Try Not to Breathe, page 5
Anna laughed. “If that’s not true, please don’t tell me. Okay, meet you there. And I promise to stay below thirty-five the whole way.”
9
Kayla’s bedside lamp cast a soft glow on the book in her hands.
She’d been reading all evening, and as she read, she cursed herself for signing up for an elective literature class during her senior year. She’d done so in a moment of weakness, when she remembered reading during summer days as a kid and thought doing it again would be relaxing.
But the books chosen for this class were nothing like the Harry Potter or Divergent series. The one she was reading now, White Noise by Don DeLillo, was about a toxic leak that made a family flee their home. But a lot of the story focused on details. Many, many details. What exactly was the point?
But she plowed through. Her GPA hovered near a 3.8, and she refused to let it slide at the finish line. She had wanted to graduate with a 4.0, but with that option wiped out by some required science classes, Kayla saw 3.8 as the absolute minimum. Even if it meant reading late into the night a book that seemed bizarrely focused on the fictional family’s trash compactor.
Did anyone even have a trash compactor in their house? Kayla had never seen one.
With Anna gone, everything seemed muted and hushed. Kayla tried not to feel guilty over Anna’s struggles, tried not to dwell too much on what she should be doing as a friend to help. She’d known Anna since freshman year and really come to know her when they were roommates as juniors. It quickly became clear to Kayla that there was only so much she could do for her friend. A stubborn streak a mile wide ran through Anna, and when she decided she didn’t want help or advice, nothing could move her. Kayla hoped Anna would come back to school, hoped it wasn’t too late for her to salvage her grades and graduate with all of their friends in May. The way they’d always planned.
Kayla looked up from her book. She tilted her head.
Was that . . . ?
It happened again, and that time Kayla was certain. Someone was knocking on the apartment door.
“What the . . . ?”
The clock read ten forty-five. A half-full mug of tea sat nearby. Kayla’s friends drank but usually not so much that they’d show up knocking late at night. At least not without texting first.
Anna would. She was prone to losing her keys or misplacing her phone, especially when drinking. But Anna had headed off to Louisville. . . .
The knocking again.
Kayla grabbed her phone, swung her legs off the bed. She put the book aside, wishing she could speed-read it and be finished. Why would someone be knocking at that hour?
She went out to the front of the apartment. A lamp burned in the living room. The kitchen still smelled like the remnants of the burrito she’d brought home for dinner. Kayla checked the door, confirmed the chain was attached. She breathed a little easier. Everything was locked. The fort was secured against anyone, including the Midnight Rambler.
Or the dude who had shown up last night. The creep who had spooked Anna so bad.
Kayla decided to ignore the knocking. She stood in the center of the living room, phone in hand. She wore no shoes and shivered in her shorts and T-shirt.
She expected—hoped—that they’d get bored and go away. A drunken bro at the wrong door. A pizza guy with the incorrect address.
They knocked again. Then a voice muffled by the door. “Hello? Anna?”
A dude’s voice. Asking for Anna.
Kayla took a couple of steps forward, her feet scuffling over the smooth carpet.
“Hello?”
“Who is it?” Kayla asked.
“Can you open the door, so we can talk?”
Kayla moved closer, spoke with force. “No way.”
“Are you Anna?”
“Who are you?”
“Anna, I’m a friend of your father’s. I’m a police officer. If you look through the peephole, you can see my badge.”
Kayla knew it. Anna hadn’t called home. She hadn’t done what she said she was going to do. And now a cop stood at their front door waving his badge around. Anna had disappeared, leaving Kayla to straighten out the mess. Typical . . .
She went over, pressed her face to the peephole. Sure enough, the dark shape of a man. About thirty, wearing a sport coat and a button-down shirt, his face turned to the side. At the end of his extended arm, a silver badge.
Anna and Kayla had once spent an entire weekend watching a Discovery Channel marathon of shows about missing and murdered people. Who knew so many people were the victims of violent crimes, or how often they met their doom because the killer posed as a cop flashing a fake badge?
But the show never explained how to tell a real badge from a fake one.
Pressure grew in Kayla’s gut. Even if that guy was a real cop, should she tell him anything about Anna?
“I think Anna’s fine,” Kayla said. “She’s dealing with her family.”
“Are you Anna?”
“I’m her roommate.”
