THAT NIGHT, I had trouble sleeping. Again. Though technically, I was still in the dark about the sleep—or lack thereof—I might have had the night before. The unease of having those missing hours just added to the ever-growing list of problems and mysteries that were currently keeping me up.
Thinking about Dex made me feel prickly hot and guilty, and thinking about Micah just did the same. And I was trying to avoid thinking about Mom all together. I’d sent her a quick text letting her know I was okay, and then didn’t pick up when she tried calling immediately after. I just didn’t know how much I’d be able to tell her over the phone without worrying her more. She’d already left a voice mail that she’d put her sabbatical on hold, booked a flight from Spain to Detroit that left in three days, and was trying to get on an even earlier one.
I knew there was no stopping her, and she was going to learn everything eventually, anyway.
I pushed the old quilt off me, stamping it down to the far end of Cindy’s couch with my feet. Dex had gone straight to his bedroom after coming down from the tree house, and I hadn’t heard a peep from his room since.
When I finally made it through to morning, I felt groggy and heavy. Cindy lightly shook me awake early, telling me it was time to go to Bryan’s and Cassidy’s memorial service. I hadn’t packed anything appropriate for such a horrible occasion, so Cindy let me borrow something of hers, a navy-blue maxidress that billowed up around me every time I moved. It felt weirdly appropriate, since the lack of sleep had put me in a dreamy state that made me feel disconnected and floaty.
Dex pretty much ignored me all morning. I couldn’t get a read on whether he was more confused, angry, or embarrassed about our near kiss and my abrupt departure the day before. His feelings toward Cindy were much clearer, though. It was obvious he still hadn’t forgiven her. The tension in the car was thick as the three of us rode in silence into the heart of town.
The Methodist church was a sturdy, one-story building made of light yellow brick. People were already filing inside; instead of their usual Sunday dresses and short-sleeved, button-down shirts in summer colors, they wore somber outfits that looked too heavy for the time of year.
Cindy, Dex, and I sat silently in a pew near the back of the boxy room, which smelled like thirty-year-old carpet and fresh hydrangeas. The sheriff, in a stiff black suit rather than his uniform, sat iron-backed on a pew near Julie and Reese. Emily Jennings and Kevin Abnair were there with their families, heads down. Hector from the hardware store was passing out pale pink programs with somber nods of his head to everyone who came in.
And Micah was there, white-faced, sitting near the front with a group of football players. My body stiffened when I saw him, and I looked away quickly. My eyes landed on a pair of men standing against the far back wall—the two FBI agents, Rickard and Shanahan. In their dark suits, they should have blended in with the crowd, but if anything, they looked even more incongruous standing there with their blank expressions and identical postures, hands clasped neatly in front of them. The agent on the right wore a bright yellow tie with polka dots, the only thing that distinguished him from his partner.
After the service, Cindy, Dex, and I walked out of the church, blinking furiously in the sunlight. We headed toward the parking lot, but I caught a glimpse of a figure walking alone across the lawn. It was Micah, moving slowly with slumped shoulders. I mumbled to Cindy that I wanted some air and would walk home, and took off after Micah before she could respond.
I caught up to him just as he reached the road.
“Micah,” I said as I slowed, already a little breathless.
When he turned to me I expected him to look angry, but instead he just looked hollowed out.
“Are . . . are you okay?” I stammered.
“Not really,” he said, motioning with his head toward the emptying church. “That was pretty rough. I mean, I knew it would be, but . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” I replied in a small voice.
For a few awkward seconds I had no idea what to say next, even though I’d been the one to chase him down. Now that he was in front of me I realized he probably needed more than an apology right now. My mind searched for the right thing to say, but Micah startled me by talking first.
“You going somewhere right now?”
“Oh, uh . . .” I stammered, looking beyond Micah in the direction he’d been walking. The street would lead us to Main, which would take me back to Cindy’s. “Just home, I guess.”
“I can walk you, if you want,” he said.
I took that as a good sign.
