In my bed, I lie with the covers pulled high looking up at the ceiling. Although I’ve been trying for hours, I can’t sleep. The room feels cold, much colder than usual—as if the thermostat is set around fifty degrees.
I flip over. It’s just after two o’clock in the morning. I’m so tired my hands tingle, but I can’t sleep, not when Emily’s missing. I wonder if the police have Jeremy in custody. If they’ve found Emily. Another chill goes through me, and I tuck the quilt more tightly around my shoulders.
I’m thinking of getting up and putting on a pair of sweats when my door creaks and Emily walks into the room.
In the moonlight, her hair looks disheveled. Half her face is in shadow, but as she nears, I see it’s not the lack of light, but dust coating her left cheekbone.
“Oh my God! Emily!” I sit up straight. “You’re okay!”
“Paige!” She hurries to the edge of my bed. Her long pale hair falls forward as she leans over me. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”
“Where were you?” I study every inch of her. She’s very pale, and there are small chunks of something plaster-like dangling in the strands of her hair.
“I got lost,” she states, a little sadly. “I’ve been walking for a while.” She looks down at her feet. “I lost my sneakers. Isn’t that funny, Paige? They disappeared when I was sleeping. I just woke up, and they were gone. Have you seen them?”
The question is odd, but I’m so happy to see her I don’t care. “No.”
Her shoulders sag. “Oh.”
“They’re not important,” I assure her. “What matters is that you’re back and you’re okay. What happened to you?”
Her face wrinkles. “I don’t know.” Her eyes move to the top left corner of their sockets, as if she’s thinking really hard. After a moment, she shakes her head. “I can’t remember.”
“Were you in a car accident?”
“I don’t think so.” She feels the back of her head with her hands and then grimaces. “God, my head hurts.”
Throwing my covers off, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Emily stands very still as I throw my arms around her. “Stop trying to remember. It doesn’t matter what happened. I’m just so happy to see you.”
She smells strongly of roses, as if she has doused herself in perfume. It’s so unlike her that it takes my mind a second to register that her body is stone-cold in my arms and her skin feels hard and smooth as polished marble.
Stunned, I pull back far enough to look into her face. Only instead of Emily, she morphs into my mother, who leans over me, the strap of her silk nightgown slipping from her pale shoulder, her eyes black and angry.
“You didn’t see him, Paige,” she says. “You were dreaming.”
My alarm goes off, and I jolt upright. Heart pounding, I fumble for the off button and switch on the lamp. The room is empty, and it’s 2:13 in the morning. I pick up the clock to reset the alarm and discover it’s already set for six—my usual time. So why did it go off? The dream was about Emily. So why then did my mother say, you didn’t see him?
What was a dream—and what wasn’t?
Emily’s face is on the television when I walk into the kitchen. My father and I sit at the butcher-block table and stare at the small flat-screen television on the counter. It’s the photo I gave the police, the one I took at Whale Rock. Emily’s pale hair looks more silver than blonde against the back drop of the blue sky, and she wears a wide, confident smile.
In a flat, detached voice, the reporter summarizes her disappearance, the Amber Alert, the search underway at the park. Viewers are given a number to call if they have information, and then it’s over. The next story starts and it’s like Emily never was.
I glance at my father, stroking his unshaven face, the circles under his eyes dark as bruises. He catches me looking at him, gets up, and dumps his uneaten cereal in the sink.
“We need to talk,” he says, rinsing the bowl.
I eat a bite of Honey Nut Cheerios. They’re mushy and flavorless, and they stick in my throat like dread. Maybe he knows something more than the report on the television. “Did they arrest Jeremy?”
He shakes his head and pours himself a cup of coffee. “No. Look—I didn’t want to talk about it last night, but why didn’t you tell me what happened with you and Jeremy?” He leans back against the sink. “Did you think I wouldn’t believe you?”
Even soggy Cheerios float. I push them down with my spoon and they pop right back up like things you don’t want to think about.
“Paige,” he tries again. “I’m on your side.”
Maybe that was true a long time ago, but I’m not the same little girl who idealized him. And he’s not the father who read me petroglyphs or fixed my Barbies, knowing I would only pull them apart again, excavate them, and then pretend I was an archeologist, just like him, and try to piece them together.
“Damn it, Paige. Why won’t you talk to me? I’m your father.”
I drown more Cheerios. The answer is so clear it doesn’t need to be spoken. Being my father doesn’t mean he has the right to know what I’m thinking or that he can make me explain myself to him.
“Paige,” he prompts.
I look up. “Why did you walk out on me and Mom?”
My father doesn’t answer. The goose bumps rise on my arms. Why is it so cold in here? It reminds me of the cold in my room, of my nightmare of Emily walking in, her long hair tangled and matted and her face half-coated in fine, white dust.
“I didn’t walk out on you,” my father says. “Your mother and I divorced.”
“I know, but why?”
