Nate
Sunday, July 5
When we arrive at my house—six of us, minus Cooper and Kris, because they had to take Nonny to a physical therapy appointment—Phoebe’s not there.
“Haven’t seen her, man,” Reggie drawls from his prone position on the couch, a beer in one hand and the remote in the other as he scrolls through Netflix. “Not since last night.”
“Since what last night?” Bronwyn asks, plucking the remote from his hand. It’s a good thing she got to it first, because his couldn’t care less vibe makes me want to throw it at his head.
“Hey, give that back!” Reggie protests. He lunges at her half-heartedly, slumping back against the cushions when Bronwyn steps out of reach. “I dunno. Since the party.”
“Where was she?” Maeve asks. “When you saw her?”
“My room,” Reggie says, tugging absently at his cord necklace. All six of us glare at him until he holds up a hand and says, “Relax, Murder Club. She was by herself, about to leave, when I walked in. Obviously, I invited her to hang out for some one-on-one time—”
“Gross,” Maeve interjects.
“But she took off,” Reggie says. “And that was that.”
Bronwyn and Maeve exchange skeptical glances, but the thing about Reggie is, you can always tell when he’s being shady. Right now, he doesn’t seem to be. Still…“Her phone says she’s here,” I say.
“Well, she’s not,” Reggie says, making an obnoxious show of lifting the blanket that’s half-covering his legs. “Unless she’s hiding. Hellooooo, Phoebe?”
“Fuck you,” I say as Bronwyn tosses the remote at him. Into his hands, which is more than he deserves.
“What do you want from me?” he says defensively. “She’s not here. End of story.”
“I’m going to try calling her again,” Addy says. “Maybe we’ll hear a ring.”
But there’s no sound except for Addy’s frustrated hiss before she says, “Still voice mail.”
“Did we get her location wrong?” Knox asks. “Maybe her phone’s off, and it’s defaulting to wherever it was when she powered down.”
“Since when does Phoebe turn off her phone?” Maeve asks.
“I think we’d better look around,” Bronwyn says. “Phoebe might have fallen asleep someplace random, or lost her phone.” Her eyes gleam, and I know what’s coming—Bronwyn is in take-charge mode. Thank God somebody is. Within minutes, she splits us into pairs and gives everyone an assignment: Addy and Knox will check upstairs, Maeve and Luis have the downstairs, and Bronwyn and I are in charge of the yard.
“I feel awful,” Bronwyn says as we make our way outside. “Addy’s right; last night was rough on Phoebe. But I was so focused on Reggie, I didn’t even notice.”
“You and me both,” I say, running my thumb over one of the scars on my arm. I don’t think much about Jared’s bomb anymore; for the most part I came out of it fine, and in some ways, it brought Bronwyn and me closer together. Or maybe it’d be more accurate to say that it brought me and her parents closer together. They stopped worrying that Bronwyn and I were from “different worlds” after I took the brunt of an explosion for her.
But now, the scars remind me how life-or-death this town can be. I hated the idea of Phoebe being with Reggie, but the alternative might be worse. I don’t know her all that well—until recently, she was just a coworker of Addy’s whose annoying friend planted one on me during the Truth or Dare game—but going through a Bayview crisis together bonds you for life. Plus, Phoebe lost her dad, and her mom’s run ragged trying to care for everybody. I know what it’s like to feel as though you’ve got to solve all your problems on your own.
I stop short to scan the small, scrubby yard. There’s not much to it—lots of half-dead grass and a few sad bushes, plus a pathway of uneven stones leading to the front door. The sun is hot and bright, and I squint to see better. “Do you know what color Phoebe’s phone case is?”
“Pink,” Bronwyn says, walking in slow circles across the grass. “It’s not here.”
“Do you think she might’ve gone to visit her sister?” I ask. “Maybe she got a last-minute flight or something.”
“Maybe,” Bronwyn says. “But it doesn’t explain why she hasn’t gotten in touch with anyone, or why she told her mom she was with Addy.” She heaves a frustrated sigh. “None of it makes sense. Ugh, if I’d just spent five minutes talking to her last night—”
“Don’t,” I say, taking hold of her shoulders to steer her behind the house. “No beating yourself up on my watch.”
The backyard is bigger and more overgrown. Crystal’s attempt at a vegetable garden covers a lot of it, leading to a stone patio flanked by a couple of benches and a moldy fountain that’s always at least partially filled with grubby rainwater. “Do you ever sit out here?” Bronwyn asks, stepping carefully through the ankle-high grass.
“God, no,” I say. “Why would I—”
And then I catch sight of it: a bright pink rectangle lying beneath one of the benches. Bronwyn gets there a step before I do, lifting the phone to reveal a screen that lights up with a text as she angles it toward us.
Emma: WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU???
“Oh no,” Bronwyn says softly.