“Yeah. That would be great.” I sucked in a breath. “I’m so sorry, by the way. I know Reese talked to you about the article I was writing, and I should have been up front with you about that all along.”
Micah was silent for a moment. “Well, yeah,” he said finally. “It was kind of weird to hear. For a second there I thought you were really into me.”
“I was! Or, I am. I mean . . .” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I thought of Dex, and how I’d felt around him the night before. Was I still into Micah? Even with all those old-crush feelings buzzing in my stomach, being near him was easy. He was easy. Dex was . . . not. He was always questioning me, always challenging me.
But he was also the one who lived in my head.
Did that mean I liked Micah any less? I wasn’t sure. I was getting less and less sure of everything these days.
“I just . . . I’m so sorry. I know you don’t really have a reason to believe me, but I didn’t just go out with you to ask you questions about your dad . . . I wanted to go out with you and ask questions about your dad.”
Micah raised his eyebrows, and I winced.
“Yeah, that doesn’t make it right. I know. I get it if you don’t want anything to do with me anymore. I just . . . I wanted to apologize.”
Micah paused again, and for a second I thought he wasn’t going to respond at all. But then he gave a small shrug of his shoulders.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” I asked, hopeful.
“Well, it’s not okay. I’m not really sure how I feel about it, you writing an article about my dad. That stuff’s private, you know? But after today, after that service . . . it just feels like there’s bigger stuff going on.”
“Yeah,” I squeaked out. The guilt felt like a vise around my throat. I didn’t feel like I deserved for Micah to let me off the hook so easily. But I wasn’t surprised that he did.
We walked in silence for a few more minutes. Everything we passed—the Sunday-school building, the adjacent playground, a small textiles store—was emptied or closed. It was like the whole town had shut down to go to the service.
When we were nearly halfway to Cindy’s house, Micah cleared his throat. “Any news on your dad yet?”
“Oh, um . . . sort of,” I said, thinking of his voice mail.
Micah looked confused. “Sort of?”
I bit my lip, wondering how much I should share with Micah. But there was no good reason to keep the past couple of days a secret from him. I remembered how he’d gotten scared at the thought that I might get hurt out in the woods, looking for Dad. I was annoyed at the time, but he’d been right. Something did happen to me at the plant. And now he had a right to know that things in Bone Lake were even stranger—and possibly more dangerous—than they seemed.
“There’s kind of . . . some stuff I have to tell you,” I started. Then I launched into the whole story of the past few days, explaining about dad’s email, his voice mail, the sheriff’s suspicions, and my lost time after visiting the plant. I left out the more personal details—my run-ins with Reese and Julie. My call with mom. Dex.
Micah was quiet as he listened to me.
“I know it all sounds kind of . . . unbelievable,” I went on. “And I don’t have a ton of actual proof yet, so I get if you think I’m losing it.”
“I don’t think you’re losing it,” Micah said in a low voice. “But some of the stuff you said . . . it reminded me of my mom. And I’ve been trying to pretend she’s not losing it for years, so . . .”
“What reminds you of your mom?” I asked, confused.
Micah drew in a deep breath. “Well, that room number you talked about in the plant, X10? I’ve heard of it before. From my mom.”
“When?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager.
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I like those.”
Micah’s face finally broke into a small smile, but only for half a moment. “Okay. Well, this is all according to my mom, okay? So who knows how much of it is . . . anyway . . . Apparently, before Dad died, the plant got this new kind of hush-hush contract. All of a sudden, certain parts of the building were closed off to regular employees. They just weren’t allowed in. But I guess Dad went to part of the restricted area anyway. Room X10.”
Room X10. With its single medical table. The scorch marks on the wall.
“What was it?” I asked, unable to help myself.
Micah shrugged. “I don’t know. Mom just told me that Dad came home from work all freaked out one day ’cause he’d been inside X10 and seen something he wasn’t supposed to see. My mom told him to calm down, that he was probably making a big deal out of nothing. She asked him to take the next day off work, but he didn’t. He went back in. And that’s the day he had his accident.”