“Oh. Kayla, right?”
He knows my name? “Yes.”
“Her father isn’t well. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“He’s a real hero, injured in the line of duty. If there’s anything you can tell me about where Anna is or how to contact her, it would really help. Can you just open the door a crack? You can leave the chain on, but we can see each other then.”
Kayla exhaled, but it didn’t ease the pressure in her gut. Cops. Was it normal to freak out when you talked to cops, even if you were totally innocent of everything? “Okay, hold on.”
Kayla undid the dead bolt but left the chain on. She opened the door a crack, felt the cold air rush in, stinging her feet.
The man’s face clarified. Brown eyes, a hint of stubble on the cheeks. A little rough, not as clean-cut as other cops she’d seen. But this guy wore plain clothes, maybe was a detective trying to blend in on the mean streets of Breckville.
The guy craned his head around, looking past Kayla.
“She’s not here. I promise.”
“Where did she go?”
“Look, dude, I don’t really feel comfortable talking about Anna’s business, even if you’re a cop and a friend of her dad’s. Why don’t I call her and let her know you’re trying to find her?”
“Can you give me her number?”
Kayla started to answer, then caught herself. “Wait. Didn’t her dad give it to you?”
Something flashed across the man’s eyes, and then he smiled. “He did. But I want to make sure I have the right one. Kids change numbers all the time.”
“Do they?”
His smile held, but it looked like the effort hurt him. “If I could just come in and talk to you more about this, it would really help. There are people who care about her, and they want to know how she’s doing. Do you see?”
The pressure in her gut rose, moving into her chest and throat. “I don’t think so. I’m going to close this.”
She pushed the door.
The man’s hand rose, blocking it.
10
An unfamiliar noise woke Anna.
She bolted up. Where the fuck am I?
Dark blue walls, a thick blue comforter. She wore a blue UK T-shirt two sizes too big for her body. The closed blinds blocked out any light. The bedside clock read seven eleven.
Something beeped in the room beyond the closed door. Coffee. Please, Lord, coffee.
The previous night came back in a rush.
A meal with Officer Carmichael at the diner. First name—Justin. At his recommendation Anna ordered the dinner special—Salisbury steak (whatever that was), mashed potatoes, and green beans that looked like they were left over from World War Two. But she ate it all, every bite, along with three Cokes, since the waitress kept bringing refills. The whole place smelled like frying oil.
And against her better judgment, she enjoyed talking to him. Justin had majored in criminal justice at UK but minored in creative writing. He told her he wanted to take his experiences as a police officer and turn them into stories someday. When she asked how many he’d written, he admitted the total was pretty close to zero. But he figured he was still young and relatively new to being a cop. All he needed was more experience, more crazy stories to tell.
More important to Anna, he listened when she talked about her experience at Gracewood. She liked her criminology classes, found it fascinating to learn about the underlying causes behind crime. But the more she learned, the more she felt pushed in other directions.
“Doesn’t the world need more people who are out there helping?” she asked between bites of Glenn’s special. “I mean, can’t I make a difference another way?”
“You don’t think cops and lawyers make a difference?” Justin asked.
Anna knew what she would have answered any other time. Times when she wasn’t sitting across a table from a uniformed officer who she actually liked. She would have offered a flip response about all the problems with the police—overzealousness, racism, violence.
Tanya Burns.
But could she so easily slap any of those labels on a cop who seemed to be fundamentally decent?
“And what about your dad?” Justin asked. “Did he make a difference?”
Anna waved her fork in the air. “Don’t get me started on him. I know the kinds of things he did. The number of people he sent to prison. The cops he trained. Cops who shoot innocent people of color.”
Justin chewed thoughtfully. Anna noticed he tended to be slow to speak, to consider his words before he said them. Maybe he wanted to impress her? Or maybe he feared hurting her feelings?
“I know your dad’s reputation,” he said. “He was a good cop. Very tough, I understand.”
“Did you work with him?”
“No. He was already retired before I started, but I’ve heard his name. Old-timers talk about him.” Justin looked like he wanted to say more but opted to swallow potatoes instead.
“What is it, Justin? I’ve read his collection of press clippings. I know the stuff he’s done.”
Justin nodded. “Sure. I guess I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know. He was . . . is . . . just a tough hombre. From the old school. Very much his own man.”
