Nate
Wednesday, July 8
“Padres are looking good this year,” my father says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Real good.”
I wouldn’t know, since I don’t watch baseball unless Cooper’s playing. But it’s one of my father’s favorite conversational topics, and it doesn’t require much effort on my part. I’m always on edge when I come to this house, flashing back to when I used to live here. It’s a lot neater than it used to be, and Dad has fixed a few things—the cabinet under the sink that I kicked in after Simon died, for example, isn’t splintered anymore. But it’s still the kind of place that makes you feel like giving up before you even start trying.
Bronwyn knows that, so I was hoping she’d show up early. But when Dad runs out of baseball steam and I glance at my phone, I realize that she’s actually five minutes late. Which is like an hour for anyone else. “It’s weird that Bronwyn’s not here yet,” I say, opening my messages to see if I missed one from her.
“What time did she say she was coming?”
“Six-thirty,” I say, texting You almost here? to her. I wait for gray dots to appear—Bronwyn returns texts like she’s being graded on speed—but there’s nothing.
Dad frowns at his watch. “Really? She’s late? That’s not like her.”
A chill settles over me. No, it’s not. My father has barely started getting to know Bronwyn, but he knows that. I pull up her Instagram; her latest story is the picture she took at the farmers’ market, with the caption: Next stop, Andre’s Groceria!
If she’s not checking texts, she’s definitely not checking Instagram, but I still send a comment: CALL ME. Then a second one: please.
Relief floods my veins a few seconds later when my phone rings with a FaceTime request, but…it’s not Bronwyn. It’s Maeve, who’s frowning when I pick up. “Sorry to interrupt your cozy family dinner,” she says. “But can you tell my sister that if she’s going to change the Netflix password, she needs to save it on all devices because—”
“Maeve.” I stop her. “She’s not here.”
“What?” Maeve blinks. “I thought you guys had plans.”
“We did. We do,” I say as apprehension fills my chest like a lead balloon. “But she’s late, and she didn’t answer my last text.”
Maeve bites her lip. “Mine either.”
“Fuck.” I’m on my feet then, barely registering my father’s worried look as I launch myself out of the kitchen. I yank open the front door and head down the stairs, bypassing the second step out of habit, even though my father finally got around to filling in the giant crack that used to be there. Then I stare at the driveway, like I can make Bronwyn’s Volvo appear by sheer force of will. “When did you last talk to her?”
“Um, maybe an hour and a half ago? She was buying vegetables, and she wanted to know what kind of lettuce makes the best salad and I said, How should I know? Like that’s obviously not information I would have, so I tried to get Luis on the line but he’s at work and didn’t pick up, and…” Maeve’s voice gets a little shaky. “And then we hung up, and I haven’t heard from her since. What about you?”
“About the same.” The lead balloon in my chest gets bigger, squeezing all the air out of my lungs as I stalk to the end of my driveway and look both ways. A car is approaching from the right, but even from a distance I can tell it’s not Bronwyn. As it speeds past, I say, “I don’t like this. What do your parents say?”
“They’re at a charity thing,” Maeve says. “They—wait, hang on. Addy’s calling me. I’m going to add her.” A second later, Addy’s face pops up beside Maeve’s on my screen. “Addy, have you heard from Bronwyn?” Maeve asks urgently.
“I called to ask you that,” Addy says. “She’s left me unread for almost an hour, which is so unprecedented that I started thinking about what happened to Phoebe….”
“Fuck. Fuck!” My heart hammers as I pace the driveway, raking a hand so hard through my hair that I’m surprised I don’t tear it out. An image pops into my mind then, of Jake Riordan leaning over the country-club bar with that smarmy grin of his. You know what I can’t wait for? For you to lose it all, Macauley. And then he had the goddamn nerve to talk about Bronwyn: Once she’s gone, you’re gonna spiral so fast….
Gone. I thought that asshole was talking about her dumping me. But what if he meant something else? I flash back to finding Phoebe in that shed, drugged and unresponsive. I don’t know why Jake would mess with Phoebe when she had nothing to do with putting him in jail, but then again, she was just practice. Bronwyn, on the other hand…
A wave of white-hot rage crashes over me. If Jake Riordan touches a single hair on Bronwyn’s head, it’ll be the last thing he ever does. I’ll kill him. I will kill him.
“Can you track her on her phone?” Addy asks.
“She never turns that stuff on,” Maeve says. “She thinks it’s creepy.”
“Okay, well, I don’t really understand why she thinks that’s creepy, but she’s fine with broadcasting her whereabouts to all of Instagram— Nate, calm down,” Addy says at whatever furious, frustrated noise I just made. I don’t even know. I can’t think; I can barely breathe right now. “It’s going to be fine. We need—”
“I’ll kill him,” I snarl.
Dad’s hovering in the doorway as I turn back toward the house. “Everything okay?” he calls, but I can’t answer him. I need to get on my motorcycle and go—somewhere. Where would Jake go if he decided to rope Bronwyn into some twisted little game?
“Kill who?” Addy asks. “Nate, you’re making me dizzy.” My phone is dangling loosely from one hand, facing the ground as I stride for my bike.
“Jake,” I grit out, swinging one leg over the seat.
“What? Explain,” demands Addy’s disembodied voice.
I bring my phone back in front of my face and somehow manage to get words out about what happened at the country club, although I don’t know if they make much sense. “So I’m going to find him, and find her, and make sure he knows that messing with Bronwyn Rojas is the worst mistake a person could make,” I finish. Saying her name calms me down a little, grounding me in a way that only Bronwyn can. If something were really wrong, I’d know, right? I’d feel it, way worse than the aching dread I’m feeling now. There has to be a whole other level of pain when your soul gets ripped in half.
“Find them where?” Maeve asks.
“I have an idea,” Addy says, just as I’m about to drop the call to start my motorcycle. “Jake’s vacation house in Ramona. The wallpaper, remember? I think Phoebe might have been there the night she was drugged, and if I’m right, then—”
“Give me the address,” I say.
“No,” Addy says firmly. “There’s no way I’m letting you tear off on an hour-long drive by yourself. You’ll crash from all that adrenaline. Give me five minutes to grab my keys and pick up Maeve, and we’ll all go.”