“The . . . very next day?”
“Yep. That’s what really sent my mom over, I think. It wasn’t just that she lost my dad, it was that she hadn’t believed him and then he was just . . . gone. She started to obsess about what Dad might have seen in that room, thinking there was a conspiracy or something behind his death.” Micah got quiet again. “Every year, she gets a little worse.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I never really did,” Micah said, squinting his eyes a little against the sun. “I mean, I missed my dad. I didn’t understand why he was gone, either. But eventually I accepted that he was dead, and he wasn’t coming back. I think a part of my mom never really did, though. I kind of resented her for that, for living in a fantasy world and letting her obsession take control when she should have been taking care of me. . . .”
Micah trailed off, his cheeks turning red. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“I just . . . I hate talking about it. And people mostly let me get away with not talking about it . . . I mean, so long as I could throw a ball forty yards and always pick up the keg for parties.”
“That really sucks, Micah. I didn’t know. About your mom, I mean. Not until—”
“You saw it for yourself? Yeah, there’s a reason I don’t ask a lot of people over to the house. I never wanted people to see how bad it got, or to think . . . I don’t know, that I could wind up like her. Like my mom. I know that’s shitty—”
“No,” I interrupted. “It’s not.”
Micah cleared his throat, still looking embarrassed. “Anyway, that’s the reason why I didn’t tell you this next part sooner.”
“There’s more?”
“It’s about the agents—the ones who came to my house? Part of why I called you after was because I was so freaked out. Not just that federal agents were asking me questions, but because . . . because my mom recognized them. After my dad died, I remember these two men in black suits coming over to talk to my mom. They said they were with the plant’s insurance company and asked her all these questions, got her really upset. And then they just left. We didn’t see them again.”
Micah paused, slightly biting his lip.
“Then the other day, when those two agents showed up, asking about your dad . . . Mom thought they were the same agents as the insurance ones who came before. She flipped, told them to get out of the house and not come back again. And . . . I kind of believe her.”
I did my best to try to keep my eyebrows from shooting up. I didn’t want Micah to think I doubted his story.
“I know what it sounds like. I was so young when those insurance guys came to the house, but one thing I do remember, so clearly it’s like, burned into my brain, is that one of them had on this bright orange tie—”
“A tie?” I asked, my head already spinning.
“Yeah. And when those FBI agents came to the house a couple of days ago, one of them wore another bright tie, only it was yellow.”
“Hmm.”
“I know, it’s not a very big thing. And it’s not like I could remember the insurance agents’ faces at all. But my mom was so sure. Between her and the tie . . .”
“If you’re right,” I started carefully, “if the men who came to your house are the same ones from all those years ago . . . what does that mean? Why would the people who investigated your dad’s accident come back years later to look into a series of murders in the same town?”
“That,” Micah said, “is a really good question. And it’s been keeping me up nights, you know? Not only are Bryan and Cassidy dead, but they died just like my dad.”
“Wait . . . what do you mean?”
“The accident that killed my dad, it was a fire.”
I thought of the scorch marks I’d seen on the wall in room X10 and shivered.
“I’ve read through all of the newspaper accounts about the accident and the plant shutdown. None of them mention a fire,” I said.
Micah shrugged. “I don’t know why that would be. But I saw my dad’s body before we buried him. It was burned.”
I swallowed hard, my mind racing.
“It’s possible it might be a coincidence,” I hedged. “But . . . if the manner of death is the same, and those are the same agents . . .”
“Then something pretty screwed up is going on.”
“Yeah,” I said. “If only I could get closer to the agents, ask them some questions . . .” My heart raced again as thoughts and plans whirred though my mind. Here, finally, was another lead.
“You’re just going to go up to some federal agents and ask some questions?” Micah asked, one eyebrow raised. “Even for you, that seems pretty bold. I mean, who even knows where they’re staying, for starters—”
“Where they’re staying . . .” I repeated, cutting Micah off. “Micah, you’re a genius.”
“Huh?”
