Hysteria (35 page)

She made that
argh
noise again, like she was beyond frustrated. Then she added, “I am so, so sorry.”

And I said, annoyed, like always, “Not your fault.”

“Stop it. Please. Stop saying that.” She was pressing her lips together again, trying
not to cry. And finally, I got it.

She snuck out of her house, even though she was grounded. She went to that party so
I could see Brian, even though she didn’t think I should be with Brian. She went because
she knew I wouldn’t go without her. Because I didn’t do anything without her.

Which she knew.

And she still knew.

And that was why Colleen felt guilty about that night. It wasn’t that she thought
she left me. It wasn’t that she went off with Cody. It was that she went at all.

Colleen thought it was all her fault. Colleen, who found me under the boardwalk that
night. Colleen, who was willing to run away with me. Colleen, who packed up a bag
and came here. For me. And this feeling started in my chest, like something rising
up inside of me.

I needed to say something: I needed to make sure she understood. I needed to make
sure she knew. It was mostly dark in the room, and she was almost crying, and she
was
here
in the middle of nowhere, with an overnight bag and a toothbrush. So before I could
lose my nerve I said, “You know I love you, Colleen Dabner.”

She poked my leg with her big toe and said, “Yeah, I know it.”

The slant of light from the gap in the curtains cut between us on the bed until Colleen
leaned forward and pushed her face into the light beam. And then she whispered, “Now
tell me again about this Krista chick.”

So I did. I lay back on the pillow and spoke to the ceiling. “Jason is
—
was
—
the only one who knew about her, really. And she did whatever he wanted. Is that bribery?”

“Blackmail?”

“Either way, it’s messed up. For one thing, I know she convinced Taryn not to tell
that Jason hit her. And I guess she must’ve convinced Bree not to report something
too. But I don’t know what. And I don’t know why. Jason must’ve had something big
on her. And I seriously don’t get why they pretended to be cousins.” All I knew for
certain was that Krista wanted him dead. And now that he was, the secret was dead
too.

Colleen listened and didn’t say a word until I ran out of things to say, and there
was nothing but breathing. The last thing I remembered was her left leg laying on
top of my right leg. Her left hand in my hair.

And in the morning, when I woke, I rolled over to the right side of the bed, and it
was empty.

Her bag was gone, the oversized purse that she also used as luggage. The spot next
to my shoes was empty, where hers had been. I pulled the curtains apart and my heart
dropped as I saw the empty parking spot. No purple hatchback.

I barged out into the common room and ignored Mom’s greeting as she ate a bowl of
cereal on the couch. I checked the bathroom and let out a sigh of relief
—
her toothbrush was still sitting on the side of the sink.

“Where’d Colleen go?”

She paused with the spoon halfway to her mouth. “What do you mean?”

I felt this weird buzz in the room, like when you know something’s off
—
kind of like when I knew, but didn’t know, that Dylan had been in my dorm room. “Colleen.
Her car is gone.” She probably went to get some real breakfast. She’d probably walk
through the door in a few minutes with a tray of coffee in one hand and a box of donuts
balanced on her other hip.

Mom slurped the milk off her spoon. “She must’ve left for home.”

“No, her toothbrush is here.”

Mom put her spoon in the bowl and placed them all on the coffee table. “I’m sure she
just forgot it. Mallory, honey, I’ve been up for the last hour. She hasn’t been here.
I’m sure she wanted to get an early start and didn’t want to wake us.”

“No,” I said, feeling frantic. “She wouldn’t leave without telling me. She wouldn’t.”

“It’s after ten. She probably left first thing. She wouldn’t necessarily wake you
up.”

“She would.”

“How could you possibly be sure of that?”

Because Colleen wouldn’t just leave.

Because she felt guilty, even though she shouldn’t have.

Because she knew I had nobody else.

Because she loved me.

I opened my mouth and said, “Because I know her.”

Because some things don’t ever die, not even with death. Like my grandma, putting
my hand on her chest. Not her bones, not her heart, not her soul. Just reminding me
of the connection between us. It had consequence. It mattered.

Mom stood and rocked back and forth on her heels for a bit. “All right, honey. Go
ahead and call her.”

I raced for the phone and punched in the number for her cell. Then frantically hung
up, dialed 9 to get out of the hotel, and tried again.

“Straight to voice mail.”

“She probably didn’t turn it on. Or she’s in another no-service zone. The mountains
are like that. I’ll call her mother tonight to make sure she got in. Okay?”

I shook my head. It was not okay. Not at all. I went to my room and stared at the
unmade bed, at my dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. I pulled back the sheets,
looking for a note or maybe a clue. Anything. But there was nothing. I checked the
dresser, the drawers she’d never opened, the empty spot where her shoes had been.
Nothing. I checked the bathroom, felt the dry bristles of her toothbrush, and guessed
it hadn’t been used this morning.

And suddenly my room filled up with the lack of her. Like I could feel the absence
of her as much as I could feel her presence. Like Dad, unable to bear the absence
of Reid’s father. Or Brian’s mom, standing at the edge of my kitchen, feeling something
in the emptiness.

Real as anything.

