I ask. I haven’t forgotten the things he said on Treasure Island.
He shrugs. “You never came back to hear the rest of the
music. I was worried about you, but Bryan said you’d be fine. You seemed so upset, though.” His deep-set brown eyes radiate concern, but I know better.
“Well, yes, the news about Eli—”
“Oh, of course. Who wouldn’t be upset? I hope they find him.” He leans in conspiratorially. “My parents don’t know yet. My mom’s going to lose it when she hears a kid went missing. I just hope she doesn’t yank us out of school.”
Before he can continue, the speakers crackle as the principal steps onto the stage, and the room falls silent. “Most of you have already heard the news, but I wanted a chance to talk to you myself.” He takes a deep breath, and the microphone picks up the sound. I can see the deep shadows under his eyes, the coffee stain on his pale olive dress shirt, the slight tremor in his hands.
“So soon—too soon—after the death of Mr. Shaw, another tragedy mars our community. A student, Eli Macgregor, has gone missing.” He takes another shaky breath as a murmur goes through the crowd of students.
“I can’t believe there’s anyone who doesn’t know yet,” whispers Leyla, to my left.
I just nod wordlessly.
“The police have launched a comprehensive investigation,” the principal continues. “And they are doing their absolute best. Let’s have a moment of silence for Eli. I know
we are all praying that he is found right away.”
There’s a low rustle as the group lowers their heads. I do the same, though I know he’s long since turned to dust. I steal a glance at Reed. His head is bowed, eyes closed.
I am incredibly conscious of Noah’s presence. Only a few feet from me, but the gulf feels much wider. Especially when Nicole leans into him again and murmurs something in his ear, making ice crystallize in my heart. But what can I do? I can only hope that common decency will prevent her from making a move on him anytime soon. I doubt it, though.
The principal leans into the microphone once more, earning him a high-pitched squeal of feedback that makes us jump. He laughs nervously before continuing. “Officer Spaulding is here from the Oakland Police to fill us in on the search for Eli. Officer?” He nods to a man who stands in the shadows offstage. The familiar policeman strides into the light.
He steps to the podium, a bounce in his step, his sunglasses pushed up on his bald head, its shiny surface reflecting the theater’s lights the way sun bounces off a windshield late in the afternoon.
“Thank you, sir,” he says to the principal, snapping a piece of gum as he talks. “I’m sorry to be speaking with you under such terrible circumstances. But know that the Oakland PD won’t rest until Eli is found. And we need your
help to accomplish that. If any of you has any information that might help us out, we’d appreciate hearing from you.” Next to him, Principal Gutierrez mops his forehead with his beleaguered tie.
“And we’re continuing our investigation into the death of your teacher, Mr. Shaw. There have been some developments in the case—I can’t give you the details, since the investigation is ongoing. But we’re lucky to have some very helpful witnesses, a young man and woman from San Francisco, who are working with us to find the person who did this.” His gaze sweeps across the auditorium, and although I know that the theatrical lights must be shining in his eyes, preventing him from actually seeing our faces, I swear he makes eye contact with me.
I shudder, imagining Amelia and Jared lying to this officer. The more he deals with them, the more danger he’s in. And I’m certain he’s completely unaware.
Reed rubs my arm in a consoling gesture. I want to yank my hand away, but I don’t.
“Rest assured that we will do
whatever
it takes to find Eli,” Officer Spaulding is saying. “That’s—that’s it for now. Remember: Any information might help. Thank you.” He turns his whole body to face me, and a beam of light catches his badge, momentarily blinding me, making me think of bright lamps punishingly aimed in interrogation chambers.
I bring my hand up to my face to shield it, and when I lower my arm, he’s gone.
Whatever it takes,
I repeat in my mind, knowing what I need to do. Get that book back from Taryn. By whatever means necessary. All this wondering, this second-guessing and reverse psychology—it won’t mean anything once I have that book in my hands. Taryn’s address is listed in Kailey’s phone contacts, and I’m going to go to there this afternoon, with or without Taryn’s permission.
The principal is standing again at the mic. “Thank you, Officer Spaulding, for keeping us up to date.” A glistening layer of perspiration covers his face, bringing the crow’s feet at his eyes into sharp relief. “I’d like to invite anyone who would like to say a few words about Eli to come up to the stage. Of course, if you’d rather speak with me privately, my door is always open.”
The low sound of movement surrounds me, a scuffling of sneakers on the floor and knees turned to the side to allow students to pass by. A line is quickly forming down the aisle as boys and girls approach to speak about Eli. I’m touched that he’s inspiring so many people to speak. Touched—and horrified. He has so many friends who don’t know that he’s gone and never coming back.
“Excuse me, I need to get out,” I mumble. Reed stands up, and I shove past him, fighting my way through the
stream of students who are lining up to speak about the boy that no one knows is dead.
I’m halfway to the door when I hear Noah’s voice behind me. “Kailey, wait.” My treacherous legs turn of their own accord, move forward slowly toward him.
“Can we talk?” he asks softly.
Talk?
