Where You'll Find Me (15 page)

He nods to a blue car that’s directly between our house and our neighbor’s. “I assumed that was Nate’s car, but it must not be. Where is his?”

I fight to hide a wince. We should have been more careful. “It was down the street,” I lie, motioning to a part of the street he can’t see from his current location. “A white one.” I fumble for enough details to make the lie believable, but not enough that he can prove me wrong. “Not sure what kind. You know me and cars.”

After a second or two in which I don’t breathe, he steps away from the door and nods. “Oh, I do.”

Satisfied that I’ve gotten out of this one, I say, “I’m going to go finish getting ready.”

I’m at the stairs when Dad stops me again. “Hanley? What city did Nate say he lives in?”

I freeze. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. Did Nate give my parents the name of a city? If he did, I don’t remember it. “Why?” I ask, voice tight.

“He just looks familiar. I wonder if I know his parents. I can’t put a finger on it, but I swear I’ve seen him before.”

“Maybe you just saw him around when you picked me up from school.”

He nods slowly, as if he’s still not sure. “Yeah. That must be it.”

I head upstairs and hope I’ve done enough to convince him.

…

Rosalinda is absent again. When I text her to ask how she’s feeling, the description of morning sickness—or in her case, all-day sickness—is so graphic that I lose my appetite for the rest of the day. Possibly the rest of my life. As much as I want to ask if she has decided what she’s going to do about the pregnancy, I resist. Life-altering decisions take time.

Somehow, I make it through another Rosalinda-less Monday. I do a good job of avoiding Clinton. If he asked me where she is, I’d either have to lie or tell the truth, and I choose neither. When Heather walks with me to her car after school, the backpack slung over one shoulder looks like it weighs more than she does. I wonder if she ever leaves a book in her locker.

“God, it’s freezing out there,” I say once we’re in the car.

“I know, right?” She starts the engine and turns the heat on full blast.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“No Rosalinda again?”

“She’s been sick.”

Heather nods as she pulls out of the parking lot. “A lot. People are going to start talking about her. Jimmy Parson is probably the only reason they aren’t talking about her yet.”

Jimmy is a senior who was busted over the weekend for drug possession. Not that I want any classmates to get busted, but it’s convenient that everyone’s been talking about him and not about the fact that Rosalinda has been absent more than she’s been present.

The ride passes quickly, and we’re pulling into our neighborhood when Heather asks, “Are you going to see Nate again soon?”

“I don’t know. I hope so.”

“But really, what’s the deal with you two? Are you…” Heather trails off as we approach our house. “Oh, fuck.”

The foul language is such a shock that my gaze immediately flies to my sister. “Heather! Language! I mean, I’m a little proud of you, but…”

“Hanley,” she interrupts, still staring out the windshield.

When I look up, the cause of her outburst is apparent. Sitting in the driveway, behind the garage stall containing the Trans Am, is a police car.

“Oh, fuck.”

Chapter Nineteen

“Someone died,” Heather says. “That’s why cops show up at your house for no reason, right? To tell you someone died? Ohmygod…”

“Stop freaking out,” I snap, but it takes me three tries to unbuckle my seatbelt, which proves I’m not taking my own advice. “No one died.”

“Wait,” Heather says. “Do you know about this? Have you been hanging out with Jimmy Parson?”

“God, no,” I say, getting out of the car. “Just…stop talking.” I’m unable to handle both Heather’s panic and my own. We walk in through the middle stall of the garage, but instead of taking a right toward the door, I take a left.

“Where are you going?” Heather demands.

“Hang on.” My hands shake and my lungs tighten as I step around the front of the Trans Am. Nate and his backpack are both gone, but the tarps and blankets are in a state of disarray, like he either left in a hurry or was taken away. I peer under the car. No dice.

As I approach my sister, she stares at me like I’ve grown a third eyeball in the middle of my forehead. Ignoring the look, I say, “Let’s go.”

When I open the door, the house smells of freshly brewed coffee and dread. Voices stutter to a stop. Heather closes the door behind us, and I lean over to take off my boots, heart pounding against my rib cage.

“Hanley?” Dad calls from the kitchen.

If it was something other than Nate, he’d be asking for both of us. Not just me. Taking a shaky breath, I stand up straight. “Yeah?”

“Come in here, please.”

I don’t go right away. Not only do I put my boots away for a change, but I take my time and hang my coat neatly on the rack as well.