It looked like it was going to rain again, but it didn’t. But the clouds sat, gray
and thick and ominous. Time ticked by painstakingly slowly. I picked up the phone
at eleven and called again. Straight to her voice mail. I called again at noon. And
that time I waited for the tone and said, “Call this number, damn it,” and hung up.

Mom watched me each time, and I could tell she was starting to get worried as well.
Only she was worried there had been some sort of car accident in the woods on the
way home. I felt like I was going through the motions, making these phone calls, every
hour on the hour, until Mom would call Colleen’s mom or the police or something. By
two, I started to get anxious. I really hoped she was driving, had been a jerk, and
left without telling me. I wanted to believe she’d do it.

I needed to believe she’d do it.

“I need to go look for her.”

“She took her car, Mallory. She could be anywhere.”

So I sat in front of the window, rocking back and forth, watching the empty road.
Leaning a little closer every time I’d hear a car approaching. But it was never Colleen.

Mom finally called the Dabner house at five, but she shook her head at me. “She probably
doesn’t even get off work until now.” Then she turned her mouth back to the phone
and said, “This is Lori. We’re just calling to check that Colleen made it home. Please
call this number when you get in.”

“She should be back by now,” I said. “Colleen would’ve picked up the phone at home.”

Mom looked at her watch. “Only if she didn’t make any stops. I’m sure she stopped
for food. And she’s bound to hit rush-hour traffic . . .”

“Mom . . .”

The sky started to shift, from light gray to dark gray. Mom looked out the window.
“I’m going to pick up some dinner.” But before she left, she called Dad. She cleared
her throat and said, “Would you please swing by the Dabner house on the way back from
work and make sure Colleen made it home?” Which is how I knew she was seriously worried.

The second she left, I threw on my sneakers.

I knew what I’d be doing to Mom. I knew it. I knew the way she looked at me now, remembering
how I came to her that night, covered in blood. How she came home to an empty house
with a dead body. I knew what it had done to her. The weeks when she couldn’t keep
the tremor from her hand, when she couldn’t focus enough to remember which windows
were locked and which weren’t. What doors should be locked and which shouldn’t. When
she couldn’t even focus on me.

I knew what this
—
coming home to an empty hotel room
—
could do to her. But this was a thing worth risking it for.

The only question I’d been thinking about since I woke up and Colleen was gone was
this: where the hell did she go?

She took her car.

She took her bag. Well, she’d need that, since it had her wallet.

And she’d left sometime before I woke.

She could’ve been anywhere, it’s true. But it also wasn’t.

Because she hadn’t meant to leave me for good. Which meant there was only one place
she could’ve gone.

Monroe.

Chapter 21

I
left a note for Mom. Told her to call someone
—
Colleen’s mom, the cops, the school, just someone. I told her I was going to find
Colleen.

I started off down the road at a brisk walk. And then I started to jog. And then,
picturing Colleen waiting at the end, I ran.

At first I could see the road just fine. The cracks at the edge of the pavement, the
way it ended abruptly, like a cliff, where the weeds and grass and trees grew. I looked
down at the pavement as I ran, watched it blur beneath my feet, same as when I ran
to see Reid.

But then the sun must’ve dropped, or the clouds grew thicker, or maybe just darker.
I could still see, but I couldn’t make out the details, the contrast. Just the shapes.
I was halfway there, I had to be. I was breathing heavily, but I didn’t feel out of
breath. Just desperate. Because if Colleen hadn’t come back, there must’ve been a
reason. And I was guessing it wasn’t because she ran into some hot guy.

My foot slipped off the edge of the pavement, and my ankle rolled, and I came down
hard on my hands and knees. My right hand landed on something sharp
—
a piece of glass, I thought. But when I pulled my hand up, I saw a split rock
—
an edge like someone had taken a knife to it. The corner was dark with blood. My blood.

I held my palm to my face and saw the gash along my palm. Blood dripped from the wound
down my wrist. Not too much, I’d be fine. But my heart sped up. I imagined my hands
that night. Covered in Brian’s blood.

I pounded my fist into the pavement, then flattened my hands to push myself up off
the ground. And as I rose, I saw my handprint. A dark stain on the pavement. I couldn’t
move. Because I remembered something else.

Brian slid to the floor, barely making a sound. Like the way people say that life
slips away. He just . . . slipped. And at first there was just a little blood on my
hands, warm, but just a little. Like the knife had only scratched him, maybe. Except
he was on the floor, and his mouth was gasping.

I fell beside him and stared at the knife. His chest should have been moving, but
it wasn’t. “Oh God,” I said. “Brian.” His eyes were open, but he wasn’t looking, or
maybe he was. Maybe he was looking for something else. “Brian!” I screamed. But he
still didn’t look at me.

The spot on the front of his shirt was spreading. I put both hands on the knife and
tugged. It came free, as effortlessly as it had gone in. And then the blood started,
even more than before. Flowing, pouring out. “No!” I cried. “No, no, no.”

Stop the blood
, I thought. So I put both hands over the wound in his chest and pressed down, but
the blood kept coming, covering my hands, sliding over them and down onto the floor.
“Stop,” I said. But that didn’t help. So I put my whole weight behind it, pressing
down on top of him with my hands, my chest, with all of my weight. But the blood kept
coming. I could feel it soaking through. Soaking through him, to me, everywhere. I
let out a sob and screamed, “Brian!” again.