Where You'll Find Me (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Rosalinda says as I climb into the backseat, “but the goal wasn’t to drive Nate’s parents out of their own house, was it?” The car isn’t running, but the keys are still in the ignition, and the radio is playing.

“They got a phone call. The police have Nate.”

“What happened?” Heather asks.

“No clue.”

“Follow them!” Rosalinda bellows, raising a fist.

“And do what when we catch up to them? I tried telling them Nate is innocent. Telling them again in front of police officers who don’t believe he’s innocent either isn’t going to help.”

“Did you get any more information that might help?” Misty asks.

“Just that they have evidence against Nate. His fingerprints on pill bottles. I don’t know how he’d ever be able to prove that it wasn’t murder.”

“Shit,” Misty says.

“Well, you tried,” Heather says. “That’s all you can do.”

Rosalinda points to the book resting in my lap. “What’s with the book?”

“Jeremy gave it to Nate, but he didn’t take it when he left. I found it in a box of his stuff.”

“You stole?” Rosalinda gasps. “All of Nate’s criminality is rubbing off on you!”

I roll my eyes. “I didn’t steal. I’m just making sure the book gets into the right hands.”
Hopefully
.

Heather starts the car. “So, what are we doing? Going home?”

“Home,” I echo, disappointed. She pulls away from the curb, and I stare out the rear windshield while Nate’s house grows smaller and smaller, until it disappears.

We’re back on the expressway, heading southeast, when I flip open the copy of the book. A few passages are underlined. Many pages have been dog-eared, but it’s impossible to tell if they were folded to mark the place where Jeremy left off or to mark something important in the text. The story looks like a bunch of letters, all addressed “Dear Friend” and all signed “Love always, Charlie.”

Thinking there must be a response to Charlie somewhere, I turn to the back of the book. As I flip through the last pages, with more “Dear friends” and not a single “Dear Charlie,” a piece of paper falls into my lap. It’s in fourths with neat, crisp folds. The header on the page reads “Spectrum Hospital Discharge Papers” with Jeremy’s name and a date of early December. Not long before he passed away. Beneath the header is medical jargon—drug names, dosages, and purposes. But behind all of that printed information, indentations of handwritten words show through from the back side of the paper. Curious, I flip the paper over.

It starts out just like all the letters in the book. “Dear friend.” At first I think it’s one of the letters copied straight out of the book. But as my eyes scan down the page, reading rows of shaky but still readable print, I quickly realize that’s not the case.

My heart stops.

This is not a letter from Charlie’s life.

This is a letter from Jeremy’s life.

And Jeremy’s parents need to see it right now.

…

“What does the letter say?” Heather demands.

“Everything. It explains how Jeremy didn’t want to go through with the treatment. How he didn’t want to be sick anymore. How he wanted to die on his terms, not the terms of this horrible illness. It doesn’t come right out and say that Nate had nothing to do with it, but if anything can convince his parents and the police that Nate isn’t a murderer, this is it.”

“So what are we going to do?” Misty asks. “Drive to every police station in the state of Michigan and see if Nate is there?”

“We wouldn’t have to check every police station,” Heather says. “He was at our house, what, seven hours ago?” She glances in the rearview mirror.

“Eight,” I say.

She drums her fingers against the steering wheel. “Okay. Nate probably walked at a maximum speed of four miles per hour, so he would have traveled less than thirty miles. I need one of you to get on your phones, figure out which cities are within a thirty mile radius of our house, and look up the police stations for those cities. Then we can call and see if Nate is there.”

For a second, I just blink at Heather. We all do. Then Rosalinda says, “Whoa. Is that what happens when you pay attention in algebra?”

“It’s a good plan,” I say. “But that’s way too much math for any of us. You’re talking about, like, ratios and circles and pi and…”

Heather sighs, exasperated. “I can’t research and drive at the same time.”

“If we stop, I can drive,” Misty says.

“We don’t have time to stop!” I say. “Nate’s parents need to see this before they do anything they’ll regret. We need to keep going south and east. And Heather, you need to be less respectful of the speed limit.”

“Rosalinda, grab the wheel.”

“Wait, what?” Rosalinda asks.