When I finally make my way into the kitchen, Mom and Dad are seated at the kitchen table with two uniformed police officers. It’s jarring to see the coffee mugs we use every day in the hands of cops.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” Dad’s words are an order in a suggestion disguise.

One of the officers is sitting in my usual seat, so I take Heather’s.

“Hanley, these are Officers Monroe and Jackson,” Dad says.

Mom turns on her tablet and slides it across the table. The browser is open to a news site. The headline reads “Traverse City teen still missing.” The guy in the picture is familiar. Even though his hair is longer and he looks slightly younger, it’s unmistakably Nate. I’m hot and cold at the same time and wonder if this is what people feel like right before they pass out.

“I finally figured out why Nate looked so familiar,” Dad says. “It was because I’d seen his picture on the news.”

“Hanley,” the older of the two officers says, “do you know where Nate is now?”

“The truth,” Mom says, warning in her tone.

They didn’t catch him. He got away. Though I’m not sure I should be relieved, I still am. “No. I don’t.”

The younger officer asks, “When was the last time you saw him?”

“This morning. Before school.”

The first officer nods. “How long have you known Nate?” They bounce the questions back and forth like this is a well-practiced ping pong match and I’m predestined to lose.

I consider. “A little over a month.”

Back to the second officer. “And how do you know him?”

If I tell the truth, Nate’s hiding place isn’t safe anymore. It’s gone. He’s gone. But if I don’t tell the truth, I’m going to be in deep shit. Even I’m not ballsy enough to flat-out lie to the police. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I found him living in our garage.”

“What?” Dad demands. “What the hell are you talking about? Officers, I assure you that—”

The younger officer cuts him off with a held-up hand. “Are you saying Nate has been living in your garage for over a month?”

“Not consistently. And probably longer than that, because I didn’t know at first. But yes.”

“Damn it, Hanley,” Mom says. Even including this instance, I can count the number of times I’ve heard her swear on one hand.

“How exactly has Nate been living in our garage?” Dad demands.

With a sigh, I tell them how he came in initially. How he stayed hidden. How he unlocked the side door to come and go. How our set-up was perfect for him.

When I’m done, my parents are silent. Seething. But the officers aren’t finished yet.

“Did Nate ever take anything from you or your family? Did he hurt you in any way?”

This is the first question that I can answer without any form of hesitation. “No,” I say. “He’d never even think about hurting me. And he didn’t take anything that I didn’t give to him. I swear.”

“Why did you let him stay?” the younger officer asks.

Heat rises to my cheeks. An answer resembling anything close to the truth—because he’s sweet, because I understand what it’s like to need to get away, because I fell in love with him—would make me sound like an idiot.

“Don’t answer that, Hanley,” Dad says, making the jump from “father” to “lawyer.” “Why does Hanley’s reason for letting him stay matter? Nate was here under his own free will. He is seventeen. Under Michigan law, he’s a minor but not a child. Why are the police so involved with a seventeen-year-old runaway?”

The older officer clears his throat. “We’re not at liberty to discuss the situation. Our immediate concern is finding Nate.”

“What do you mean you’re not at liberty to discuss the situation? There’s no situation to discuss! He ran away from home. It’s not like Hanley kidnapped him or was aiding and abetting a criminal.”

The officers exchange a glance and don’t say a word.

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose and swears under his breath. “Officers, if my daughter is going to be accused of harboring a fugitive, I’d really like to know what charges Nate is facing.”

Another glance between the officers. A longer pause. Then the older officer clears his throat and says, “Nate is the primary suspect in the murder of his brother.”

With the word “murder,” all of the oxygen is sucked out of the room. Even though Dad is yelling, at me, at the officers, at me again, his words are eclipsed by the sound of my own heartbeat. An icy chill spreads through me, numbing my fingers and toes and heart.
Murder
.

Nate is a murderer.

No.

The sound of a coffee cup clinking against the table snaps me back to reality. One of the officers is speaking, but I interrupt him. “But Jeremy was sick.”

“Jeremy was sick,” the younger officer agrees, “but that’s not how he died.” He pulls a few business cards out of his wallet and hands one to each of us. “Give us a call immediately if you see Nate.”

“We will,” Mom assures them. Her voice is clogged with tears. I can’t remember the last time my mom cried.

“Can we look around your garage before we go?” the older officer asks.

“Right this way.”

