But he smacks the door with his hand. “Awwww, now you’re driving around in some fancy car and actin’ like you don’t know me. I see what happened. And here I was, I was being a kind, good-hearted person, I said: Shorty Do! You gotta help her! You know she always needs someone to buy it for her!”
You watch him through the window. He gestures with his hands, occasionally slapping his leg for emphasis. Does he actually know you?
“What do you mean? Buy what?”
The man leans in and winks. “Yeah, ‘what’ is right. I won’t tell.”
“I was being serious. . . .”
“You still like the big bottle of Wild Turkey, eh? I’ll get it for you, but then you gotta give me a little of it. I don’t need to take much today, just a little.”
You roll down the window, wondering if it’s possible he does recognize you. “So we know each other, then? From when?”
“You’re messing with me?”
“No, I’m not . . . I just don’t remember. I can’t remember a lot of things now. Something happened.”
The man glances inside the store, turns back to you. “You look kind of different . . . but I knew it was you. I haven’t seen you in, I don’t know, a year? Who’s that boy?”
“What’s my name?”
“How would I know? You used to come up to me, asking me to help you, and then one day I didn’t see you. I never saw you till now.”
“Was I with anyone?”
He puts his hands in his filthy jeans, pushing them deeper into his pockets. Then he nods into the car, at the center console. There’s five bucks sitting in an old coffee cup. “Help me out?”
You can see Ben inside the store, the back of his head just visible over the candy aisle. You pluck it from the cup and pass it to him. “Was I with anyone?”
“Some kid. Little younger than you.”
Your lungs feel tight. You look down at the notebook, at the description of your brother. “What did he look like? What was his name?”
“He looked kind of like you, black hair, pretty brown eyes. I don’t know. . . .”
You write everything he says, trying to ignore that he’s called you pretty. “What else? How many times did I ask you to do that? Do you know where I lived?”
He laughs, backing away from the car window. He’s watching the road behind you, the passing traffic. He checks the corners of the building, for what, you’re not sure. Something must’ve scared him.
You turn around, noticing the security guard on the other side of the parking lot. The guard yells something you can’t quite make out. He gestures with his hand for the guy to leave you alone.
“I only saw you two or three times,” the man says as he starts away. “That’s all I know.”
As he cuts across the lot Ben comes out of the store carrying two bags. He watches the man approaching a woman on the curb, then looks back at you. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“That guy . . . he thinks he knows me,” you say. “He said I used to come here asking him to buy me alcohol. He saw me over a year ago. He said I was with a younger boy. I think it was my little brother.”
Ben slides into the car. Together you sit and watch the man. He’s waving his arms as he speaks, his hair falling into his face. He yells something at the woman that you can’t hear. She has a metal cart filled with old blankets.
“What else did he say?”
“That’s all. I tried to ask him more but he looked at me like I was crazy.”
Ben stares out the window. “Let me get this straight . . . he looked at you like you were crazy?”
You turn, seeing what he sees. The man has pulled his shirt up, his belly sticking out, a thick strip of underwear showing in the back. He smacks his ribs a few times and yells something that sounds like “Jell-O jigglers!”
“I see your point.”
Ben grabs your hand and squeezes. “So it was real, then, just like you said. You have a brother; you lived here. What that cop said was right.”
“Yeah . . . but where? When?”
You look down at the notebook, writing a description of the man, and the exact address of the convenience store in case you need to find him again. It’s hard to know if you believe him, but the pieces fit together. You lived here. You have a little brother. You wonder where he is now, if he’s looking for you.
As Ben pulls out of the parking lot you watch the man, raising your hand in good-bye.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
IT’S ALMOST TEN o’clock when Ben comes back to the motel room. You’re sitting on the balcony overlooking the pool, the dinner of packaged sandwiches and pita chips spread out on the table. You’ve poured the bottle of Coke into two of the motel glasses.
He looks at the two queen beds beside each other, his lips curling into a smile. “Good thing we got the two beds. I was worried you were going to try to take advantage of me.”
“You’ve foiled my plans,” you laugh. “What did the front-desk guy say? Did he know anything?”
Ben sits down across from you, takes a swig of the soda. “He said that bridal store closed five years ago at least. It must have been an old ad that we saw.”
“So there’s no way to find the house, then,” you say. “The billboard doesn’t even exist.”
“Not anymore . . .”
“So I probably have a younger brother. . . . So I might’ve bought alcohol from that guy. Where does that leave me?”
You don’t look at Ben as you speak, instead staring out over the tiny kidney-shaped pool. Most of the lounge chairs are broken. One of the outside walls has been patched with duct tape. The hallways smell of cigarette smoke; the carpets are dirty. It feels like there’s less possibility in it now—this town, this place.
“Maybe more memories will come back. Maybe it’s just a matter of time.”
