Addy
Tuesday, July 21
“What. The. Hell,” Chelsea snaps, staring at me.
I don’t have the words to say anything back. My heart was beating wildly when Gavin hauled me out of the trunk, afraid that he’d spot the burner phone and then…what? Read the message, realize that I hadn’t said anything to incriminate him, and go back to the parking lot to finish what he’d started? To finish Nate?
Assuming that Nate isn’t already done.
The fear of that made me so nauseated and light-headed that I could barely register my surroundings once I was out of the car. We were in a garage, the small, neat type that’s usually attached to a house; the large door was closed behind us, and there was a smaller one to our left. Possibly close enough to other houses that somebody could hear me scream, because Gavin kept my gag on until he carried me inside the house. Then he shoved me onto a kitchen chair and unbound my legs, wrists, and finally my mouth while he yelled for Chelsea and I struggled to catch my breath and figure out my next move.
“What is she doing here?” Chelsea demands.
“They know, Chels. Bronwyn found our senior yearbook. Nate came after me while I was giving Addy a ride to Phoebe’s place—”
“Phoebe’s place?” Chelsea interrupts, her eyes boring into mine. “Why?”
“I…I was worried about her,” I say. “She’s not answering her phone, and—”
“She’s here,” Chelsea says. My heart sinks as she adds, “But…God.” She rubs her palms over her cheeks. “This is all happening way too fast. Where is Nate?”
“I bashed his head in with a crowbar and left him in a parking lot,” Gavin says.
I let out choked sob as Chelsea’s mouth drops open. “You did what? Nate isn’t…he wasn’t supposed to get hurt!”
“Well, what the hell do you think I should’ve done, Chels? They knew, and they were coming for you. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. You think I wanted that? I told you from the start not to pull that crap with the ad campaign and the billboard! You could’ve flown under the radar with all this, but you just had to make a statement.” Gavin throws up aggrieved finger quotes. “Now Nate’s fucked, and I had to bring Addy along, and Bronwyn knows who we are. So it won’t take much time to figure out where we are. This house is in your name.”
“Is Phoebe okay?” I ask.
Chelsea ignores me, her eyes pinned on Gavin. “True, but why would anyone think to come here? If anything, they’d show up at my apartment. But they shouldn’t, because changing your name isn’t a crime. Bronwyn can’t prove I did anything else, so who’s going to care? Not the Bayview Police, that’s for sure.”
Oh, how I wish she weren’t right.
“Nate’s out of the picture,” Chelsea continues. “Phoebe and Addy are here, so…it’s contained. For now. We still have time.” It gives me hope that she lumps Phoebe and me together like that; as though Phoebe, too, is here against her will but unhurt. Then my heart gives a relieved leap when Chelsea levels a dispassionate gaze at me and adds, “I guess you can join Phoebe in the downstairs office for the time being.”
“Addy said she wanted in on whatever we’re planning with Jake,” Gavin says.
Chelsea snorts. “And you believed her?”
“No, but…” Gavin runs a hand through his hair. “We’re kind of screwed here, Chels. People are gonna come after us way sooner than you thought. But if we release a video of Addy killing Jake, and if we can make it look like she and Phoebe worked together…”
A shiver goes through me as Chelsea passes a hand over her forehead. “Jesus, Gavin,” she says. “Please stop trying to think.”
“How is that a worse idea than anything you’ve come up with?” he demands.
My eyes dart between the two of them as my mind spins. There are cracks here, and I need to try to exploit them. Chelsea’s right that Bronwyn doesn’t have much to go on, but Chelsea doesn’t know about the burner phone. If my message really did go through, then Bronwyn knows that Nate’s been hurt, and she knows where to find him. If she can help him in time, maybe we have a chance. “Can I ask something?” I say.
Chelsea fixes her gaze on me. “Fire away.”
“What really happened to your father? This is about him, right?”
She nods, eyes flicking toward her boyfriend. “Gavin kept saying we shouldn’t tie anything to my dad’s job. And okay, yeah, maybe taking over that billboard was a little self-indulgent, but…there’s nothing wrong with making a statement,” she says, her tone turning resentful. “Everyone in this town has forgotten my father. It’s like he never existed—like his life, and his death, didn’t matter to anyone except me and my brothers.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. And despite everything she’s done, I mean it.
Chelsea takes a deep breath, and I wait for a rant that never comes. Instead, she exhales and regards me with something that could almost pass for affection. “Part of me wanted you guys to figure it out. You and your friends have been stuck in the middle of everything that’s wrong with Bayview for years, and I’m trying to bring this mess of a town full circle. But I thought it would take you a lot longer, so…job well done, I guess.”
I don’t have a response for that—Thank you feels wildly inappropriate—and after a few beats Chelsea adds, “I take it you know the official story of how my father died?”
