I try to use this to my advantage. I stretch my leg out in front of me and lean forward. "I can't find Charlie," I say to him. "I'm worried about her."
Landon laughs under his breath. "I should have known this had to do with her." He switches legs and faces me. "And what do you mean you can't find her? Her phone was in your car this morning. She can't very well call you from it. She's probably at home."
I shake my head. "No one has heard from her since last night. She never made it home. Janette reported her missing an hour ago."
His eyes are locked with mine, and I see them shift to concern. "What about her mom?"
I shake my head. "You know how she is. She's no help."
Landon nods. "True," he says. "Damn shame what this has turned her into."
His words make me contemplate. If she hasn't always been this way, what made her change? Maybe the sentencing destroyed her. I feel a small shred of sympathy for the woman. More than I did this morning.
"What did the police say? I doubt they'll consider her a missing person if all she's done is skip school today. They have to have more evidence than that."
The word evidence sticks with me as it falls from his mouth.
I haven't wanted to admit this to myself, because I want to focus on finding her, but deep down I've been a little concerned how this looks for me. If she really is missing and she doesn't show up soon, I have a feeling the only person the police will be interested in questioning is the last person to see her. And considering I have her wallet, her phone, and every letter and journal entry she's ever written--that doesn't bode well for Silas Nash.
If they question me--how will I know what to tell them? I don't remember our last words. I don't remember what she was wearing. I don't even have a valid excuse as to why I have all of her belongings. Any answer I give them would be a lie on a polygraph because I don't remember any of it.
What if something happened to her and I really am responsible? What if I've suffered some kind of shock, and that's why I can't remember anything? What if I hurt her and this is my mind's way of convincing me I didn't?
"Silas? Are you okay?"
My eyes flick up to Landon's. I have to hide the evidence.
I push my palms into the ground and immediately stand. I turn and run in the direction of the locker rooms.
"Silas!" he yells after me. I keep running. I run until I reach the building, and I push open the door so hard it slaps the wall behind it. I run straight to my locker and swing it open.
I reach inside but feel nothing.
No.
I touch the walls, the floor of the locker; I swipe my hands around every empty inch of it.
It's gone.
I run my hands through my hair and spin around, looking all around the locker room, hoping maybe I left the backpack on the floor. I swing open Landon's locker and pull everything out of it. It's not in there, either. I open the next locker and do the same. I open the next. Nothing.
The backpack is nowhere.
I'm either going crazy or someone was just in here.
"Shit. Shit, shit, shit."
When all of the contents from the entire row of lockers are on the floor, I move to the other wall of lockers and begin doing the same to them. I look inside other people's backpacks. I empty gym bags, watching as gym clothes tumble to the floor. I find anything and everything, from cell phones to cash to condoms.
But no letters. No journals. No photographs.
"Nash!"
I spin around to see a man filling the doorway, looking at me like he has no idea who I am or what's gotten into me. That makes two of us. "What in the hell are you doing?"
I look around at the mess I've made. It looks like a tornado just ripped through the locker room.
How am I going to get out of this?
I've just destroyed every single locker in here. And what explanation would I give them? I'm looking for stolen evidence so the police won't arrest me for my girlfriend's disappearance?
"Someone..." I squeeze the back of my neck again. This must be one of my old ticks--squeezing the stress out of my neck. "Someone stole my wallet," I mutter.
The coach looks around the locker room, the anger never once leaving his face. He points at me. "Clean this up, Nash! Now! And then get your ass to my office!" He walks away, leaving me alone.
I waste no time. I'm relieved I left all my clothes on the bench and not in my locker with the stuff that was stolen. My keys are still in my pants pocket. As soon as I'm out of my football gear and back into my clothes, I walk out the door, but I don't go in the direction of the offices. I head straight for the parking lot.
Straight for my car.
I have to find Charlie.
Tonight.
Otherwise, I could be sitting completely helpless in a jail cell.
I hear the lock open again, and I sit up. The pills the nurse gave me make me feel drowsy. I don't know how long I was asleep, but it couldn't have been long enough to already be time for another meal. However, she comes in carrying another tray. I'm not even hungry. I wonder if I finished my spaghetti earlier. I can't even remember eating it. I must be a lot crazier than I thought. But I did have a memory. I debate telling her, but it feels private. Something I want to keep for myself.
"Dinner time!" she says, setting it down. She lifts the lid to reveal a plate of rice and sausage. I eye it warily, wondering if I'm going to have to take more pills. As if reading my mind, she hands me the teeny paper cup.
"You're still here," I say, trying to stall. These pills make me feel like crap.
She smiles. "Yes. Take your pills so that you can eat before it gets cold." I pour them into my mouth while she watches, and I take a sip of water.
"If you behave today, you may be able to go to the rec room for a while tomorrow. I know you must be itching to get out of this room."
What constitutes behaving? So far there hasn't been much mischief to get up to.
I eat my dinner with a plastic fork while she watches me. I must be a real delinquent if I have to be supervised during dinner.
"I'd rather use the restroom than the rec room," I tell her.