My parents take them to the garage, but I stay put. I tear the business card into fourths, then eighths, then pieces that cross the line from fractions to snow. Then I leave the tiny pile on the table and head upstairs. I don’t hear the Third Step Creak. Even when I crawl into bed and pull every one of my blankets up to my shoulders, I’m still cold.

When my parents return and storm into my room, there’s a lot of yelling I barely hear. There are a lot of questions I don’t answer. There are a lot of feelings I don’t feel.

Dad squeezes my ankle through the covers. Hard. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

My mind flashes back to the moment Nate flinched when I joked about him being a murderer. But that can’t be true. Nate didn’t kill Jeremy. He wouldn’t. Would he? “He didn’t do it,” I whisper, voice raw and unsteady.

“You don’t know that,” Mom says. “You don’t know him.”

I roll over and close my eyes because in order to wake up from a nightmare, you have to be asleep.

Chapter Twenty

If I sleep at all, it’s not much. When my alarm goes off, I feel simultaneously drunk and hungover, but my memories from last night are a thousand miles away from the fun of a party. While I get ready for school, not caring what my hair, clothes, or makeup look like, I listen to my parents’ conversation, filtering up from the kitchen.

They’re talking about how they have to keep this hush-hush. How both of their jobs will be affected if anyone finds out. How their reputations will be ruined. The more they talk, the angrier I get. Not only are they not trusting me, not listening to the fact that I swear what the officers said can’t be true, but they’re turning it around to be completely about them. Two years ago they didn’t want to be the Parents of the Girl Whose Best Friend Killed Herself. Now they don’t want to be the Parents of the Girl Who Fell for an Accused Murderer. They’re missing the parts where all of this is happening to
me
. Not them.

“I just can’t believe she lied to us,” Mom says as I creep downstairs. “Flat out lied to our faces.”

That’s it. I’m done.

I walk into the kitchen. “It’s hilarious that the only lies you care about are the ones that negatively impact your life,” I snap. “The rest are fine.”

“What are you talking about?” Mom asks, looking at me like I’m insane.

“I lie to you all the damn time.” The words are lava, and I am a volcano. “I lie to you about Nate. About drinking. About sneaking out. Those lies? You care. Because they make you look bad. But every single time I said I was fine after Kayla died, I lied, too.”

Both of my parents visibly flinch at the mention of Kayla’s name, which drives home my point even further. “Every time I said I didn’t need to talk about what happened, I lied. You were more than happy to accept those lies because they were exactly what you wanted to hear. The only person who cared about the truth, who cared about whether I was actually okay, was Nate. He cared more about me than either of you, and if he’s a murderer, what does that make you?”

The memory of Mom holding me after Kayla died threatens to resurface. Squashing it, I stomp out of the kitchen, throw on a pair of shoes, and storm through the vacant garage to Heather’s car. For once, I’m ready to go before she is, so I pace back and forth from one side of the driveway to the other. When tears blur my vision, I blame them on the cold.

Heather appears a moment later, followed closely by my dad. “Hanley, come back inside and let’s talk about this.”

“Let’s go,” I plead with Heather, my hand already on the locked passenger door.

The dilemma is clear in her expression. Drive away with me and disobey our dad. Refuse to unlock the door and risk my wrath. After another second of hesitation, she unlocks the doors and climbs in.

I get in, and I slam the door so hard the car rocks back and forth. Heather doesn’t say a word. We’re already out of the neighborhood and on the main street when she asks, “You okay?”

“No.”

She nods and is silent for another half mile. “You can pick the radio station if you want.”

It’s not a luxury I’m afforded very often, so I flip through until I find a harsh, intense song that matches my mood. I turn the volume up loud enough to hurt, but it does nothing to ease my anger.

Heather doesn’t complain the entire drive.

…

“Stupid piece of shit,” I grumble under my breath as I give my locker a good, swift kick. Because of course if the hunk of metal is going to open easily 179 out of 180 days,
today
is the day it’s not going to cooperate.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re the one who’s pregnant,” Rosalinda says as she leans up against the locker next to mine. “What’s up?”

“This busted-ass thing won’t open.” I spin the combination again and pull up on the handle, but it doesn’t budge. After another kick that hurts my toes more than the locker, I storm off toward the bathroom across the hall. I don’t need textbooks. It’s not like I’m going to be thinking about anything school-related today anyway. Rosalinda follows.