I want to do more than talk. I want to pull him to me, to feel our puzzle-piece lips locking together. I start to lean toward him—and then I see Reed, watching us, and I snap together.
He’ll kill Noah if he realizes you are in love with him. He’s made his intentions painfully clear.
It will end up just like the jazz musician in Paris. When we went back to the club after that night the trumpet player and I made eye contact, he was nowhere to be seen.
Must have left town,
Cyrus said with a smug grin. As if I didn’t know. Cyrus had him removed—just as he would do to Noah if given the chance.
“No.” My throat is so parched that my voice is barely audible. “I already told you everything I had to say.”
Noah flinches. The lights shiver on his crow-black hair. He stares down at his grubby red sneakers, then pushes past me toward the door.
Nicole follows a beat later. When she catches up with him, she takes his hand and leads him away. I want to scream. I hate what I’ve created, but there’s no turning back, not now.
The book,
I tell myself.
Get the book, draw Cyrus out, and hopefully Noah will take you back.
But the way Nicole touched Noah, the way he let her touch him, pokes a million holes in my certainty. What if, by the time I beat Cyrus, it’s too late?
TWENTY-THREE
Taryn’s apartment is on Hannah Street in West Oakland, a mixture of hundred-year-old houses wedged in next to warehouses and the occasional brand-new condominium building. The neighborhood is far grittier than where Kailey lives—trash collecting in the gutters, potholes scarring the asphalt, and wrought-iron bars covering most of the houses’ windows.
The concrete steps leading to Taryn’s building are stained and cracked, with weeds growing in the corners. It’s a three-story building that was probably beautiful at one point, before someone painted the ornate Victorian
woodwork a garish combination of bright yellow and grape. A window downstairs is missing its glass, a piece of plywood nailed in its place.
I set out for Taryn’s place as soon as I got home from school, telling Mrs. Morgan the almost-truth that a friend of mine had a book I needed. She let me borrow the car, assuming the book in question was for school. I didn’t correct her.
I approach the front door, scanning the hand-written names that appear above each unit’s buzzer. And there it is: Apartment 3A is occupied by a T. Miller. I raise my finger to the buzzer, letting it hover for a long moment. Then I take a deep breath and push.
I wait, rocking back on my heels, wondering what I will actually say to Taryn if she answers. She doesn’t.
I ring again, but still nothing.
I release the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. Damn it. I can easily pick the lock, but the entryway is completely visible from the street. I don’t want the neighbors seeing me break in.
I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye from behind the glass door. I press my face between the metal bars, cupping my hand around my eyes and straining to see into the dim interior.
Inside, an older woman is locking the door to one of
the ground-floor apartments, an enormous sack of laundry slumped at her feet. She heaves the bag into her arms and heads straight for me. The front door opens.
“Let me get that for you,” I say sweetly, moving to her side and holding open the door.
“Why, thank you,” she says, breathing hard as she wrestles with the lumpy bag of laundry. She doesn’t even look up at me. I slip past her up the staircase and climb to the third floor. The carpet is worn and stained, black splotches blending in with the floral pattern. Despite my soft steps, the stairs erupt in violent creaks with every footfall.
The door to Taryn’s apartment is locked, so I fish the paperclip out of the pocket of my jeans and pick the lock in less than a minute.
It’s dark inside. The only light leaks through the threadbare spots in the drawn curtains. I feel for the wall next to the door and flip the light switch, and the room comes into sharp, well-lit focus. It’s a disaster.
The first thing that hits me is the smell: a combination of stale air, rotting food, and something else. Something that makes me retch.
I bury my nose in my shirt, lurching forward to the window, and frantically rip open the curtains to crank the old casement handle. Clean, fresh air wafts over me, and I inhale gratefully.
When my stomach settles, I turn around and survey the filthy room. A brown corduroy couch sags against one wall, covered with junk: candy wrappers and greasy paper plates, dirty socks, unopened mail. The coffee table in front of it is a forest of beer cans, wine bottles, and candles serving as makeshift ashtrays. A puddle of some former, unidentifiable liquid has dried in its center, criss-crossed with trails of ants.
I move to the kitchenette. The tiny stove is painted in drippings and littered with rusty pans holding uneaten food in various stages of decomposition. The trash can is overfull, an avalanche of garbage spilling to the floor.
I regard the only other doorway in the small apartment. It must be Taryn’s bedroom. There’s a short hallway with a sharp turn at its end, effectively blocking any light from the living room, or any fresh air. The awful smell gets stronger as I step into the darkness, running my hand over the wall next to the door for a light switch. But I can’t find one. I take another step, once again pulling my shirt up over my nose and nearly tripping over debris as I feel my way deeper in. I climb over soft piles that I assume—that I
hope
—are clothes. The smell is so strong, I fight not to gag.
My knee bumps into something solid—I throw out my hand and realize it’s a bed. I run my hand along the side and follow it to what must be a nightstand. Wildly, I grope its surface, hoping I don’t cut myself on the broken glass that
my fingers brush against. I make contact with something thin, flexible, plastic, and close my hand around it, triumphant.