"Eat first. I'll be back to take you to the restroom and to have a shower."
I feel like a prisoner rather than a patient.
"Why am I here?" I ask.
"You don't remember?"
"Would I be asking if I remembered?" I snap. I wipe my mouth as her eyes narrow.
"Finish your food," she says coldly.
I grow immediately angry at my situation--at the way she's dictating every second of my life as if it's hers to live.
I fling the plate across the room. It smashes against the wall by the television. Rice and sausage fly everywhere.
That felt good. That felt more than good. That felt like me.
I laugh then. Throw my head back and laugh. It's a deep laugh, wicked. Oh my god! This is why I'm here. Craaaaazy.
I can see the muscles in her jaw clench. I've made her mad. Good. I stand up and run for a broken shard of plate. I don't know what's come over me, but this feels right. Defending myself feels right.
She tries to grab me, but I slip out of her grasp. I pick up a sharp piece of porcelain. What type of mental hospital gives you porcelain plates? It's a disaster waiting to happen. I hold the shard toward her and take a step forward. "Tell me what's going on."
She doesn't move. Looks quite calm, actually.
That's when the door behind me must open, because the next thing I know there's a sharp sting in my neck and I'm falling to the ground.
I pull over on the side of the road. I grip the steering wheel, trying to calm myself down.
Everything is gone. I have no idea who took it. Someone is probably reading our letters right now. They'll read everything we wrote to ourselves, and depending on who took it, I probably look certifiably insane.
I grab a sheet of blank paper I find in the back seat, and I begin to write things down. Anything I can remember. I'
m pissed, because I can't remember even a fraction of what was in the notes inside the backpack. Our addresses, our locker codes, our birthdays, all the names of our friends and family--I can't remember any of it. What little I can recall, I write down. I can't let this stop me from finding her.
I have no idea where to go next. I could visit the tarot shop again; see if she returned there. I could try and find the address to whatever property has the gate that's in the picture in her bedroom. There has to be a connection with the tarot shop displaying that same picture.
I could drive to the prison and visit Charlie's father, see what he knows.
Prison is probably the last place I should go right now, though.
I grab my phone and begin scrolling through it. I pass the pictures from just last night. A night I don't recall a single second of. There are pictures of me and Charlie, pictures of our tattoos, pictures of a church, pictures of a street musician.
The last picture is of Charlie, standing next to a cab. It appears that I'm on the other side of the street, snapping a picture of her as she prepares to climb inside it.
This had to be the last time I saw her. In the letter it said she got into a cab on Bourbon Street.
I zoom in on the picture, my excitement getting caught in my throat. There's a license plate on the front of the cab and a phone number on the side of the cab.
Why didn't I think of this already?
I jot down the phone number and license plate, and dial the number.
I feel like I'm finally making progress.
The cab company almost refused to give me information. I finally convinced the operator that I was a detective and needed to question the driver regarding a missing person. That's only half of a lie. The guy on the phone said he had to ask around and call me back. It took about thirty minutes before my phone rang again.
It was the actual driver of the cab I spoke to this time. He said a girl matching the description of Charlie hailed his cab last night, but before he could take her anywhere, she told him never mind and she shut the door and walked away.
She just...walked away?
Why would she do that? Why would she not catch up to me? She had to know I was probably just around the next corner if that's where we parted ways.
She had to have an agenda. I don't remember a thing about her, but based on what I've read, everything she does seems to have a purpose. But what could her purpose have been on Bourbon Street at that time of night?
The only things that come to mind are the tarot shop and the diner. But in the notes, it states that Charlie never showed back up to the diner, based on information from someone named Amy. Was she going to find Brian? I feel a prickle of jealousy at the thought, but I'm almost confident she wouldn't have done that.
It has to be the tarot shop.
I search Google on my phone, unable to remember the exact name of the place written in our notes. I mark two of them in the French Quarter and set my GPS to take me there.
I can tell almost immediately upon entering that this is the shop we described in the notes. The one we visited just last night.
Last night. God. Why can't I remember something that just happened one day ago?
I make my way up and down each aisle, taking in everything around me, not even sure what I'm in search of. When I reach the last aisle, I recognize the photo hanging on the wall. The picture of the gate.
It's here for decoration. Not something for sale. I lift up on my toes until my fingers grab at the frame, and I pull it down to inspect it closer. The gate is tall, guarding a house in the background that I can barely make out in the picture. In the corner of one of the massive columns attached to the gate is the name of the house. Jamais Jamais.
"Can I help you?"
I look up to see a man towering over me, which is impressive. I'm six foot one, according to my driver's license. He has to be six foot five.
I point down to the photograph in my hands. "Do you know what this picture is of?"
The man snatches the frame out of my hands. "Seriously?" He seems agitated. "I didn't know what it was when your girlfriend asked me last night, and I still don't know what it is tonight. It's a damn picture." He hangs it back on the wall.
"Don't touch anything unless it's for sale and you plan to purchase it." He begins to walk away, so I follow him.
"Wait," I say, taking two steps to his long, single strides. "My girlfriend?"