I bit my lip, letting a plan slowly form in my mind. “I’m not quite sure how yet, but if we can figure out where the FBI guys took the info from my dad’s office, we can see what other information they’re hiding. . . .”
Micah’s eyes went wide. “Isn’t that kinda dangerous?”
I smiled. “Not if I don’t get caught.”
“How are you going to manage that?”
“I don’t know yet. I still have to figure it out. And maybe it won’t come to anything, but . . . I have to see for sure.” I felt myself fighting a grin, actually hopeful for the first time since I’d woken up on my porch, missing a full night of memories.
“Man, there’s just no stopping you, is there?” Micah turned to me with an expression on his face that was almost like . . . awe. And he was smiling—a full, big-toothed smile this time—which I took as a good sign. “Do me a favor?” Micah said. “If you do find something out about the agents, let me know? Even if it’s that I’m wrong, and these FBI guys have never been here before and have nothing to do with my dad. Just . . . knowing for sure would help. A lot.”
“Of course,” I said, without hesitating. “And Micah, I’m sorry again. For not being more up front about why I wanted to hear about your dad.”
“Yeah,” Micah said, slowing his pace. We were almost at my house. “If you’d just asked, I probably would have said all that from the start.”
I looked down, feeling ashamed all over again.
“Then again, maybe not. I haven’t always wanted to talk about this stuff. You’re like, the first person I’ve told this to. Ever.”
“I’m flattered. Really,” I said. And I was. “Thanks for trusting me.”
Micah shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. And then he did something kind of unexpected. Just as we reached my house, he reached out and pulled me into a hug. As he gripped me tight I was tense for a few moments, but then relaxed.
“Sorry about before,” Micah said against my ear, surprising me even more. “At my house, when I thought your dad might be . . . you know. A murderer or whatever. I was just all messed up over Bryan and Cassidy, and freaked out about the agents—”
“It’s okay. I get it.”
Micah pulled away gently and looked me straight in the eyes, pulling me back to this moment.
“Let me know what you find?”
“I will. I promise.”
Micah smiled and turned away, walking slowly back down my road. It looked, from my perspective, like his shoulders were maybe a little less slumped than they had been when I’d first caught up to him outside the church.
Then I turned around myself, going past my driveway toward Cindy’s house. I took a few steps before stopping in my tracks.
Dex was sitting on the edge of his porch, his elbows propped up on his knees. For a second I thought his eyes were on me, but then I realized he was watching Micah slowly walk down the street. He looked up at me as I made my way up his front walk, stopping a few feet from him. His long legs stretched away from the porch steps, his too-short suit pants riding up his ankles. He straightened as I got closer, and I could tell he was trying to reorganize his facial expression into something neutral.
“Hey,” I croaked out.
“Hey,” he said. Dex’s cheeks flushed red, his telltale sign for embarrassment. It was almost worse than the tense silence of the morning.
Dex’s eyes wandered again to Micah’s retreating form, and his mouth opened as if he wanted to ask a question. But then it snapped shut again.
“I was just sitting out here,” he stammered. “I wasn’t, like, waiting for you or anything.”
“No, I know. I didn’t think you were.”
“Okay. Glad that’s . . . clear.”
I wondered if it was possible for this conversation to be more excruciating.
“I should probably go help out at the store,” Dex said, rising.
“I thought Cindy closed it for the day?”
“Oh . . . right.”
As Dex struggled for some other excuse to get away from me, I realized that yes, things could get a lot more excruciating.
Ordinarily, I would have launched right into the new possible lead I’d learned from Micah, telling Dex everything, but now . . . now last night hung between us, a giant, awkward ball of tension that there was no pushing past or going around. I didn’t want to talk about it, and I could tell Dex didn’t, either. But I also didn’t want to just walk past him and let our relationship to go back to the occasional polite, somewhat awkward pleasantries we’d exchanged for the past few summers.
And I didn’t want to do this alone. My mind caught on the only possible thing I could say to get us both out of this conversation before things between us became irreparable.
“So . . . want to go stake out the FBI with me?”