“That’s a polite way to say it.”
“And you spending time with me right now, it’s kind of . . . what? Are you acting out some Freudian revenge psychodrama?”
“Sheesh. Can’t I just think you’re cute?”
She did think that. And went back to his house after the meal. She’d been woken up by a polite knocking at the door.
It felt strange, since that was his house, and they’d slept together the night before, but Anna said, “Come in.”
He did, carrying a steaming mug of coffee and a small plate with what Anna hoped was a piece of toast. She also hoped for it to be slathered with butter.
“Hey,” he said. He wore his uniform already, every crease sharp enough to cut paper. “I let you sleep while I got ready.”
“You are a good cop.” Anna pushed herself farther up, then leaned back against the pillows, enjoying the humming, early-morning afterglow of good sex. “And you brought me coffee, so I’m all about the Freudian psychodrama. Or whatever you called it.”
Justin sat on the edge of the bed, handed her the mug, and held the small plate out.
Yes. Toast. Lots of butter. He read my mind.
She sipped the coffee. Bitter. But it still smelled so good and tasted so warm.
“I’ve got to head out in a few minutes,” he said. “But you can stay as long as you want. The door will lock behind you. And most of the neighborhood miscreants know a cop lives here, so they’re a little less likely to break in.”
Anna took a bite of toast, which caused a waterfall of crumbs to rush down the UK T-shirt and onto the comforter. “Oh, sorry.”
“No worries.” He wore that look again, the one that said he wanted to say something else.
“What gives?”
“I was thinking this morning that your family has had some bad luck. There’s what happened to your dad, when he got shot, and I know about your sister as well.”
“Oh, her.” Anna swallowed coffee, anticipated the caffeine surging to the nerve centers in her brain.
“When I told you I knew her last night, you really clammed up. You seemed less interested in talking about her than about your dad.”
“If it’s possible, she and I have a worse relationship. Like it’s almost nonexistent. My dad . . . at least he’s my dad. He was always this super-protective papa grizzly, keeping an eye on me. The only thing Avery and I have in common is a dad and sharing a name that begins with an A.”
“You said you all three did. Why?”
“My grandma. My dad’s mom. Her name was Ava. The old man honored her by giving us all A names. Cute, right?”
“It’s a nice tradition.”
“I guess so. My sisters are older, and they’re closer to each other. They have a tight bond. Oh, and they both got the height in the family. I’m the runt of the litter. Only five-four.”
“It looks good on you. Is Avery doing okay? Does she have any lingering effects from that incident?”
“Like I said, I wouldn’t know. But she seems pretty capable of taking care of herself. As long as you keep her away from water.”
“Right.”
“I know I sound like a bitch, but my family is a pain.”
“Families usually are.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “It seems pretty likely we won’t ever see each other again.”
“You never know. I could speed through here another time.”
“And even though you don’t approve of your dad’s career, you drop his name if it gets you out of ticket.”
His words stung. Anna wanted to storm out but wearing a T-shirt and no pants made that impossible. “Where’s all this coming from, Justin? Were you reading your psych textbook while I slept?”
“You might want to stop home when you pass through Upton. I know it’s on the way to Louisville.” He shifted his weight on the edge of the bed. “See, there’s a private messaging app we use in the KSP. It’s a way for officers to communicate with one another without using official public channels.”
Anna felt cold despite the hot coffee.
“Say, for example, a cop has a child who is in some kind of trouble, and they don’t want the whole world to know about it, but they want their colleagues to be able to help . . . maybe if a child is missing or hasn’t been in touch for a while. . . .”
Anna set her mug on the bedside table. She took the phone from Justin’s hand.
BOLO. Twenty-one-year-old Anna Rogers, daughter of Captain Russell Rogers (KSP retired). Last seen at her apartment—likely driving a—
“Did you report me?” she asked.
“No. I really don’t have to. You see what this means, right?”
Anna sighed. “Yeah. Fuck. Every cop in the state is going to be looking for me.”
11
Through her dirty windshield, Avery watched students streaming out of their apartment buildings like the undead.
They tugged light jackets around their bodies, yawned as they opened car doors, and threw books and bags into their back seats. They all looked wiped out, and Avery envied them the simplicity of their existences, the way worrying over a missed assignment or crushing on a fellow student consumed their thoughts. Simple, uncomplicated worries.