He doesn't stop walking toward the register. "Girlfriend. Sister. Cousin. Whatever."
"Girlfriend," I clarify, even though I don't know why I'm clarifying. He obviously doesn't care. "Did she come back in here last night? After we left?"
He makes his way behind the register. "We closed right after the two of you left." He plants his gaze on mine and arches an eyebrow. "You gonna buy anything, or are you just gonna follow me around with stupid questions the rest of the night?"
I swallow. He makes me feel younger. Immature. He's the epitome of man, and the bone in his eyebrow makes me feel like a frightened child.
Suck it up, Silas. You're not a pussy.
"I just have one more stupid question."
He begins ringing up a customer. He doesn't respond, so I continue.
"What does Jamais Jamais mean?
He doesn't even look at me.
"It means Never Never," someone says from behind me.
I immediately turn, but my feet feel heavy, like I've sunken into my shoes. Never Never?
This can't be a coincidence. Charlie and I repeat this phrase over and over in our letters.
I look at the woman the voice belongs to, and she's staring at me, chin lifted, face straight. Her hair is pulled back. It's dark, sporadically streaked with gray strands. She's wearing a long, flowing piece of material that pools around her feet at the floor. I'm not even sure it's a dress. It looks as if she just fashioned something out of a sheet and a sewing machine.
She has to be the tarot reader. She's playing the part well.
"Where is that house located? The one in the photo on the wall?" I point to the photograph. She turns and stares at it for several long seconds. Without facing me again, she crooks her finger for me to follow her, and she begins to head toward the back of the store.
I reluctantly follow her. Before we pass through a doorway of beaded curtains, my phone begins to vibrate in my pants pocket. It rattles against my keys, and the woman turns and looks at me over her shoulder. "Turn it off."
I look down at the screen and see that it's my father again. I silence the phone. "I'm not here for a reading," I clarify. "I'm just looking for someone."
"The girl?" she says, taking a seat on the other side of a small table in the center of the room. She motions for me to sit, but I refuse the offer.
"Yes. We were here last night."
She nods and begins to shuffle a deck of cards. "I remember," she says. A small smirk plays at the corner of her mouth. I watch as she separates the cards into stacks. She lifts her head and her face is expressionless. "But that only makes one of us, doesn't it."
The statement sends chills over my arms. I take two quick steps forward and grab the back of the empty chair. "How do you know that?" I blurt out.
She motions to the chair again. This time I sit. I wait for her to speak again, to tell me what she knows. She's the first one to be clued in to what's happening to me.
My hands begin to shake. My pulse is throbbing behind my eyes. I squeeze them shut and pull my hands through my hair to hide my nerves. "Please," I tell her. "If you know something, please tell me."
She begins to shake her head slowly. Back and forth, back and forth. "It's not that easy, Silas," she says.
She knows my name. I want to scream Victory, but I still don't have any answers.
"Last night, your card was blank. I've never seen that before." She runs her hand across a stack of cards, smoothing them out in a line. "I've heard of it. We've all heard of it happening. But I don't know anyone who has actually seen it." br />
Blank card? I feel like I remember reading that in our notes, but it doesn't help when I no longer have the notes in my possession. And who is she referring to when she says we've all heard of it.
"What does it mean? What can you tell me? How do I find Charlie?" My questions tumble out of my mouth and trip over each other.
"That picture," she says. "Why are you so curious about that house?"
I open my mouth to tell her about the picture in Charlie's room, but I clamp it shut. I don't know if I can trust her. I don't know her. She's the first one to know what's going on with me. That could be an answer, or it could be an indication of guilt. If Charlie and I are under some sort of spell, she's probably one of the few who would know how to do something of that magnitude.
God, this is ridiculous. A spell? Why am I even allowing myself these thoughts?
"I was just curious about the name," I say, lying to her about my inquiry of the house in the picture. "What else can you tell me?"
She continues realigning stacks of cards, never flipping them over. "What I can tell you...the only thing I will tell you...is that you need to remember what it is that someone so desperately wanted you to forget." Her eyes meet mine, and she lifts her chin again. "You may go now. I am of no further help to you."
She scoots away from the table and stands. Her frock bellows out with the swift movement, and the shoes she has on underneath make me question her authenticity. I would assume a gypsy would be barefoot. Or is she a witch? A wizard? Whatever she is, I want desperately to believe that she can help me more than she has. I can tell based on my hesitation that I'm not the type of person to buy into this shit. But my desperation is heavier than my skepticism. If it takes believing in dragons to find Charlie, then I'll be the first to wield a sword in the face of its fire.
"There has to be something," I tell her. "I can't find Charlie. I can't remember anything. I don't even know where to start looking. You have to give me more information than this." I stand, my voice desperate and my eyes even more so.
She simply tilts her head and smiles.
"Silas, the answers to your questions lie with someone who is very close to you." She points to the doorway. "You may go now. You have a lot of searching to do."
Very close to me?
My father? Landon? Who else am I close with besides Charlie? I glance at the beaded curtains and then back at her. She's already walking away, toward a door in the back of the building. I watch her as she leaves.