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I pull up the search engine on my computer and start looking for a topic for my journalism paper. The quicker that’s done, the quicker I can enjoy the break. Maybe Denielle will even disentangle herself from Charlie long enough to spend some time with me.
I’ve been browsingdifferent news websites for the past hour when I come across a headline that piques my interest.Seven-Year-Old, Rose Ashbaugh, Discharged from Local Hospital After Missing for Two Weeks.I click on the article and am immediately sucked in. This little girl is the fifth victim. She was taken at a local park she visited with her mother regularly. The mom was talking to another parent and didn’t notice Rose was gone until it was too late. They kept getting regular updates from the perpetrator with pictures showing her healthy and taken care of. No demands were made, and a couple of weeks later, she just turned up at a random hospital. What the hell?
I read every article I can find linked to this one. Most of them are from the same freelance reporter, a guy named Lancaster, who seems to have made this story—case—his sole purpose in life. It’s all he writes about. I look up the other victims, and not one girl could give a decent description of the kidnapper. They were being kept tranquil, but not fully sedated, justkind ofdrugged. All they could tell the authorities was the man was tall,white—so, Caucasian—andnice. Nice? What the—? He talked to them, read with them, played games, made them their favorite foods, etc. The hairs on my arms stand up while reading this. The girls were taken from all over the U.S. There is no rhyme or reason to the timeline; all they have in common is their appearance: slender with long blonde hair, hazel eyes, and fair skin.
I think I’ve found the topic for my paper.
I decide to go through the articles victim by victim and compare the coverage. Other news outlets followed the first reporter’s lead and mentioned a possible connection between these cases. I take notes from each article and bookmark sites. My phone buzzes a few times, but I ignore it. I don’t have the patience for party gossip right now. I’m on the second article for victim number three, Meredith Scagliotta, when my gaze wanders back to the picture of Rhys and me. Suddenly, something about the picture feels off, but I can’t pinpoint what. I rub my eyes and peer over my left shoulder at my queen-size bed—anywhere but the photo. I recently got a new light-gray, upholstered wingback headboard. My old one was a hand-me-down from the guest bedroom set in our last house, and I’d been begging for a room makeover for years. Mom finally caved when she found this one on sale at the local furniture store. After spending some of my own money on a white pin-tuck duvet set and some gray and purple throw pillows, my new bed has become my sanctuary when I’m at home. It’s the one place I can fully relax and feel at peace. The rest of the house always keeps me on edge because there is a chance of Rhys showing up. He pretends I’m invisible yet can’t stand to remain in the same room as me for more than a few minutes. Not that he ever does, though—show up, that is. I focus back on my screen and the photo of the little girl displayed on the website, but my eyes are drawn to the white picture frame next to it. I was so happy in the picture. Still in the memory of when my brother slung his arm around me, laughing, a stabbing pain assaults my head. Squeezing my eyelids shut, I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to make it go away.
Shit, that hurts.
That’s when I see myself—no, mykidself, maybe six or seven years old. The reflection stares back at me, surrounded by a white ornate wooden frame—a mirror. My pale skin enhances the dark circles under my eyes—God,sopale. The throbbing between my temples slowly subsides, and I blink against the light of my desk lamp.
What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?
I read once that you can see flashes with migraines. But number one, I have never had a migraine in my life, and two, this didn’t feel random. It was more like a déjà vu or...a memory. Though, I know for a fact I never had a mirror like that, so itcan’tbe a memory.
So weird.
The alarm clock on my nightstand shows it’s almost one in the morning, and I automatically stifle a yawn. Shrugging, I chalk this whole thing up to being overtired and having overindulged in too many unsettling news reports.
I call it a night and decide to continue tomorrow.
I’m standingwith Wes in Emma’s kitchen. Her stepdad owns Iron Moore Construction, a local company specializing in underground services,tunneling, and electrical power. A few years ago, he landed a big contract in the city, and his empire exploded from there. When he and Emma’s mom hooked up, they moved into his ostentatious Westbridge mansion within weeks.