At thirty, she felt old. She understood how distant those days were becoming for her. Being a graduate student and working a full-time job just didn’t feel like careless fun. Nothing felt like fun anymore.
She checked her phone. Nothing.
She regretted the message she’d sent earlier that morning, considered it a sign of profound weakness on her part. She’d managed to go weeks, almost a month, without initiating any contact with Hank. She exerted an iron will, kept her texting and dialing fingers under control. And then, last night, in a moment of weakness that she intended to blame on Alisha’s visit and the news about her family, she wrote to him again.
Hey, how’s it going?
In the history of texting, those four words rose to the top as the lamest ever strung together. And when Hank failed to respond, failed to so much as even write back and tell her to please leave him alone, her shame and embarrassment just grew. If there were only some way to reach out and pull a text back, reel it in like a hooked fish.
She imagined Hank leading an exciting new life. Without her. He’d been a serial monogamist before he met her, and she couldn’t imagine he’d have changed. She could imagine him doing all the things for a new girlfriend that he used to do for her—flowers on random occasions. A surprise weekend getaway to Asheville. Volunteering together at the animal shelter.
She put the phone away, shifted her attention back to the lot. A maintenance guy in a red windbreaker rode a giant mower over the grass, a toothpick dangling from his lips. If Anna came out and headed to her car like she was going to class, then Avery wouldn’t say anything. She’d chalk this up as a successful reconnaissance mission, report the results to Alisha, and get back to writing the paper she had failed to make any progress on the night before.
But if Anna didn’t appear, as seemed increasingly likely, then . . .
“Crap.”
Minutes ticked by, and classes started soon. It was possible Anna hadn’t scheduled anything at that time, but did Avery want to sit in the parking lot all day looking like the Midnight Rambler? Or like a washed-up cop on a stakeout? She’d nailed the washed-up cop part a few years earlier. . . .
And she couldn’t write her paper sitting in her aging Camry.
She pushed the door open, stepped out into the clean morning air. As she walked across the lot, dodging between the dinged and beat-up cars that could belong only to students, cars decorated with Gracewood College stickers and Greek letters from the various fraternities and sororities, Avery practiced what she was going to say.
9
Kayla’s bedside lamp cast a soft glow on the book in her hands.
She’d been reading all evening, and as she read, she cursed herself for signing up for an elective literature class during her senior year. She’d done so in a moment of weakness, when she remembered reading during summer days as a kid and thought doing it again would be relaxing.
But the books chosen for this class were nothing like the Harry Potter or Divergent series. The one she was reading now, White Noise by Don DeLillo, was about a toxic leak that made a family flee their home. But a lot of the story focused on details. Many, many details. What exactly was the point?
But she plowed through. Her GPA hovered near a 3.8, and she refused to let it slide at the finish line. She had wanted to graduate with a 4.0, but with that option wiped out by some required science classes, Kayla saw 3.8 as the absolute minimum. Even if it meant reading late into the night a book that seemed bizarrely focused on the fictional family’s trash compactor.
Did anyone even have a trash compactor in their house? Kayla had never seen one.
With Anna gone, everything seemed muted and hushed. Kayla tried not to feel guilty over Anna’s struggles, tried not to dwell too much on what she should be doing as a friend to help. She’d known Anna since freshman year and really come to know her when they were roommates as juniors. It quickly became clear to Kayla that there was only so much she could do for her friend. A stubborn streak a mile wide ran through Anna, and when she decided she didn’t want help or advice, nothing could move her. Kayla hoped Anna would come back to school, hoped it wasn’t too late for her to salvage her grades and graduate with all of their friends in May. The way they’d always planned.
Kayla looked up from her book. She tilted her head.
Was that . . . ?
It happened again, and that time Kayla was certain. Someone was knocking on the apartment door.
“What the . . . ?”
The clock read ten forty-five. A half-full mug of tea sat nearby. Kayla’s friends drank but usually not so much that they’d show up knocking late at night. At least not without texting first.
Anna would. She was prone to losing her keys or misplacing her phone, especially when drinking. But Anna had headed off to Louisville. . . .
The knocking again.
Kayla grabbed her phone, swung her legs off the bed. She put the book aside, wishing she could speed-read it and be finished. Why would someone be knocking at that hour?
