MAY
Chris Jenkins is dead.
The media circulated a photo after his initial disappearance that showed mischievous green eyes, a matching checkered button-up, and adorable aqua sandals. His jeans didn’t meet his ankles. I can imagine his mother cooing, “Chrisy-Chris, stop growing up so fast.”
He’s done growing now. Maxed out in less than three thousand days. He probably still believed in Santa Claus. Probably wanted the training wheels off his bicycle. Probably liked grape jelly on both sides of his peanut butter sandwich. Maybe he complained about whole wheat bread.
He died with Aulus’s key chain in his mouth.
I haven’t managed anything except a seated position. I’m curled around the glove box, cheek and nose buried in the dashboard dust. One of Nick’s arms drapes the wheel, the other massages my shaking shoulders. “I’m not driving until you tell me who’s dead.”
“Chris.” The name tastes like horseradish. “Sorry,” I say because I am crying and I’m not sure whether the motivation is grief or relief.
Nick frames out like a jockey who has stopped starving himself—small, not tiny. He crosses the console, scoops me against his chest, and hugs me like an octopus. It’s stunning, really, the amount of arms on this boy.
I’m not sure I can make myself say everything once, much less twice, and Gladys and Tank still need to be told. “Can you drive and let me tell you everything at the WCC?” I ask.
“Thee?” He has no intention of waiting.
I wriggle away and lift my pack from the floorboard into my lap. “Evidence on the body. This.” I hold a twin key chain of the one in the evidence bag. A key chain I’ve been led to believe is two of a kind. “Nick.”
He speaks my thought. “Now we’re sure.”
Aulus was with him.
And if I’m right, trying to get a message to us.
The sun bakes the car. More than one officer has tapped the window and asked us to move. We’re not being defiant. It’s hard to drive knowing what we know. No matter what I do, that tiny body and suitcase returns, and I can’t stop thinking: all the images I’ve conjured of Aulus over the last year—the basement, Welder, endless cans of soup—they’re true.
It’s quite a thing to be right. Quite a terrible thing.
Nick lifts my key chain and stares at it, through it. He fists the silver ring, knuckles reddening as he squeezes. “There’s a good chance we might be those people who know the Thief,” he says, nearly emotionless.
This seems like a leap. Still, there’s a new fear, half dressed and exposed, in his eyes. “You’re tied to this,” he says. “You. Not just Aulus.” And though he speaks with uncertainty, his tone betrays him. His brain is now a Rubik’s Cube spinning in perfect algorithm. The colors are lining up.
After that, we drive.