JUNE
Gunmetal-gray haze crests the horizon on June 2nd as if it’s any other day. Dad turned himself over to federal custody an hour ago. I’m lying across the hood of Nick’s car, the engine warming my skin, while Nick paces my driveway and pumps his sister for current information. We should sleep; we’re too tired.
“Right . . . I see . . . Yes, that’s a complication . . . I’ll tell her . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . I’ll crash here. Constance is inside we think . . . Okay . . . I will . . . Yes, I promise. You too . . . Bye.”
“What’s a complication?”
“Warren’s in the clear.”
“Why?”
“Alibied out.”
“What?”
“Also, they searched the area for Tank. Nothing.”
I can’t let Warren’s presumed innocence go. “How did he alibi out?”
“All the other Junes.”
I’m indignant. “And you believe that?”
He gives me a You believe Dana too look. “Hold up, Sherlock. You have a rogue memory that matches a traumatized five-year-old’s Crayola drawing. That train’s not one of a kind.”
For the second time, I’ve gambled my father’s freedom on Dana and she’s failed me. “Warren stays on the suspect list. You were gung-ho Joe about—”
“You either trust my sister or you don’t.”
He doesn’t speak to me like this, ever. He knows it, I know it, and he catches himself and sighs. He scoots close and lies back on the hood, close enough that when I roll toward him I see the line of sweat in the curls at the nape of his neck.
“You know I didn’t mean that . . . Well, what I’m saying is . . . if your dad didn’t do this—and I agree that he didn’t—but it doesn’t mean Warren did.”
“Let’s find a way to cross Warren off the list.” I think for a minute. “Let’s search for the train in his attic.”
Two squirrels chase each other up an oak. Their little claws grab the bark as they skitter around. Nick stretches in the pause; his dress pants sag on his hips and his shirt creeps up his stomach, exposing a thin line of his tan belly. He’s handsome in a disheveled, brooding way, and that’s a far better thought than my anger.
He watches me.
The moment is jumper cables and engine sparks, energy where there had been nothingness. Though it’s out of place, I smile. A single smile resets us. Every curl on his head is matted in wild paisley-like patterns and he wedges his fingers through the brown thicket around his temples. He’s either going to kiss me or cave.
He says, “No. Absolutely not. Too dangerous—”
“Track this out with me. Dana says Warren is safe. We trust Dana. Why would you worry about me checking for a train that’s likely right where I left it years ago?”
He raises his hand E.T. style. We press our fingertips together, leaving space between our palms. He whispers, “You didn’t let me finish. Emotionally dangerous.”
“Oh, please.”
The pressure in his fingertips mounts, pulses. “You signed guardianship papers yesterday. Let’s assume for a second Warren’s exactly who he looks like to the rest of the world. Kind Warren Burton. Officer Warren Burton. Upright Warren Burton. You’re inviting tension with the one person you’re going to need if we can’t get your dad out of jail.”
“You going somewhere?”
“You know I’m not.”
No, I don’t. The universe steals all my favorite people.
He tilts toward me, strokes my hand, then my face. “Hey. Let’s hash this out tomorrow when we’re both more sensible.”
Exhaustion swallows me. I don’t have any more to give, and emotions are pouring out, magnetizing toward the only target in close proximity.
Later, as I lie in bed, a million things to tell him come to mind. Thank you for always being here. Even in the terrible times. Even at five in the morning after my dad’s second arrest. I love you.
After three hours of restlessness, I take my tired heart to Griff and Ruby’s. When I arrive in my godparents’ drive, Griff is in the yard, dragging limbs to a blazing fire barrel. A column of gray stretches high above the boundary pines. Quickening his step, Griff crosses the driveway and pulls me into a hug made of peat and smoke. He’s wearing yesterday’s clothes, which are far too dressy for the work he’s doing.
“Tank—” I can’t say his name without crying.
His mouth twists; his eyes find the asphalt. “I know.”
My heart thumps. “Dad—”
“Warren called.” Griff removes his cell from its belt clip and begins typing. “Actually, I’ll let him know you’re here. He was worried about you. We all were. Ruby was . . .” His eyes roll up in his head and I know what he’s saying: Ruby was ballistic.
“Sorry.”
“She drove around looking for you.”
“She okay?”
“I don’t think so, kiddo.” He exhales. In that single exhale are hours and days of sleeplessness. His dirty hands and smoky clothes hold me close.
“Sorry,” I say again. “I didn’t mean to scare you guys.”
The apology is weak. I want to ask how he has energy to pick up limbs and preen his yard after the night we’ve all had, but this is the shape of his exhaustion. Work. Work. Work. Bridle chaos with Midas effort.
“How much longer before you sleep?” I ask.
He shrugs.
“You?”
“That’s why I’m here,” I admit.
The house is night quiet. Day brightens the halls as I tiptoe past the bathroom and open the guest room door. Ruby is draped across the navy coverlet on the bed. She also wears yesterday’s clothes and her hair is disheveled by restlessness. I linger in the doorway, tears welling in my eyes. She’s asleep in this bed, my bed, because of me. For an instant, I long to be small enough to be lifted and held, the way Griff does with the kids at the WCC. The way I used to do when I was babysitting Tank’s little cousin. Maybe Griff’s wishing the same thing. Whatever’s on his mind, he doesn’t share. He gazes at his wife and then whispers to me, “Thee, honey, crash in our bed. I’ll take the couch after I douse the fire barrel.”
There are dreams of trains and jail cells and bunkers.
Of Tank, Aulus, and Nick.
Of duct tape and cinched ropes.
Before the alarm screams, a ghostly hand brushes Last One across my stomach in red paint.
I lie still for a long time, listening as Ruby futzes in the kitchen, searching for the energy to shower or fix myself a sandwich. Do I confront Uncle Warren? Do I beg Dana to share evidence? Do I sneak into the farmhouse and check the attic? Working the scenario gives me a massive headache.
I haven’t eaten in hours. If only this were a normal summer day. Gladys, Tank, Aulus, and I would burn canned biscuits in the WCC kitchen, or if we had money, hit Waffle House for pancakes. Gladys is probably in bed too, drowning her room in the music her mother hates, picturing life without Tank. I know how dangerously far a what-if imagination travels when seized by worst-case scenario fears.
Not knowing feels like you’re being digested. There are even days when I long for someone to call and tell me they’ve found Aulus’s body, just to be released from hoping.
The day after the police found Aulus’s car, I willed him to call. This is all a huge mistake, he’d say. Months passed before I adjusted to his absence. Phantom barbells clanked in the garage for weeks. How many tickets? Four. No, three. Table or booth? Will someone else be joining you? Yes. No.
What are Gladys and I now? A table for two?
The injustice forces me upright. I borrow a sheet of paper from a bedside notebook and write:
The Case Against Warren Burton
- Owns/owned same glow-in-the-dark train Corey described.
- He’s in the welding photo.
- He was in proximity to the castle during the window Tank disappeared.
- The t in Last One matches his handwriting.
- He has the cop know-how to pull off a crime of this magnitude.
- He fits the profile: single, white, male, under forty, who either feels powerless or has put himself in a career that accesses power and encourages trust with minors.
- He knows Dad well enough to frame him. Including knowledge of Dad’s travel plans to Baxter and access to a castle key chain.
Solution: Search for the train.