She went out to the front of the apartment. A lamp burned in the living room. The kitchen still smelled like the remnants of the burrito she’d brought home for dinner. Kayla checked the door, confirmed the chain was attached. She breathed a little easier. Everything was locked. The fort was secured against anyone, including the Midnight Rambler.
Or the dude who had shown up last night. The creep who had spooked Anna so bad.
Kayla decided to ignore the knocking. She stood in the center of the living room, phone in hand. She wore no shoes and shivered in her shorts and T-shirt.
She expected—hoped—that they’d get bored and go away. A drunken bro at the wrong door. A pizza guy with the incorrect address.
They knocked again. Then a voice muffled by the door. “Hello? Anna?”
A dude’s voice. Asking for Anna.
Kayla took a couple of steps forward, her feet scuffling over the smooth carpet.
“Hello?”
“Who is it?” Kayla asked.
“Can you open the door, so we can talk?”
Kayla moved closer, spoke with force. “No way.”
“Are you Anna?”
“Who are you?”
“Anna, I’m a friend of your father’s. I’m a police officer. If you look through the peephole, you can see my badge.”
Kayla knew it. Anna hadn’t called home. She hadn’t done what she said she was going to do. And now a cop stood at their front door waving his badge around. Anna had disappeared, leaving Kayla to straighten out the mess. Typical . . .
She went over, pressed her face to the peephole. Sure enough, the dark shape of a man. About thirty, wearing a sport coat and a button-down shirt, his face turned to the side. At the end of his extended arm, a silver badge.
Anna and Kayla had once spent an entire weekend watching a Discovery Channel marathon of shows about missing and murdered people. Who knew so many people were the victims of violent crimes, or how often they met their doom because the killer posed as a cop flashing a fake badge?
But the show never explained how to tell a real badge from a fake one.
Pressure grew in Kayla’s gut. Even if that guy was a real cop, should she tell him anything about Anna?
“I think Anna’s fine,” Kayla said. “She’s dealing with her family.”
“Are you Anna?”
“I’m her roommate.”
“Oh. Kayla, right?”
He knows my name? “Yes.”
“Her father isn’t well. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“He’s a real hero, injured in the line of duty. If there’s anything you can tell me about where Anna is or how to contact her, it would really help. Can you just open the door a crack? You can leave the chain on, but we can see each other then.”
Kayla exhaled, but it didn’t ease the pressure in her gut. Cops. Was it normal to freak out when you talked to cops, even if you were totally innocent of everything? “Okay, hold on.”
Kayla undid the dead bolt but left the chain on. She opened the door a crack, felt the cold air rush in, stinging her feet.
The man’s face clarified. Brown eyes, a hint of stubble on the cheeks. A little rough, not as clean-cut as other cops she’d seen. But this guy wore plain clothes, maybe was a detective trying to blend in on the mean streets of Breckville.
The guy craned his head around, looking past Kayla.
“She’s not here. I promise.”
“Where did she go?”
“Look, dude, I don’t really feel comfortable talking about Anna’s business, even if you’re a cop and a friend of her dad’s. Why don’t I call her and let her know you’re trying to find her?”
“Can you give me her number?”
Kayla started to answer, then caught herself. “Wait. Didn’t her dad give it to you?”
Something flashed across the man’s eyes, and then he smiled. “He did. But I want to make sure I have the right one. Kids change numbers all the time.”
“Do they?”
His smile held, but it looked like the effort hurt him. “If I could just come in and talk to you more about this, it would really help. There are people who care about her, and they want to know how she’s doing. Do you see?”
The pressure in her gut rose, moving into her chest and throat. “I don’t think so. I’m going to close this.”
She pushed the door.
The man’s hand rose, blocking it.
10
An unfamiliar noise woke Anna.
She bolted up. Where the fuck am I?
Dark blue walls, a thick blue comforter. She wore a blue UK T-shirt two sizes too big for her body. The closed blinds blocked out any light. The bedside clock read seven eleven.
Something beeped in the room beyond the closed door. Coffee. Please, Lord, coffee.
The previous night came back in a rush.
A meal with Officer Carmichael at the diner. First name—Justin. At his recommendation Anna ordered the dinner special—Salisbury steak (whatever that was), mashed potatoes, and green beans that looked like they were left over from World War Two. But she ate it all, every bite, along with three Cokes, since the waitress kept bringing refills. The whole place smelled like frying oil.