The party is in full swing. Everyone holds either a red Solo cup or bottle ofsomethingin their hand—the liquids’ colors ranging from clear to amber to red. People are laughing and shoving each other in the cramped space, hence why I’ve parked my ass against the countertop in the corner. I’m on my second beer, questioning again what the fuck I’m doing here. Oh yeah, avoiding home and making sure my girlfriend is happy. Kat is somewhere in the living room, holding court over her cheerleader minions and making sure she is appropriately admired. The occasional kiss and endearments keep her appeased these days—as long as everyone and their mother sees it, of course. Kat and I have been together for almost two years, but it’sneverbeen about love for us. Sure, she’s hot with her long blonde curls, killer body, big...uh, eyes, and when she wears thattinyuniform—well, you get the picture. We had fun in the beginning—a lotof fun. But all she cares about is her image and being the head cheerleader dating the school’s quarterback. She’s known from the start that we’re not happily-ever-after material, and she’s never asked me what my motives are, which is perfectly fine. But lately, it’s getting harder and harder to keep up the act. It’s fucking exhausting.
Wes keeps talking when I spot Denielle weaving through the crowd. I heard Charlie is coming home this weekend, and she probably wants to party before holing up with him for the week. Her long, dark-brown hair is curled at the ends, and she is dressed to kill in black skinny jeans, a lacy red top, and black heels—the ones with the red soles that cost a fortune, which is also something I know from dating Kat. If she weren’t basically married to her boyfriend, I would think she’s trying to get laid. Though, no one would dare say that to her face. I keep following her with my eyes, searching for her best friend. They are usually a package deal and easy to spot with Den’s dark hair and Lilly’s blonde head, but I’ve noticed that for the last few months, Lilly’s been avoiding parties where I’d be. Can’t say I blame her.
Being busy with practice, I haven’t seen Denielle since our run-in earlier this week, and when she catches my eye, she gives me the usual death glare that has been solely reserved for me. Maybe not solely, but I definitely get the nastier ones, which still makes me feel alittlespecial. I hold my beer up in greeting, but she just flips me off and keeps walking. Yup, she’s clearly mastered the flip-the-dickhead-brother-off gesture. Taking a swig from my beer, I hide my amusement. If they only knew.
"Dude, are you even listening?"
I blink and look over at my best friend. "Huh?"
"Yeah, that’s what I figured," he huffs. "Are you training with Spence tomorrow?"
Oh, he’s still going on about our workout plans. The school gym is closed this weekend fordeep cleaning, whatever that means, so we need to change our usual plans.
"Uh, no. Lilly is training with him Saturday. I’m meeting him Sunday. You should know that by now; we work out togethereveryfreakin’ week." I barely manage to keep the irritation out of my voice. We go through the same spiel every single Friday. Sometimes I question Wes’s long-term memory.
"Okay, cool. Then let’s go at eleven and grab lunch after."
Wonderful. That’s in the middle of Lilly’s session, but I just nod. Why he insists on making plans is beyond me. I’m sleeping on his couch. It’s not like we’ll miss each other taking a piss in the same bathroom.
I switched the days of my training sessions with Spence, one of our dad’s Marine Corps buddies, so I could avoid Lilly. She kept the Saturdays, and I moved to Sundays and started working out in the school’s weight room when Lilly is at the gym.
"I still don’t get why you stopped sparring with Lil. The two of you are lethal together."
Why. Does. He. Not. Shut. Up?
Tightening the grip on the bottle in my hand, I grit out, "Let it go, man."
He’s right on that account, though. When Lilly and I had worked together with Spence, we always used to push each other. I miss sparring with her, but I would never admit that. Instead, I add, "It was time to change it up."
Wes has learned over the years to not push me on that topic once I reach a certain point, and he switches to angling his bottle at Amber Jennings’ ass. Apparently, it’s shaped like a ripe peach in her jeans.
Who the fuck talks like that?