Heather checks her speedometer and turns on cruise control. “I’m climbing in the passenger seat, so either you grab the wheel and switch places with me, or else we slam into oncoming traffic at that curve up ahead,” she says, nodding at the windshield.

“Holy shit!” Rosalinda yells, but it’s too late to argue because Heather’s letting go of the steering wheel and climbing over the center console. There’s more swearing and a fair share of swerving, but soon Rosalinda is in the driver’s seat and Heather is in the passenger seat with her phone out of her pocket and a Web browser open on her screen.

As Rosalinda buckles her seatbelt, she grumbles, “Out of all of us in this car, I thought you were supposed to be the sensible one.”

“Just drive,” Heather says.

Unfortunately, there are many cities within a thirty mile radius of our house. Heather’s got a list of ten going within a few minutes.

“It’s fine,” she says. “I doubt he headed northwest. Too close to home. Lake St. Clair would stop him from getting too far east. We’ll try the cities to the south first. Warren. Madison Heights.”

Heather Googles the Warren Police Department and places the call. There’s obviously some transferring going on because she has to explain twice who she is and what she wants. The radio is off, and the rest of us are silent. Listening. Waiting. Holding our breaths.

“Okay, thank you,” Heather finally says, then hangs up.

“Not there?” I ask.

“They can’t confirm or deny the presence of a minor without a lawyer, parent, or guardian present.” She does some quick searching and types another number into her phone. “Let’s hope they’re not all like that.”

While Heather calls, I read the letter again and again, feeling like I’m getting to know Jeremy as I do. With each read, I notice more details. The word “treatment” in the second paragraph that’s missing a consonant. The smudged ink in the fourth paragraph. From water? Or tears? The way the print gets shakier as it progresses down the page, like even the act of writing a letter took all of his energy. The way the signature after “Love always” is more a J with a line than a name.

This letter is the key to a lock that isn’t in my possession.

“Exact same thing,” Heather says when she hangs up with the third police station. She turns toward me. “I don’t know how we’re going to find him. Even if we drive to all of these police stations, they won’t give us the information we’re looking for.”

“Maybe we could go back to Nate’s house?” Misty suggests. “You could leave the note, and they’ll see it when they get home.”

“But we don’t know when that will be,” I counter, “or where Nate might be by then.”

No one has a response to that. Heather flips her phone from hand to hand for a minute, then stops. “Unless…” she says, the wheels in her mind visibly turning.

“Unless what?” I ask.

“We do happen to know a lawyer. One who might be able to get us the information we need.”

Dad. “Heather…he’s going to be pissed enough that we skipped school and took this road trip. I seriously doubt he’s going to be willing to help us.” But even as I say the words, I realize he’s our last option short of giving up. And I’m not about to give up. Not now.

Sighing, I take the phone and scroll through her contacts until I reach Dad’s number. The phone rings twice before Dad picks up.

“Heather? What’s wrong?”

“Dad, it’s Hanley.”

He pauses. When he speaks again, there’s an edge of suspicion to his tone. “Why are you calling from Heather’s phone? Why aren’t you in class?”

“I need a favor. Kind of a big favor.” I swallow hard. “See, I went to Nate’s house to talk to his parents—”

“You did
what
?”

“I just needed to talk to them. And while I was there—”

“You drove to Traverse City?” The tone of his voice suggests that it’s a good thing he’s at the office, because if he wasn’t he would be screaming loud enough to blow the speaker on Heather’s phone. “You talked to Nate’s parents? Without a lawyer present?”

“Dad,” I say, exasperated. “I’m going to need you to accept this a little faster okay? Because while I was at Nate’s house, I found a note from Jeremy. A suicide note. It proves Nate’s not a murderer.” When I pause, Dad doesn’t interject, so I keep going. “The problem is that while I was there, the police called. They have Nate. I need to get this letter to Nate’s parents, but I don’t know where they went. I don’t know where Nate is. Heather called around to police stations, but they wouldn’t give her any information.”

Dad’s silence scares me more than screaming would. “Dad? Are you there?”

It takes another minute before he says anything. “Yeah. I’m here.” His voice is flat. Unreadable.