And against her better judgment, she enjoyed talking to him. Justin had majored in criminal justice at UK but minored in creative writing. He told her he wanted to take his experiences as a police officer and turn them into stories someday. When she asked how many he’d written, he admitted the total was pretty close to zero. But he figured he was still young and relatively new to being a cop. All he needed was more experience, more crazy stories to tell.
More important to Anna, he listened when she talked about her experience at Gracewood. She liked her criminology classes, found it fascinating to learn about the underlying causes behind crime. But the more she learned, the more she felt pushed in other directions.
“Doesn’t the world need more people who are out there helping?” she asked between bites of Glenn’s special. “I mean, can’t I make a difference another way?”
“You don’t think cops and lawyers make a difference?” Justin asked.
Anna knew what she would have answered any other time. Times when she wasn’t sitting across a table from a uniformed officer who she actually liked. She would have offered a flip response about all the problems with the police—overzealousness, racism, violence.
Tanya Burns.
But could she so easily slap any of those labels on a cop who seemed to be fundamentally decent?
“And what about your dad?” Justin asked. “Did he make a difference?”
Anna waved her fork in the air. “Don’t get me started on him. I know the kinds of things he did. The number of people he sent to prison. The cops he trained. Cops who shoot innocent people of color.”
Justin chewed thoughtfully. Anna noticed he tended to be slow to speak, to consider his words before he said them. Maybe he wanted to impress her? Or maybe he feared hurting her feelings?
“I know your dad’s reputation,” he said. “He was a good cop. Very tough, I understand.”
“Did you work with him?”
“No. He was already retired before I started, but I’ve heard his name. Old-timers talk about him.” Justin looked like he wanted to say more but opted to swallow potatoes instead.
“What is it, Justin? I’ve read his collection of press clippings. I know the stuff he’s done.”
Justin nodded. “Sure. I guess I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know. He was . . . is . . . just a tough hombre. From the old school. Very much his own man.”
“That’s a polite way to say it.”
“And you spending time with me right now, it’s kind of . . . what? Are you acting out some Freudian revenge psychodrama?”
“Sheesh. Can’t I just think you’re cute?”
She did think that. And went back to his house after the meal. She’d been woken up by a polite knocking at the door.
It felt strange, since that was his house, and they’d slept together the night before, but Anna said, “Come in.”
He did, carrying a steaming mug of coffee and a small plate with what Anna hoped was a piece of toast. She also hoped for it to be slathered with butter.
“Hey,” he said. He wore his uniform already, every crease sharp enough to cut paper. “I let you sleep while I got ready.”
“You are a good cop.” Anna pushed herself farther up, then leaned back against the pillows, enjoying the humming, early-morning afterglow of good sex. “And you brought me coffee, so I’m all about the Freudian psychodrama. Or whatever you called it.”
Justin sat on the edge of the bed, handed her the mug, and held the small plate out.
Yes. Toast. Lots of butter. He read my mind.
She sipped the coffee. Bitter. But it still smelled so good and tasted so warm.
“I’ve got to head out in a few minutes,” he said. “But you can stay as long as you want. The door will lock behind you. And most of the neighborhood miscreants know a cop lives here, so they’re a little less likely to break in.”
Anna took a bite of toast, which caused a waterfall of crumbs to rush down the UK T-shirt and onto the comforter. “Oh, sorry.”
“No worries.” He wore that look again, the one that said he wanted to say something else.
“What gives?”
“I was thinking this morning that your family has had some bad luck. There’s what happened to your dad, when he got shot, and I know about your sister as well.”
“Oh, her.” Anna swallowed coffee, anticipated the caffeine surging to the nerve centers in her brain.
“When I told you I knew her last night, you really clammed up. You seemed less interested in talking about her than about your dad.”
“If it’s possible, she and I have a worse relationship. Like it’s almost nonexistent. My dad . . . at least he’s my dad. He was always this super-protective papa grizzly, keeping an eye on me. The only thing Avery and I have in common is a dad and sharing a name that begins with an A.”
“You said you all three did. Why?”
“My grandma. My dad’s mom. Her name was Ava. The old man honored her by giving us all A names. Cute, right?”