“Maybe . . .” you say, but it’s hard not to feel discouraged. You saw the house so clearly; it was so vivid. How could you be so close and have no way to find out where it is? How many streets had you driven down tonight, looking for it, just hoping to recognize something? Is your brother still somewhere, searching for you, waiting for you to come back?
“You had to come here,” Ben adds. “If you didn’t, you would’ve always wondered.”
“So this is all I get? Some passing memory, a nickname that can’t be traced? What if this is all I ever get?”
“Maybe that’s not so bad. . . .”
“What do you mean?”
Ben rests his chin in his hands. He opens his mouth, but for a moment he just looks at you, as if he’s puzzling out what to say. “I don’t know,” he starts. “It’s just . . . there are things that I’ve wanted to forget before. Shitty things, things that it would be easier if I didn’t have to think about. And there are people I’ve wanted to forget. Maybe whatever happened before, however bad things were—maybe this is your chance.”
“My chance to be someone else?”
“Yeah,” he says. “To be who you want to be.”
You think of the lists from the notebook. Every time you return to the things you know about yourself, they seem to lead only one place: You were a runaway. You were in and out of juvenile hall. You know how to do bad things, how to hurt people. The boy, the one from the dreams, is the only person who seems to have cared about you, and you’re not even certain he’s real.
“Your chance for a fresh start.” Ben looks down when he says it, his voice quieter than before. “I guess that’s kind of what you’ve been for me. Everything feels different now, new. I mean, after my dad died and everything happened with my mom, I sort of felt trapped, stuck. It was like nothing mattered, nothing I could do would change anything, you know? But now . . . meeting you . . . seeing the way you’ve handled everything . . . I feel better. Like maybe I don’t have to sit around accept
ing what’s happened. Maybe I can make things the way I want, be the person I want to be.”
You meet his eyes and you both smile. Your cheeks feel hot. Before you can think or question, you stand, stepping toward him, closing the space between you, your knees just inches from his. You grab his hand, your fingers folding into his. “Are you saying you like me, Ben?”
He lets his head fall back, looking up at you, and there is that smile again—bright, blinding. “I guess, yeah. I do.”
He stands, moving toward you, and within a few steps you are against the wall. You let his hand wander to the back of your head. It traces along your jaw, his fingers brushing your chin. His other hand is still holding on to yours. He tightens his grip as he leans down, his mouth against your mouth, pushing your head back.
Everywhere you go he is there. He is holding you against him, his lips moving to your cheeks, touching down on your eyelids, working their way over your cheeks. He pauses, pulling your shirt back to kiss your shoulder, just once.
You let your fingers sweep up his back, skimming under his shirt, where his skin is soft and smooth. He moves both hands to your hips, picking you up in one swift motion. He turns around, spinning you inside the cool motel room, setting you down on one of the queen beds.
You lie back, watching him as he peels off his shirt. He’s tall and thin, all ropy muscle, his skin still tan and freckled from the summer. He sets a hand on either side of your head, lowering himself on top of you, kissing you again.
“I thought you wanted your own bed,” you say.
He laughs, his breath in your hair. When your eyes meet his you can see every fleck of blue and gray in the irises. “I changed my mind.”
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you. . . .”
He reaches down around your waist, tugging your shirt up and over your head, urging off your sports bra, his fingers reaching to the waist of your pants. “I think I’ll be okay,” he says.
You keep whispering to him, questioning it . . . “Are you okay?” . . . “What about now?” . . . as his mouth moves to your ear. One hand is on your ribs, sliding up, kneading your breast.
“I’m okay, I’m more than okay . . .” he repeats. Then he smiles, burying his face in your neck.
You’re half asleep, comforted by the feeling of Ben tracing a line across your shoulder blades, his finger running down your spine, over each vertebrae, circling one, then the next. You pull the blankets to you. Your eyes are closed. You listen to the rhythm of his breaths, how they slow then change, pausing as if he wants to say something.
“We could go somewhere,” he finally says, his voice barely a whisper. “It might be better for you out of the city.”
“What do you mean?”
“We could start over. Whatever we’ve done . . . whoever we were . . . or weren’t . . . it won’t matter.”
“Fresh start?” You turn over, staring up at the ceiling. He’s watching the side of your face, waiting. He smiles.
“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe for a while. It’ll be safer.”
You look at him, feeling for his hand under the covers, pulling it up beside your heart. You move closer, letting your forehead rest against his chest. His breath comforts you as you close your eyes. “A fresh start . . .”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
YOUR BACK IS on the ground. You can feel the rocks and sticks beneath you, one branch jutting into your shoulder, the pain sharp. The man is above you. His chin is cut and the wound spills blood all over his neck. For the first time you see his eyes, small and pale blue, squeezing shut as he lays his hands down on your neck.
