One Moment (23 page)

“That is correct,” Detective Wallace said with a curt nod.

“To be frank,” Mr. Fontane said, sweeping his papers into a stack and leaning down for the leather briefcase that was propped against the leg of his chair, “I’m not exactly sure what we’re doing here.”

“I’m with you,” my father said, his words tight. “You’re keeping an investigation open because a girl who could be holding some kind of grudge against my daughter made some wild accusation?”

“We have not revealed the source of our informa—”

“We all know who it was.” My father’s voice rang through the room, shaking with anger. I was surprised by his insistence, by the way his hands had balled into fists, by how red his neck and cheeks had turned. But most surprising of all was how my mother just sat there, doing nothing to get him under control. Not that he lost it often, but when he came close, she was always the first person to rein him in. “If you look into Shannon’s relationship with Joey, you’ll find that she’s not exactly known for her honesty.”

“Regardless,
suspicion
is a strong word, Mr. Reynolds,” Detective Meyer said, his belly rising with the intake of one deep breath.

“We’d simply like to know if there was a conflict between Maggie and Joey on the day of his death.” Detective Wallace looked right at me.

“I’ve read the transcript from the first time you questioned my client,” Mr. Fontane said. “She’s already stated that Joey did not seem to be in conflict with anyone on the day of his death. Beyond that, she has complied with every one of your instructions.” Mr. Fontane stood then, his briefcase thwapping against his leg.

“She most certainly has,” my mother said, standing and placing a hand on my back.

“Then,” Mr. Fontane said with a shrug, “we’re done here.”

“Understood,” Detective Wallace said.

“Yes,” said Detective Meyer. “And it should also be understood that this investigation will remain open until we have all the answers we need.”

My father stood and pulled my chair back. I got to my shaky feet, wondering if my facial expression or body language or the fear radiating from me would tip anyone off. If it was obvious that I had remembered exactly what had happened up there on the cliff top and was keeping it a secret in spite of everyone wanting the truth.

Because if they could read me, I was screwed. Joey’s death may have been a terrible accident, but it was one that I had caused. All because I’d trusted him too much and was too afraid of letting go.

“I made your favorite,” my mother said from her perch on the side of my bed. “Pot roast, carrots, potatoes …”

I flipped over to face her, yanking my earbuds from my ears. “I’m not hungry.”

My father stepped in from the hall, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans. “You have to eat, hon.”

“Not now.” I couldn’t imagine eating. I was sure anything I swallowed would come right back up. “My stomach,” I said, curling into a ball, “it’s not right.”

My mother sighed. “I can only guess why. That Shannon. What was she thinking?”

I heard the anger in my mother’s voice. Solid, reckless rage. I loved her for it.

“We can’t worry about it right now,” my father said, leaning against the footboard of my bed.

“What are you going to do, sweetie?” my mother asked, her fingers swiping loose strands of hair from my face.

“Sleep,” I said, my voice croaking the word out.

“You’re sure you don’t want anything to eat?” my mother asked. She smiled then. “I have peanut butter pie. What about a totally unconventional peanut butter pie dinner? I can come up and eat some with you. Right here in bed.” She smoothed her hand across the patches of the quilt pulled over my legs, taking them in, seeming to wish for the simplicity of the past, thinking of all those years, of the love, and pain, and acceptance those tiny little squares represented.

I sat forward, hating the way her eyes lit up at the prospect of me accepting something as insignificant as a piece of pie. Had the riptide of this whole thing pulled me that far off course?

“I’m going to be okay, Mom.” I patted her hand, realizing how similar our long, slender fingers were, and even the shapes of our fingernails.

My mother sucked in a breath and tears filled her eyes. “I know you are, Maggie.”

“You’re one tough cookie,” my father said, tipping back on the heels of his shoes.

My mother and I looked at him, then each other, and laughed.

“What?” he asked, throwing his hands in the air. “You are.”

His confusion made us laugh even harder. The doubled-over, almost-pee-your-pants kind of laughter that sometimes surprises you in the strangest of moments.

It felt good, breaking open like that. And it lightened the room by about a thousand pounds. I leaned back against the headboard, propping a pillow behind me, and asked my father to go get us all a slice of pie.

When he left the room, I pointed toward the end of my bed. “Tell me about that red one. The shiny patch of satin near my right foot.” I wiggled my toes, bouncing the section of quilt up and down so she’d know where to look.

My mother’s fingers found the square of fabric, traced its perfectly stitched border. “That one,” she said, “is from the dress I wore to my senior prom.”

“No way,” I said, sliding farther under the covers for her story. “You have to tell me all about it.”

Her voice swirled around me then, a cocoon that gave me a much-needed reprieve from everything that had happened since Memorial Day weekend. We spent the rest of the evening together, hanging out in my room, my mother telling my father and me the stories behind each and every one of those worn swatches of fabric. As I listened, losing myself in each little tale, I realized that the quilt would not have been the same, not nearly as beautiful, without the sadness. The robin’s egg blue patch from a baby blanket that had belonged to my uncle who died when he was two, the purple satin ribbon found after a tornado destroyed my grandparents’ first home, the black silk from the dress my grandma wore to her father’s funeral—those slices of life, they were just as important as the rest.

