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Twisting his head over his shoulder, dark green hedges and a black night closing in around him, he levels me a knowing look—the kind that holds a level of faith I’m not sure I deserve.
“If anyone can find her, you can.”
When we get to my house, it’s dark—quiet—with the exception of the dimly lit table lamp, the familiar creaking of pipes pumping water to and from the furnace, and our strained breaths as I carefully guide Mason inside.
Leaning him up against the bannister, I quietly turn and close the door, shutting out the cold. At the last second, I remember to lock it. No point leaving it open tonight.
I go to throw Mason’s arm back over my shoulders, silently praying to whatever God may actually give a damn that we actually make it up the stairs without waking the whole house—when a voice coming from the other room stops me.
“Jeremy? That you?”
My eyes fall shut. Shit.
I was hoping my parents would be in bed by now, or at least too distracted to pick up on me sneaking back in. But a glance over my shoulder at the grandfather clock in the corner shows it’s only quarter to eleven.
“Wait here,” I mumble.
Mason slumps back against the bannister, arms wrapping around the railing, and he rests his head against his bicep like it’s a pillow. I’d push him down to sit, but then I’d definitely have zero chance at all of getting him up the stairs.
Sending another silent plea into the universe that Dad keeps this short, I steel myself and turn for the hallway, quickening my steps to try and get to my Dad before he gets to me.
But no such luck.
Dad appears around the corner, his dirty blond hair rumpled, glasses skewed. Telling me he was in his office again. Likely fell asleep at his desk.
He spends all his time in there these days, scouring the internet and throwing Izzy’s name and picture out on any relevant forum he can find, hoping for some kind of lead. A bite. A sighting. A sign. Anything.
I only know this because I had to print something for school one day, a couple months ago, and my printer had run out of ink.
Windows upon windows of open forums and articles were scattered across his screen, like a condensed murder board.
I think it’s safe to say he hasn’t fared any better than the FBI these last six months.
“Hey,” I say awkwardly. Hanging my head, I keep my gaze downturned, and run my fingers through my blond hair, twisting the dead ends that curl messily around my cheeks.
Dad’s socked feet shift along the runner going across our foyer.
“Hey, kid,” he whispers roughly.
I flit my gaze up through my lashes, watching as his brows knit when he takes in the wet, rumpled figure slumped against the bannister behind me.
“Everything okay?” Dad says in a faint, distant voice.
I stare at him, biting back the retort licking up my throat. No, Dad, nothing is okay.
If the wince breaking across his face before he quickly shakes head is anything to go by, he too must’ve realized how stupid that question is.
He rubs a hand roughly across the lower half of his face. His beard is thicker and more gray than it’s ever been. There’s a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes that makes me think he hasn’t noticed how unruly it’s become.
“It was easier to just bring him here,” I explain stupidly, the lie rolling easily off my tongue.
Dad nods distractedly, his gaze far-off like he’s no longer here.
Sucking in my cheeks, I nod. “I’m just gonna…” I let my voice trail off and wave a hand in the air.
I turn away, just as my dad whispers, “Okay, goodnight,” and I hear his footsteps padding across the floor, heading back the way they came.
I don’t even know if he sleeps in their bed anymore. Whereas Mom rarely leaves the room these days, Dad’s like a ghost appearing and disappearing randomly throughout the downstairs. If he’s not pacing from room to room, he’s holed up in his office, or standing in front of the sliding back door in our kitchen, staring off into the distance.