Your throat closes off. His fingers dig into your skin and you are holding his wrists but it’s no use. You scratch and pull but he keeps pressing down. Every muscle in his arms is visible. The veins rise up beneath his skin. One knee is on either side of your hip. As he pins you against the earth, the blood drips from his chin onto your forehead.
Your eyes close. All the air in your lungs is gone. Your body is empty, a tight, squirming feeling taking over as you open your lips, trying to get just one breath. You feel yourself giving in, your grip weakening.
Suddenly his hands are off you and you are gasping, taking in as much air as you can. Your face is covered in blood. When you look up you see the boy behind him. He holds a thick branch, sharpened at one end, the bark stained black. The man is slumped on top of your legs. The back of his head is bleeding and you can feel the warmth of it soaking through your clothes.
You push back, freeing yourself from underneath him. When you stand you realize your ankle is swollen and twisted. The boy presses his shoulder under your arm and starts to run, carrying you with him. He keeps looking back into the forest.
“We have to go,” he says. “They’re coming.”
You turn, looking where he looks, when you hear the first gunshot.
2:23 A.M. Your heart is alive in your chest, your skin slippery with sweat. The streetlamp outside the motel filters in through the venetian blinds. Ben is sleeping beside you, his arm still outstretched, his fingers open, searching for yours. You ease yourself off the bed, careful not to wake him.
The man was there, on the island. You knew him from before. When you close your eyes again you can still feel it, the rising panic as he choked you, how the air was trapped in your chest. You can still see the crooked scar that slices down his chin. He has hunted you before.
You pull the notepad from the canvas duffel on the floor. Holding him in your mind, with the dream still so fresh, is enough to tell you what you need to know. You fold back a page and write:
- The man with the gun tried to kill you before
- He hunted you in the forest (the island?)
- The boy was there with you. He saved you from the hunter.
You sit back, staring at the page, taking in all that it implies. You have been hunted by this man before. The three of you existed somewhere else before this. The three of you . . . which means the boy is real. Where is he now? Is he still alive?
You copy down the detail about the hunter’s scar, the strange angle it cut across his chin. He’s still in Los Angeles, waiting for you to return, waiting for another chance.
You can go somewhere with Ben, but you will always be wondering if he’ll find you there. Whoever he is, wherever he is, there is no safety if he’s alive. You have to find him.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE NEIGHBORHOOD COMES into view ahead. You recognize a few houses on the corner, thick bougainvillea covering the facade, another with a stained-glass window in the front. As Ben drove, the freeway signs counting down the miles to Los Angeles, you kept slipping into silence, everything coming back to you. The woman who followed you. The garage where you found Ivan’s body. The man with the gun.
As Ben turns into the driveway his iPhone rings, the screen in the center console flashing Mom. “Shit, I have to get this. . . .”
He parks, grabs the phone, and steps out of the car, cutting across to the front yard. “Hi, I know, I’m sorry,” he immediately says, his voice getting farther away.
You pull the bag from the backseat and circle around the back of the house, knowing you have to find Celia Alvarez again, to talk to her. There hasn’t been any news about that building or Ivan’s body being found, still no information on the woman who was shot beneath the freeway. You need to know what she knows, what she’s found.
There’s a chance Ivan has already been replaced, that there is someone else tracking you now, following your movements. How else could the hunter have found you when you were out with Izzy? But there’s nothing on you—you’ve checked every pocket of your pants, t
he hems of T-shirts, the pages of the notepad.
You find the spare key, and as soon as you’re inside the house you go to Ben’s computer, pulling up a map. You’re jotting down the directions on a paper napkin when Ben finally comes downstairs. “What is this, 1995? We need to get you a smartphone,” he laughs.
“Is everything okay? What did she say?”
“I have to go visit today. She left a bunch of messages while we were in Cabazon and I guess she’s kind of freaking out. Some teacher called and told her how much school I’ve missed. I just have to go there and show her everything’s fine. I’ll be back as soon as I can—just a few hours.”
“It’s all right. I want to go see that police officer today. She must’ve turned up something by now.”
“You really have to?” Ben asks.
“I can’t just sit around waiting for him to come back.”
“Promise me you’ll be safe.”
“I’m always safe . . . as I can be. . . .”
Ben pulls you to him. When he says it he doesn’t look at you, instead whispering the words into your neck. “When I get back . . . maybe we could just go.”
You turn you head, meeting his eyes. Last night you’d assumed it was just something he was saying, some dream you’d talk about and never actually go through with.
“Ben . . . you were serious? You can’t just leave your life.”
“What life? What do I have here?”
“School. Friends.”
Ben grabs a prescription-pill bottle from the coffee table, holding it up. “Friends? I have people who buy pot from me. Sometimes they come over and watch the Dodgers game and smoke up. Sometimes I sell them some of my mom’s old pills.”
“Ben . . .”
He wraps his arms around your shoulders, resting his chin on your head, kissing the top of it. It’s so sweet and simple it makes you want to cry.