THE SKETCHBOOK is still in my bag when I leave. I am certain that the cops didn’t have the chance to see it, otherwise it wouldn’t have been put back into its hiding place. Part of me feels like I should take it straight to Parnatsky, but she’s been so discouraging every time we’ve talked. I can’t hand this over when it might actually be something, and have her dismiss me yet again.
At home, I pull the book from my bag but realize that I can’t face opening it. Not now. Not by myself.
I text Quill. Are you awake?
He responds right away.
Always awake for you.
I need to see you. I found something.
Now? What is it?
Morning. I’ll show you then. Can I pick you up first thing? 8 o’clock?
That’s early. You can help me wipe the sleep out of my eyes. ;)
I lie in bed, awake, for hours, staring at the ceiling. My thoughts go back and forth.
Quill and Connor. Quill and Connor. Quill and Connor.
I don’t know which one of them is still on my mind when I finally fall asleep.
“What’s the plan?” Quill asks, as he slides into the front seat the next morning. It’s raining, and the sky is gray. It feels more like November than the middle of summer—the early signs of Hurricane Selena.
I hand him one of the coffees I picked up, and he groans gratefully as he sips.
“Can we get the hell out of here for a while?” I ask.
“That sounds ideal,” he says, with a wide grin.
When we leave Brookfield Estates, I turn in the opposite direction of town. I want to get as far away from Camera Cove as possible. I finally pull into an empty parking lot near a remote beach and park. Then I reach into the back seat and pull the sketchbook out of my bag.
The book is full of sketches of people from town. I see Libby, Mr. Anderson, our teachers. Even Cubby French makes an appearance. Several pages have been devoted to our group: Carrie and Ben and Doris and, off slightly to the side, me. Smaller sketches of our faces, done over and over again—laughing, serious, surprised—fill all the empty space.
I turn the page and take in a small, shuddering breath when I recognize my own house, or the upper half of it anyway. My bedroom window is the focus, and there’s a sketch of me sitting at my desk, working at something. Incredulously, I flip through page after page of sketches of me. In the yard with Hobo, standing astride my bike, staring into space…
I guess Connor noticed me after all.
“You sure he wasn’t gay?” asks Quill, mischievously.
“I know he wasn’t,” I say. He doesn’t look convinced, but I ignore him.
A few pages later, I stop. I recognize the library right away; the stacks, the shelving cart, the many people who frequent it. Libby, kids in the children’s section, old ladies checking out magazines. And clearly drawn together, at a table in the corner, as if watched secretly from a distance, Maria Brindle and George Smith, leaning toward each other, deep in conversation. His hand resting on top of hers.
“Whoa,” says Quill.
I don’t say anything. Part one of my suspicions has been confirmed. I turn the page and register a sharp intake of breath from Quill.
It’s a full-page drawing of a beautiful girl, her head tilted backward and her mouth slightly open, the edges of her lips curled upward, as if she’s just finished laughing. Her eyes sparkle, and a stray lock of hair cuts across her forehead like a punctuation mark.
“So I guess this proves it,” Quill says, reaching out with a finger to stroke the page. “Joey and Connor were together, and somebody was watching them.”
“The killer could have used the opportunity that they were couples to his advantage,” I say. “How hard would it have been? Someone gives Joey a fake note from Connor, telling her to meet him at the tree, and that’s the end of that.”
He leans back into his seat. “That’s messed up.”
“Yes,” I agree. “It’s totally messed up.”
He grabs the book, suddenly determined.
“There’s got to be a picture of the killer in here,” he says.
We flip through the book, but nothing stands out. No odd characters; no suspicious figures in the background. I slam the book shut, frustrated, angry that I’ve come this close, but still there’s no clue leading me to the answer.
“Hey,” says Quill, recognizing my frustration. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” I say. Tears burn my eyes, and I turn away from him, gritting my teeth. “Everything I’ve been through, trying to figure this out. If only I hadn’t been so stupid, hadn’t missed his note for a whole fucking year, maybe we’d be closer to the truth.”
Quill’s hand reaches out, and he brushes a tear away from my face. “Even if we don’t learn anything else,” he says. “I’m happy to know that Joey was with someone she really liked. Someone like Connor, who meant so much to you and to so many other people. And if you hadn’t started looking into this the way you did, I wouldn’t have met someone who makes me feel the same way.”
I turn back to him and our eyes lock, and then we’re reaching for each other.
Quill’s body is like a treasure to be unburied—a hint of ribs pushing against the smooth, taut skin of his abdomen, a soft trail of spine leading my hand up his back to his neck.
I used to look at Connor this way; I know I did. Maybe he knew it. Maybe that was okay to him. I think, probably, it was. But I could only look at Connor, and the closest he would come to touching me was a light punch in the arm, a high five, or his eyes scanning me while he sketched me in one of his books. Connor saw me the way he saw everyone else, trying to catch on paper the way my body moved or the curves and angles of my face. Maybe the way he looked at me was the spark that lit something inside me—a fire that was never able to find fuel.
I know now that being looked at isn’t enough. I want to be touched, the way Quill is touching me. I want someone to want me to touch them back.
Afterward, we sit in the car, listening to the heavy drum of the rain on the roof, watching whitecaps roll in and out, clawing at sand and rocks and tossing pieces of driftwood about.
It has been nice to forget about everything for a while.
Quill squeezes my arm, and I lean over to rest my head against his shoulder, absentmindedly staring down along the curve of his arm, toward his long fingers. All the smooth pieces of him clicking into place, a perfect machine.
He kisses me on the head. “I’m starving,” he says. “You want to grab something to eat?”
We find a small lobster shack on the side of the road. We’re the only people in the place. I’m ravenous, and the two of us plow through our food in comfortable silence.
“Man,” says Quill. “It’s so good to eat something that didn’t come out of a frozen package from the grocery store. I miss a lot of things about Joey, but her cooking is high up on the list.”
Somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain, a switch is flipped.
“What is it?” asks Quill, noticing my change.
“Oh,” I say, faking exasperation, “I just completely forgot that my grandparents are coming to stay with us for the weekend, and my mom is freaking out. She needs me to buy groceries. I’m sorry, but I really have to get home.”
“Bummer,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll make it up to you.”
He laughs and reaches out to stroke my face with the back of his hand. “You don’t need to make up for anything,” he says.
I smile, but the truth is I barely notice him touching me. My mind is somewhere else. Somewhere I need to go on my own.