Inside the bathroom, I pull my lip gloss from my purse and apply a coat in the mirror. The harsh fluorescent lights normally make me look like crap, but today, after no sleep and hours of worry, I look like
crap
. “Feeling better?” I ask Rosalinda, but the concern is missing from my tone.

“Much,” she says, outlining her lips in a deep burgundy. “Turns out ginger ale and saltines help. What about you? What’s got your panties in a twist?”

My response is default. “Nothing.”

“No way.” She puts the finish touches on her lipstick and tosses it back in her bag. She turns toward me, leaning against the sink and folding her arms over her chest. “I called you crying about my unborn child, and now you’re giving me the ‘I’m fine’ bullshit? No offense, but you look worse than you did the morning after Jamal’s Beer Olympics. So unless you entered another Synchronized Drinking competition, something must be wrong. Spill.”

This feels like a turning point, not just for my friendship with Rosalinda but for me. The choice is clear: keep lying and keep our friendship at its superficial level, or open up and give it a chance. Before responding, I peer under each stall door to make sure we’re alone. I take a deep breath and hope Rosalinda is ready for this.

“I didn’t meet Nate at Clinton’s party. I found him living in my garage. He ran away from home, and that’s where he ended up. Yesterday, the cops showed up and told us they think he murdered his twin brother.”

For a second, Rosalinda doesn’t say anything. “You’re kidding, right? This is some kind of weird joke I don’t get?”

“I’m just so angry.” I slam the sink with two fists. “I’m pissed at Nate for not telling me about this, and at my parents for calling the cops on him, and at myself for trusting him and falling for him.”

“Okay,” Rosalinda says. “You’re not kidding. Good to know.”

Pushing away from the sink, I tug my fingers through my hair. “There were warning signs, you know? He wouldn’t tell me what happened, he said he couldn’t go to shelters, and he got in this fight that I guess doesn’t have a whole lot to do with anything, but still. I ignored all of that. Because he was too sweet. Because I was too stupid. I’m so fucking angry,” I say, but this time, instead of punches, the words are punctuated with tears.

The bell rings, signaling the start of class, but Rosalinda doesn’t move toward the door. Instead, she pulls me in for a hug that startles me so much I gasp and get a mouthful of gel-covered curls. When she releases me, one hand on each of my shoulders, she says, “First, you’re totally allowed to be pissed. If you need someone to punch, I volunteer Clinton.”

Wiping my eyes isn’t enough to hide the tears, but I do it anyway. Force of habit. “Thanks.”

She squeezes my shoulder. “Second, the
cops
think he killed his brother. What do
you
think happened?”

The ring on my thumb is tight because my hands are warm, but it still spins. “He told me his brother had cancer. Passed away in December.”

“Do you believe him?”

I close my eyes. “I want to. But there’s a big difference between cancer and murder.”

“Then believe him. Believe that difference exists. Innocent until proven guilty and all that.”

She’s right. Just because he was
accused
of murder doesn’t mean he actually
did
it. People are accused of things they didn’t do all the time. Nate could be one of them.

“Third,” she continues, “you’re not stupid. You managed to keep a guy hidden in your garage for a month. That takes smarts. That’s badass.”

I crack a smile. “High praise, coming from you.”

“Damn straight.” She hugs me again. This time I’m less startled, more grateful. This new side of our friendship… I could get used to it.

“You going to be okay?” she asks after a minute.

“Not sure yet,” I admit, and pull away.

“Let me know.”

I nod. “Thanks. So did you tell Clinton yet?”

She sighs. “No. I’m going to after school today. My prediction? It’s not going to go well.”

“He has to know this was possible, right? We’ve been getting sex ed since eighth grade.”

“Yeah, but you never think it will actually happen to you. Plus, this is Clinton. He probably thinks he can control his sperm with his charm and good looks.”

“Gross,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

“Well, it’s true.”

“Do you need me around during the talk? Moral support?”

“Nah. Probably will be best just the two of us. But thanks.”

“Call me when you’re done.”

“I will.” She pushes off the sink and zips her purse. “Good talk?”

“Good talk. God, another tardy. My parents are going to
love
that.”

Rosalinda heads into the hallway, and I follow. “Yeah, but just think of the fabulous comparison you have now! ‘Yes, Mom and Dad, I got a tardy. But at least I’m not harboring another fugitive!’”

Despite myself, I laugh. “What about you? ‘Yeah, I got another detention, but at least I’m not pregnant again!’”