I take a deep breath. “Look, I know I messed up, okay? Multiple times. But I really need your help. I didn’t ask for help when I needed it after Kayla died, and everything fell apart because of that. I’m asking for help now. By the time I knew Kayla needed me, it was too late. Now Nate needs me, and it’s not too late. But I can’t do this alone.”

Finally, Dad speaks. “Hanley…this is complicated. First, I can’t represent Nate. He’s a minor, and I have far too much personal involvement in the case. Second, that letter might not be enough to convince Nate’s parents. Even if it does, it may not be enough for charges to be dropped. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

“My hopes are already up.”

Dad lets out a long, heavy sigh. “I was afraid of that. Where are you?”

I glance out the windshield as we drive past a billboard. “We’re heading south on I-75.”

“Keep driving. Let me make a few calls.”

A wave of relief washes over me. “Thank you, Dad.”

“I’ll do my best. You girls drive safely.”

“We will. Good luck,” I say.

Because we’re going to need it.

Chapter Twenty-three

Two hours later, we pull into the Ferndale Police Department’s parking lot. My mom’s Trailblazer and the SUV that pulled away from the Bradford’s house are both in the lot.

We rush to the door and into the warmth of the building. My parents are sitting on a bench in the lobby. Despite all the issues I’ve had with my parents over the years, I’m relieved to see them. I’m relieved they came through for me.

“Bathroom,” Heather says, nodding to our left.

I nod and let the three of them head into the women’s restroom. As I approach my parents, tears sting the back of my eyes. They both stand. Without a word, Dad pulls me in for a hug.

“Thank you for your help,” I say into his shoulder, holding Jeremy’s note tight against his back.

He lets go and holds me out at arm’s length. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It’s been a long day, and I’m nervous, but I’m okay.” Next I turn to my mom. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Mom says. “We’ll get through this.”

“Where’s Nate?” I ask.

“He’s in a holding cell right now,” Dad says. He motions to the paper in my hand. “Let’s see this letter.”

While my parents read, I spin Kayla’s ring on my thumb and look around the lobby. There’s a long hallway with several forks, and I wonder which one leads to Nate. He’s so close, yet so far. I try not to worry about him, because after surviving a few months on the streets, a holding cell must be a piece of cake.

By the time my parents get to the end of the letter, Mom is wiping at her eyes, and Dad has to clear his throat before he can speak. “Wow,” he says. “Okay. Let me try to get this to them.”

I put a hand on his arm to stop him. The Bradfords didn’t want to listen to my thoughts on Jeremy and Nate, but maybe they would listen to my own story. The one I think I have to be brave enough to share. “I’d like to give it to them. If I can. I need one more chance to talk to them. Please.”

At first, Dad looks like he’s going to argue with me, but slowly his expression changes. He nods. “No guarantees. But I’ll try.” Once he disappears down the hall, Mom and I walk over to my sister, Rosalinda, and Misty, who have emerged from the restroom. Mom squeezes Heather’s shoulder and says, “Thank you girls for being with Hanley, but you three should be in school.”

“Will you text us? Let us know what happens?” Misty asks.

“I will. Thank you,” I say. “I couldn’t have done this without you guys.”

“Aw, sappy group hug time,” Rosalinda says, pulling the four of us together. I hold on tight and manage a smile.

When we let go, Heather pulls me in for an individual hug. “Good luck, little sister.”

“Remember. Mental tequila,” Rosalinda says.

“Got it.”

After the requisite “drive safelys” and “good-byes,” Mom and I are alone. We walk slowly back to the bench where she and Dad were sitting when I arrived. The clack of her heels against stamped concrete echoes off the walls. “Mental tequila?” she asks. “Do I even want to know?”

“It’s harmless,” I say as we sit down.

“If you say so.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you girls drove to Traverse City.”

“Yeah. About that. What punishment is left when I’m already grounded until I’m thirty?”

Mom sighs. “That whole ‘grounding’ thing doesn’t seem to work for you. Maybe we could work something else out. A few honest conversations. Maybe some overdue therapy. And definitely cleaning the entire house from top to bottom once a week until you move out.”

“Can’t I just be grounded until I’m fifty instead?” I groan. “At least I can get out of that.”

Mom laughs, but our conversation comes to an abrupt end when Mr. and Mrs. Bradford walk into the lobby with Dad. Neither one of them looks particularly pleased to see me.