“The news reports said that he drowned,” I say.
“I never believed it was an accident,” she says, her face hardening. “Dad was an excellent swimmer. But there was never any proof, you know? He’d been in the water too long to determine anything definitively. The case was closed, we moved away, and I tried to get on with life. Even though my father was the only person who ever really got me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
Her lips thin. “We all have shit to deal with, right? My mom totally lost it, so I couldn’t. Somebody had to hold things together. Chase is useless, and Chris has always lived in his own little world. Then Mom died, and Chase took off for Los Angeles, and Chris and I were by ourselves in the middle of nowhere. I thought, Well, I guess this is my life now. Until a few months ago, when…”
Chelsea trails off, and I prompt, “When what?”
Her mouth curves into a half smile that I instantly distrust. “You know what?” she says. “Let’s have Jake tell you that.”
“What?” My heart jumps into my throat, then tumbles into the pit of my stomach. “N-no, I can’t….” I start to back away, and Gavin seizes both of my arms. He pushes me out of the kitchen, toward a staircase that’s suddenly looming like a guillotine. Coming closer and closer, even though I’m resisting with every cell in my body. “I don’t want to see him, I—”
“Don’t worry,” Chelsea says calmly. “He can’t hurt you.”
That’s no comfort, but it doesn’t matter. The more I struggle, the clearer it becomes that Gavin’s going to get me up those stairs whether I want to go or not. I can keep fighting until he’s angry and possibly get myself tied up again, or I can conserve my energy. I give in and let Gavin frog-march me up the stairs, down a hallway with open doors on either side—all leading to dark, quiet, empty rooms—until we reach a closed door at the very end.
Gavin opens the door and shoves me inside in front of him, and then he’s pulling it closed behind a fast-moving Chelsea and I’m…I’m looking at Jake.
He’s tied to a chair, his mouth covered in duct tape, wearing the same clothes his parents described at the news conference announcing that he’d gone missing: a Bayview Wildcats T-shirt and jeans, both looking stained and worse for the wear. His arms are bound behind him, but I can make out the beginnings of the word PERFECT written across one of them in large block letters.
“You know the drill,” Gavin says as he steps behind Jake and rips the duct tape off so quickly that I wince. “Raise your voice and this goes right back on.”
For a second, Jake and I just stare at one another. My emotions are churning, fear being taken over by shock and…God, is that pity? Buried somewhere deep inside me, coming out because no matter what he’s done, he’s another human being and this is terrifying and—
“You bitch,” Jake snarls.
My blossoming pity dissolves like ash in my stomach as Chelsea positions herself beside me. Gavin stands in front of the door, arms crossed like a sentry, and Jake strains against the ropes holding him. “Addy has a question, Jake,” Chelsea says.
“I knew you were with them,” Jake says, practically spitting the words. If eyes could incinerate, I’d be in flames.
“Addy wants to know what happened to my father,” Chelsea says, as if Jake hasn’t spoken. “How he really died.”
Something besides rage flickers across Jake’s face then, but I can’t make it out. “Addy can go to hell,” he says.
“Should have known you wouldn’t cooperate,” Chelsea says. She crosses to the only piece of furniture in the room besides the chair Jake is tied to, a beat-up dresser that looks like someone put it together without the instructions, and opens the top drawer. When she pulls out a gun, Jake inhales as sharply as I do.
He hasn’t seen that before, I think as his face pales. She’s escalating. “That thing’s not loaded,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself.
“Yes, it is,” Chelsea says calmly. “I could use it to make you talk, I suppose, but I’m not sure I could stomach your version of the truth. So let me help you along.”
JAKE
Six Years Earlier
Simon was like a leech, Jake thought. When Jake had told him he didn’t feel like staying overnight at Simon’s after all, that he wanted to be home with his own gaming system, he’d expected Simon to take the hint. Not stuff extra clothes and a toothbrush into a backpack and come along.
“My mom’s not home,” Jake said as they coasted on their bikes down his street. “She’s in Mexico for work.”
“Oh, for work,” Simon said in that smarmy, know-it-all voice he’d taken to using every time Jake’s mother came up. Jake wished, now, that he’d never confided in Simon. Things at home seemed to be going better, and he almost could’ve forgotten that anything was wrong between his parents if Simon didn’t keep bringing it up.
“For work,” Jake repeated firmly. “And my dad’s not home either. It’s his poker night.”
“You didn’t tell him we were coming?” Simon asked.
“No, why would I?” Jake asked. He wasn’t expecting a we, after all.
Jake’s house came into sight, and Simon slowed his bicycle. “Looks like your dad is home,” he says. “And he has company.”
Jake blinked at the unfamiliar blue car parked next to his father’s BMW. “None of my dad’s friends drive a Honda,” he said, injecting as much disdain as possible into the last word. “Maybe somebody’s delivering food.”
