Chapter Forty-One

Virginia

BRANDON DIDN’T ASK me any more questions about the bag, and he was driving so fast I didn’t dare distract him. He hugged the dark, winding curves on Sanford Hill. We were there in under ten minutes.

Brandon took large strides toward the front door, and I did my best to keep up.

“What’s the plan here?” I asked.

“You distract him. I’ll go to the bathroom and accidentally stumble upon it.”

“It’s in the closet, not much of an accident.”

“Who’s going to say something? You?”

We were moving so fast. On the hunt. It was exhilarating.

Brandon reached the door and extended his hand to knock in one fluid motion. Then he stopped, adjusted his jacket, and composed himself.

JP answered the door without much suspense. “Back so soon?” His attitude was repulsive now that he might have killed her.

What a pathetic ending. Bad guys are supposed to be scary, not prepubescent. I couldn’t even find comfort in the thought of a punishment. He was just a kid, but all bad men were once kids, I guess.

“I apologize,” said Brandon. “There are a few things I forgot to cover. Don’t tell, but I’m kind of new at this. May we come in?”

JP backed up, signaling his permission to enter. He lacked any hosting skills, and we all just stood in the middle of the living room.

“Do you mind if I use the bathroom?” asked Brandon.

“Whatever.” JP nodded toward the back of the house.

Shit, this was my moment. What was I supposed to do? Was I standing with a murderer? I stared at my feet until Brandon was out of sight and JP was over the quiet game.

“What’s up?” he asked. “What’s he want to know?”

“I don’t know. Something about the timeline, trying to figure out the last time everyone saw Jenny.”

“I already told you that.”

“I don’t know. I’m not the detective.”

I heard Brandon walking back. JP seemed calm, and a part of me felt bad. His whole life was about to come crashing down. Brandon rounded the corner, a gloved hand holding up the backpack.

JP’s eyes blew up. “Where’d you get that?”

“You know where I got this,” said Brandon.

“It’s not mine.” He took a couple steps backward.

“Don’t do it, kid.”

Brandon’s words fueled the opposite reaction, and JP turned around, breaking into a sprint, throwing the sliding glass door open like it wasn’t even there. Brandon dropped the backpack on the floor and took off after him.

It was just me and the bag. Alone at last. It stared at me, begging me to look inside.

THROUGH THE GLASS DOOR, I saw Brandon tackle JP to the ground. The kid stood no chance. I pulled off my scarf and wrapped it around both of my hands, connecting them like polyester handcuffs. Who knows what forensic tests the backpack was going to go through, and I didn’t need my fingerprints all over it.

I unzipped the main compartment using my hand in an awkward pinching motion to keep the scarf from falling off. It was stuffed to the brim with clothes. I did my best to dig through it given my constraints. There were just clothes, a hairbrush, a toothbrush.

I twisted my head back to glance out the door. Brandon pulled JP to his feet and turned him back toward the house. I shoved the clothes back inside the bag and pinched the zipper closed. I went for the front pocket next. The zipper was horizontal and easier to open. I reached my scarf paw inside and felt something.

The object was thin and firm. I pinched it and slid it out enough to get a look at it. It was a passport. A bag full of clothes and a passport. I didn’t even have to be a junior detective to know this meant she was running away. Where were all the answers? I just had more questions. Why was she running? Because of Linda? Was that JP’s motive? Was it just a coincidence? What if Linda found out? Or our father? Was there someone she was going to see? Gil maybe? What if she and Gil were running away to some deplorable country where you can have child brides?

I pulled the passport out into my hands. I hesitated a moment. I wanted to see her face. I missed her face, the real face, not a glamour shot or a crime scene photo. But would it hurt to see? I couldn’t afford to be sad now. We were so close to ending it all. Cops would swarm the house. JP would break under interrogation. The news vans would multiply for a week then leave forever. My father would send Linda to some fancy rehab—the longer, the better. Maybe he would come out. Maybe he would become Vermont Dad.

I palmed the passport until I caught my fingers under the front flap. I flipped it open and then I saw it: my own indignant teenage face. It was my passport. My passport that I kept in a drawer with the only things I didn’t want to lose. Mark’s notes were in that drawer.