“Exactly. There just aren’t enough teenage pregnancy jokes in the world.” We stop outside Rosalinda’s classroom, and she tugs once on my sleeve. “Hang in there.”

“You, too,” I say. “Glad you’re back.”

And I really am.

…

“Hanley.” Heather snaps her fingers in between my face and the laptop screen.

Blinking for the first time in a while, I look up at her. “What?”

“I just asked if you want pizza with extra mushrooms for dinner, and you said ‘yes.’” She peers over the top of my screen. “What are you so engrossed in?”

“Research,” I say.

Mom and Dad are still at work, probably dealing with things much easier to deal with than the mess I’ve made. Dad did text me to remind me not to talk to the police without him present and to ask if I’d seen Nate, but apparently putting work life on hold for family life for one day was more than enough.

In their absence, I’m Googling anything and everything I can to learn more about Nate and his family. It didn’t take long to find out that Nate is Nate Bradford. There are a handful of protected social media profiles I can’t access. There’s a regularly updated blog about Jeremy’s illness, with the most recent post from December.

“I’m going to go ahead and assume said research is not school related.”

I sigh and rub at my eyes. “Nope.”

She takes the seat next to me, tucking one leg beneath her. “What are you hoping to find?”

“I’m trying to find the mistake the cops made. Maybe they’re looking for a different Nate.” Because it can’t be true. It just can’t be. When he had the opportunity to help me, he did. If I looked up the definition of “murderer,” I’m pretty sure that would be the complete opposite.

My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. When I pull it out, Rosalinda’s picture is displayed.

I swipe the screen to answer the call. “Hey.”

“I told Clinton.” Rosalinda’s tone is dejected.

When Heather looks to me, I mouth, “Rosalinda.” She nods and steals my computer from my lap. “How’d it go?”

“He flipped the fuck out.”

“Just as you predicted.” My phone buzzes in the background, but whatever alert it’s giving me can wait.

“I mean, the boy legitimately didn’t understand how he could have gotten me pregnant. Why did I sleep with him again?”

“It was probably the dimples.”

Rosalinda sighs. “Oh, right. The dimples. So anyway. I explained to him about birth control pills and antibiotics. I explained that condoms are not like Bluetooth. Having one in the general vicinity is not enough. Once he finally seemed to get it, he cried like a little girl.”

“Did you guys talk about what you’re going to do?”

“He wants me to have a…you know…to get rid of it. But I still don’t think I have the heart to do that.”

If it were me, I’m not sure I’d be able to do it, either. “I get that. So, the only other option is adoption?”

When she speaks again, her voice is muffled like she’s chewing on her thumbnail. “It would suck. I’d have to be pregnant for nine months. I’d miss the beginning of next school year. Do classes at home for a while. Then I’d have to live the rest of my life knowing that this person I created is somewhere out there in the world without me.” She pauses. “But it’s the only option I’m kind of okay with, you know?”

“Will Clinton be okay with adoption?”

“I don’t know.” She groans. “This sucks. I need to not think about it for a while. Distract me. Give me the Nate update.”

“Nothing new,” I say. “I’m just trying to find some evidence that he isn’t really who they said he is.” My phone gives another short buzz. Voice mail. Whatever it is must be important. “Hey, can I call you back?”

Rosalinda agrees, and we hang up.

“What’s up with her?” Heather asks, not looking up from the computer screen.

“She told Clinton she’s pregnant. He didn’t take it very well,” I say, but I’m distracted. The voice mail is from a number I don’t recognize. No one ever leaves voice mail.

“Hanley, it’s me. It’s Nate.”

“Ohmygod,” I whisper. Just hearing his voice brings tears to my eyes.

“What?” Heather demands, looking up, but I wave her off.

Nate’s voice continues. “I know I should have explained everything when you told me about Kayla, but I didn’t know how.” During his pause, voices filter in from the background. I wonder where he’s calling from. “Jeremy was so tired of being sick. When the chemo was the worst, he would jokingly beg me to kill him. Then my parents signed him up for an experimental treatment overseas that was going to do nothing more than take him away from his friends and make him miserable, and…he stopped joking. Our parents wouldn’t listen.” His voice lowers, and the noise in the background gets louder. I press the phone harder against my ear. My heart threatens to beat right out of my chest. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you,” he whispers. “I’ll explain more when I can. Just know that I love you, okay?”

When the message ends, I don’t move or think or even breathe.

“Hanley? Are you okay?” Heather asks. “You’re shaking.”