21

Independence Day

It was Friday the thirteenth, and I knew a party was going on somewhere nearby. Tanna had invited me, but I’d said there was no way I was going to chance running into Shannon, who had never missed a party in her life. I’d watched a cheesy slasher movie on the couch before coming up to my room and falling into bed, my iPod in hand, ready to scroll through my music to find something that wouldn’t remind me of Joey. Or Shannon. Or Adam, for that matter. After an hour, I yanked the buds from my ears, frustrated that the people I was trying to forget seemed to be attached to every song in my playlist.

It was a little after eleven when the text came through.

U know I luv u, right?

Yes,
I replied.
I always feel the luv, T.

Good. Bc I’m on my way over.

No,
I texted back.
I’m gng 2 bed.

U can’t,
came the reply.
Adam’s in trouble.

I sat up, staring at the words, dread spreading from my chest to the rest of my body until I felt numb all over.

I’ll b there in 5,
Tanna added.
B ready.

Tanna’s car pulled into my driveway and squealed to a stop. The windows were down, and the first thing I noticed was the lack of music pouring from the radio. Then I saw Shannon sitting in the passenger seat, her eyes locked on mine, her face void of expression.

“What the hell is she doing here?” I asked.

“Dude,” Pete said from the backseat, “we don’t have time for this. Just get in the car.”

“No! I’m not going anywhere with her.”

“What part of ‘
Adam’s in trouble
’ did you not understand?” Tanna asked, leaning through the open driver’s side window. “Get in the freaking car, Maggie. We have to find him.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and took a step back. “He’s been missing in one way or another since Memorial Day weekend. What’s so different about tonight?”

“His mom called.” Shannon said. “She’s worried because he had some appointment today that he missed. And then he never went home.”

“He’s not answering any of her texts or calls.” Tanna ran her hands along the steering wheel nervously. “And even with everything we’ve seen, she said he hasn’t totally ignored her until tonight.”

“Blowing us off is one thing,” I said, my level of anxiety exploding. “But it isn’t like him to make his mom worry. Especially after Joey.”

“So, you coming or not?” Pete asked, leaning between the front seats like he wanted to drag me into the car. “’Cuz we gotta
move
, Mags.”

“Where have you checked?” I walked around the front of the car to the passenger-side door as Shannon swung it open.

“Nowhere yet,” Tanna said. “We came for you first. We were thinking we could drive around to see if we can find his car.”

“If he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t leave his car out in the open,” I said.

Shannon stumbled out of the car, her shoes clicking on the driveway, and crossed her arms over her chest. The thick scent of liquor surrounded her, and I looked down to her feet, knowing that this was not the time to confront her about what she’d told the police. But, God, I was dying to. Instead, I pulled Shannon’s seat forward, lifting one foot so I could climb into the back, and my thoughts returned to Adam.

“He’s hiding, so we have to think.” I pictured him, then, the moonlight streaking his hair, his feet dangling over the rushing water. Heard his voice trailing through my mind: One
of my hideouts.
“Wait! The creek. He’s got to be at the creek.” I shoved away from the car and ran around the side of my house, through my backyard, and toward the trail that led to the woods.

The wind picked up, rushing through the trees above, whispering in a frantic way that made me feel like we had to hurry, like Adam needed help and we were running out of time.

As we raced deeper into the woods, I heard someone stumble behind me. Then Shannon said, “Shit, Maggie, slow down already.”

That only made me go faster. When we stepped from the line of trees to the edge of the creek, I fully expected to see Adam sitting there on the rock, right where I’d found him three weeks earlier, his green eyes flashing silver in the moonlight. But there was no moon—it had hidden behind a thick batch of storm clouds that raced overhead. And there was no Adam, either. The rock sat in a deep shadow, flat and cold, and so very alone.

“He’s not here.” The words exploded out of me, my breathing tight and quick as I turned in a circle, hoping he’d appear in the time it took me to spin back toward his rock. But it didn’t work. “I thought for sure he’d be here.”

The creek rushed by, curling in little waves, competing with the sound of the wind.

“We need a plan,” Shannon said. “We can’t just run around like freaks all night.”

“I’m not a freak,” I said, turning to face her.

“I didn’t say
you
were a freak, Maggie. Just that—”

“Whatever,” I said, rolling my eyes. “What you think hardly matters to me anymore, anyway.”

“Well, the police seem to feel differently,” Shannon said. “Thankfully, they—”

“Holy shit!” Pete shouted, jumping between us. “It’s Friday the thirteenth.”

“As if you didn’t already know that?” Tanna asked.

“Yeah, but, it’s Friday,
July thirteenth
.” Pete’s eyes were frantic, hardly focused, and I wasn’t sure if he was really seeing any of us.

“Right,” Shannon said. “And that matters because …?”

The wind tossed Pete’s dreads up in the air. “It’s Independence Day.”

“Oh, my God,” Tanna said, her voice competing with the wind. “The cliff. There was something about a tradition with you guys, right?”

“July thirteenth is the day we took our first jump. And we swore we’d do it again, every year on July thirteenth. But it has to be a night jump to count.”

“Oh, God,” Shannon said. “That means we have to—”

“I can’t go there.” I backed toward the trail, shaking my head.