“It’s a nice tradition.”
“I guess so. My sisters are older, and they’re closer to each other. They have a tight bond. Oh, and they both got the height in the family. I’m the runt of the litter. Only five-four.”
“It looks good on you. Is Avery doing okay? Does she have any lingering effects from that incident?”
“Like I said, I wouldn’t know. But she seems pretty capable of taking care of herself. As long as you keep her away from water.”
“Right.”
“I know I sound like a bitch, but my family is a pain.”
“Families usually are.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “It seems pretty likely we won’t ever see each other again.”
“You never know. I could speed through here another time.”
“And even though you don’t approve of your dad’s career, you drop his name if it gets you out of ticket.”
His words stung. Anna wanted to storm out but wearing a T-shirt and no pants made that impossible. “Where’s all this coming from, Justin? Were you reading your psych textbook while I slept?”
“You might want to stop home when you pass through Upton. I know it’s on the way to Louisville.” He shifted his weight on the edge of the bed. “See, there’s a private messaging app we use in the KSP. It’s a way for officers to communicate with one another without using official public channels.”
Anna felt cold despite the hot coffee.
“Say, for example, a cop has a child who is in some kind of trouble, and they don’t want the whole world to know about it, but they want their colleagues to be able to help . . . maybe if a child is missing or hasn’t been in touch for a while. . . .”
Anna set her mug on the bedside table. She took the phone from Justin’s hand.
BOLO. Twenty-one-year-old Anna Rogers, daughter of Captain Russell Rogers (KSP retired). Last seen at her apartment—likely driving a—
“Did you report me?” she asked.
“No. I really don’t have to. You see what this means, right?”
Anna sighed. “Yeah. Fuck. Every cop in the state is going to be looking for me.”
11
Through her dirty windshield, Avery watched students streaming out of their apartment buildings like the undead.
They tugged light jackets around their bodies, yawned as they opened car doors, and threw books and bags into their back seats. They all looked wiped out, and Avery envied them the simplicity of their existences, the way worrying over a missed assignment or crushing on a fellow student consumed their thoughts. Simple, uncomplicated worries.
At thirty, she felt old. She understood how distant those days were becoming for her. Being a graduate student and working a full-time job just didn’t feel like careless fun. Nothing felt like fun anymore.
She checked her phone. Nothing.
She regretted the message she’d sent earlier that morning, considered it a sign of profound weakness on her part. She’d managed to go weeks, almost a month, without initiating any contact with Hank. She exerted an iron will, kept her texting and dialing fingers under control. And then, last night, in a moment of weakness that she intended to blame on Alisha’s visit and the news about her family, she wrote to him again.
Hey, how’s it going?
In the history of texting, those four words rose to the top as the lamest ever strung together. And when Hank failed to respond, failed to so much as even write back and tell her to please leave him alone, her shame and embarrassment just grew. If there were only some way to reach out and pull a text back, reel it in like a hooked fish.
She imagined Hank leading an exciting new life. Without her. He’d been a serial monogamist before he met her, and she couldn’t imagine he’d have changed. She could imagine him doing all the things for a new girlfriend that he used to do for her—flowers on random occasions. A surprise weekend getaway to Asheville. Volunteering together at the animal shelter.
She put the phone away, shifted her attention back to the lot. A maintenance guy in a red windbreaker rode a giant mower over the grass, a toothpick dangling from his lips. If Anna came out and headed to her car like she was going to class, then Avery wouldn’t say anything. She’d chalk this up as a successful reconnaissance mission, report the results to Alisha, and get back to writing the paper she had failed to make any progress on the night before.
But if Anna didn’t appear, as seemed increasingly likely, then . . .
“Crap.”
Minutes ticked by, and classes started soon. It was possible Anna hadn’t scheduled anything at that time, but did Avery want to sit in the parking lot all day looking like the Midnight Rambler? Or like a washed-up cop on a stakeout? She’d nailed the washed-up cop part a few years earlier. . . .
And she couldn’t write her paper sitting in her aging Camry.
She pushed the door open, stepped out into the clean morning air. As she walked across the lot, dodging between the dinged and beat-up cars that could belong only to students, cars decorated with Gracewood College stickers and Greek letters from the various fraternities and sororities, Avery practiced what she was going to say.