“Good. I’m starving,” Simon said. They dropped their bikes in the yard, and then, instead of heading for the front door, Simon crossed over to the Honda and peered into its back seat.
“What are you doing?” Jake asked irritably. “Come inside.”
“There’s a Conrad and Olsen folder in the back seat,” Simon said, cupping his hands over his eyes and leaning in to get a better look. “Isn’t that where your mom works?”
“Yeah,” Jake said, nerves prickling.
“And a briefcase,” Simon said. He tugged on one of the rear door handles and, to Jake’s surprise, easily pulled it open. “Unlocked. How trusting.”
“Knock it off!” Jake pulled Simon away from the car and shut its door. “It’s probably still a delivery person, you know. Conrad and Olsen pays crap. You’d need a second job if you don’t have someone else supporting you.”
“Suuuure,” Simon said, but he followed Jake into the house.
They could hear raised voices as soon as they stepped into the entryway, and Jake put an arm out to keep Simon from going any farther. The voices were coming from the kitchen, which wasn’t visible from where Jake and Simon were standing. “Look, Scott, I’m sorry,” said a man Jake didn’t recognize. “I didn’t think you’d come home—”
“You didn’t think I’d come home?” Jake’s father practically shouted the words. “To my own fucking house?”
“I’m sorry,” the other man repeated. “I’ll go.”
“I don’t think so,” Dad said. “Not until you explain what the hell you were doing in my bedroom, packing up my wife’s clothes?”
“Oh, snap,” Simon breathed, eyes wide. “It’s going down.”
“Shut up,” Jake hissed, pulling him farther into the living room. They crouched behind the sectional sofa, beside an accent table filled with Mom’s favorite vases.
“Scott, come on,” said the man—who must be Alexander Alton, Jake thought with a stab of hatred. “I’m really sorry this happened, but…you know what I was doing. Katherine and I care deeply for one another, and she thought it would be better to make a clean break when she got back from Mexico. I was just getting a few things—”
“Stop right there,” Dad snarled. Jake knew that tone; his father’s hands must be balled into fists by this point. “Don’t you dare talk about my wife like that. Whatever delusion you, or she, might’ve been under ends now. You never should’ve come here.”
“You’re right. I’ll go.” Simon and Jake both crouched down when they heard footsteps, but they stopped as soon as they started. There was a moment of silence, and then Alexander said. “Get out of my way, please.”
“I have a son,” Dad said. “Did you even think about him while you were running around behind my back, trying to break up his family?”
Jake expected Alexander to argue, but his voice got so quiet that they almost couldn’t hear him. “Of course. I think about Jake every day.”
“What? Why?” Dad demanded. His tone grew harsh when Alexander didn’t reply. “Why the hell are you looking at me like that?”
“Katherine said that she…I thought you knew,” Alexander said.
“Knew what?”
“Nothing. Never mind.” There was more movement, and scuffling sounds, then Alexander’s voice again. “For God’s sake, Scott, let go. Have you lost your mind?”
“Possibly,” said Jake’s father. “What did you think I knew?” Alexander didn’t respond, and Dad’s next words came out as a growl. “I’m done asking nicely.”
There was a long beat of silence, until Alexander Alton let out a strangled sound of pain at whatever Jake’s father was doing. When he spoke next it was in an entirely different voice; the placating tone was gone, replaced with a cold fury that almost masked the fear beneath. “Jesus Christ, Scott, you’re such a goddamn bully. Do you really have to wonder why Katherine wants to get away from you? Why she wants to get our son away from you?”
Jake thought his heart had been pounding before, but now he realized that was just a warm-up. It was slamming against his chest now, and his entire body vibrated along with it.
“Our son?” Dad repeated harshly. “What son?”
Jake closed his eyes, wishing he could close his ears, too, as Alexander said, “Jake.”
“What in God’s name is wrong with you? Jake is my son,” Dad said.
“No, he’s not,” Simon whispered.
Right when Alexander Alton said the exact same thing. Except Alexander also added, “He’s mine.”
He’s mine.
Jake squeezed his eyes shut more tightly as heat flooded his face. No. This was impossible. He was Scott Riordan’s son. He’d always been Scott Riordan’s son, and he would always be Scott Riordan’s son. He wasn’t an…Alton. Was that what this man was trying to say? It was impossible, and it was ridiculous, and Jake needed him to stop talking.
And then, after a loud crashing noise, he did.
“Get up,” Jake’s father said roughly. “Get up, you lying son of a bitch.” He breathed heavily for a few endless moments, and when he spoke again, it was with less certainty in his voice. “Get up and take that bullshit back.”
Simon exhaled slowly. He was staring intently at the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen, as though he had X-ray vision and could see straight through it. “You know what?” Simon murmured. “I don’t think he’s getting up.”