I stand, Jeremy’s note clutched tightly in my hand. “How’s Nate?”

“We haven’t gotten to see him yet,” Mrs. Bradford says tightly. There’s a stain on her shirt that wasn’t there a few hours ago. It looks like coffee.

“What are you doing here?” Mr. Bradford asks, his tone making it clear that my second appearance is as unwanted as my first.

Though my nerves are back in full force, I stand tall and look them both in the eye. “When I talked to you before, I didn’t tell you that I understand exactly how horrible suicide is. My best friend committed suicide two years ago. I didn’t see it coming. I was with her every single day. But I just didn’t see it and…”

Emotion chokes off the rest of my sentence, but I can’t fall apart. Not now. I swallow hard and take a shaky breath. “Kayla didn’t leave a note. Selfishly, I wish she had, because I’ve spent two years wondering if there was something I could have done. I’ve spent two years asking questions that have no answers and blaming myself.” I hold the note out. “That’s why I think you should read this. So you don’t spend as long as I did blaming someone when blame won’t help.”

Tentatively, Mr. Bradford takes the folded paper and opens it slowly.

“That’s…” Mrs. Bradford says, wariness transforming into confusion. “That’s Jeremy’s handwriting. Where did you get this?”

I would answer, but the way they’re focused on the page suggests that they wouldn’t hear me yet. A minute later, Mrs. Bradford brings a hand to her mouth to cover a sob. A few seconds later, she turns and sags into her husband’s arms, crying against his chest.

Dad nudges me and leads us toward the entrance, giving the Bradfords some space. Dad loops an arm around my shoulders and whispers, “I’m proud of you, kiddo.”

“Me, too,” Mom echoes.

It’s the first time in years I’ve heard those words. I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear them again. At the front door, I peer through the glass into the parking lot. The snow on the ground shimmers in the afternoon sun.

We watch cars pass by for a few minutes until there’s a gentle throat clearing behind us. The Bradfords stand a few steps away, his arm around her shoulders.

“Where did you find this?” Mrs. Bradford asks, tears in her voice and the letter in her hand.

“In Jeremy’s copy of
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
. I found it in the boxes of Nate’s stuff you were throwing away. Nate said he wished he had it, so I wanted to give it to him.” I glance at the ground. “I’m sorry.”

Mr. Bradford runs a hand through his short hair. “It’s just a lot to take in. I never realized Jeremy was in that much pain. We assumed…” He clears his throat. “We assumed Nate was the one who wanted the pill bottles empty.”

Maybe Jeremy and Kayla didn’t hide their pain using alcohol and lies and black hair dye, but I’m sure they found their own ways. “I think sometimes it’s easier to pretend to be okay than it is to admit weakness.”

“This letter… It changes everything.” Mr. Bradford takes a deep breath, then nods once. “We’ll go talk to the officers. Tell them Nate’s fingerprints were on the bottle because Jeremy was too weak to open it those last few weeks. If we take the blame, show them the letter, tell them how much easier it was to blame someone—anyone…”

“Listen,” Dad says. “I know I’m not your attorney, but a few well-placed phone calls to your lawyer and the Traverse City Police Department with this new evidence could get Nate out of here and back home today.”

Mr. and Mrs. Bradford exchange a glance. There’s hope in their expressions. It gives me hope. Dad does a little off-the-record coaching on who to talk to and what to say. I guess having a lawyer for a dad isn’t such a horrible thing.

“Thank you so much for your help,” Mrs. Bradford says.

“You’re welcome. If you have questions or run into any problems, let me know.” Dad looks to me. “I have a feeling we won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

The Bradfords don’t argue this statement. When they look at me before leaving, the earlier contempt is gone.

“How long will this take?” I ask Dad.

“Could still be a couple of hours. And there’s no guarantee they’ll release Nate. Even if they convince their lawyer they want to drop the pending charges and stop the investigation into Jeremy’s death, they still need to go before a judge. It’s up to the police in both precincts to decide if Nate can be released until that time.”

“My hopes are still up,” I say.

Dad sighs. “Yeah. Mine, too.” He nods to the bench and motions for us to take a seat. “Now we wait.”