He shakes his head. “We’ve talked about this. People grow apart. It wasn’t right for a long time. You know that, Paige.” He rubs the empty place on his fourth finger. I wonder if he even knows what he’s doing.
“You flushed it down the toilet,” I say, and he looks up, startled. “Your wedding band. Don’t you remember?”
The color rises in my father’s face, and his hands drop. “Yes,” he says evenly. “I remember. I shouldn’t have done that, but it’s in the past.” His mouth tightens. “I know you’re still angry at me for what happened, and I don’t blame you. I’ve never been good about telling you that I love you, but I do.”
I drop my spoon with a clang onto the table. “Were you having an affair, Dad? Is that why you left Mom and me?”
My dad’s head jerks back as if I’ve hit him. “What?”
“Were you having an affair with a student at Rutgers?” I make myself look him in the eye, but inside I’m a mess, just one step away from losing it. Maybe this is why I can finally ask that question.
He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “Why would you even think that?”
He hasn’t denied it, and a sick feeling spreads in me. “I heard you and Mom arguing in your bedroom. She said something about all those little girls hanging out in your office, that she knew about them and she wasn’t stupid.”
My father considers my words for a long time and then he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I never had an inappropriate relationship with any of my students.”
Part of me wants to believe him, but another part of me feels like he isn’t telling the full truth. I clench my fists. Arguing with my father is pointless. It’s like he wears a verbal shield and you can hit and hit and hit him but never touch him. Have I not witnessed this a hundred times?
“Paige,” my dad says. “I love you.”
I stand so I look down at him. “You don’t love me. You don’t love anyone. All you love is being Dr. Duke Patterson—digging up dead things and then spending all your time looking at them, thinking about them. It’s all you care about!”
“That’s not true,” he says.
“Isn’t it? Other fathers actually like to hang out with their kids. They go to their games. They cook pancakes in the morning and grill dinners. I think you would like me more if I were dead, a skeleton you could examine.”
“I’m sorry I’m not who you wanted me to be,” he says, and even then his voice isn’t angry, just kind of sad and resigned, as if what I’ve said is true. “Someday, maybe, you’ll figure out that being like everyone else is overrated. Just because I don’t barbeque doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
“Just forget it, Dr. Patterson. I really don’t care anymore.” He flinches at the coldness in my voice. I feel mean and bad about myself, but don’t let it stop me from walking out of the room.
Access to the park is restricted, but the ranger recognizes my father and unlocks the gate. The grounds look empty, but then we see a skinny German shepherd sniffing the ground just past the cactus gardens. The handler jogs to keep up with the dog, who runs in increasingly wide loops. I could have told them Emily’s scent would be strongest by the saguaro where we argued about my father and lead to the banks of Otter Creek where we sat eating lunch.
Inside the information center, the largest conference room is crowded with police, park officials, and rangers. Jalen and his father are there, too, studying a map with Tom Blackstone.
Jalen leans on the table, bracing himself on his arms, the muscles so clearly defined I could trace each one with my finger. His black T-shirt fits the width of his shoulders, then hangs loosely over his hips. He feels my gaze and looks up. I look away quickly, disgusted with myself for the feelings I shouldn’t have, especially now.
At the long conference table, Detective Rodriquez sits at the head, an exhausted-looking Mrs. Linton on her right. Dr. Shum, also seated at the table, acknowledges my father with a weary nod. Beside him, Mrs. Shum lays her hand on top of her husband’s.
“Any word?” my dad asks.
“No.” Dr. Shum’s eyes have deep purple circles beneath them, and the collar of his green park shirt stands up on one side as if he put it on without looking in the mirror. “The Equine Search and Rescue is on its way, and the search parties will go out as soon as the dogs finish.”
“Dr. Patterson,” Detective Rodriquez says with exaggerated emphasis on the word doctor. “I was wondering if I could have a word with you privately.” She lifts her heavy body up from the chair and walks toward my father.
“Of course,” he says. The two of them disappear out the door.
The minute he’s gone, I’m surrounded by the Lintons. Mrs. Linton links her arm through mine and leans into me, uncomfortably close. “Paige,” she says, “I know this is hard for you, but if you have information, you need to tell us.”
She smells a little. Not terrible, but sour enough that I don’t want to be near her. Her eyes are terrible—bloodshot and watery. I try not to breathe too deeply, and then I try not to breathe at all. “I told the police everything.”
“I know. But there’s more, isn’t there?”
I shift. “What do you mean?”
“You asked her to talk to him. You even offered to cover for her—that’s why she lied to us. Told us she was spending the night with you. She never would have, otherwise. I can forgive you that, but we need to know where she was going to meet him.”
My gaze falls to the gray linoleum floor. It looks dirty and soiled, a pattern so trampled it’ll never be clean. I know I should leave, but my legs feel bolted to the floor. “No, it wasn’t like that. I never asked her to talk to him.” My throat closes, and I can’t squeeze out that I didn’t want Emily to get involved.
“The police are questioning Jeremy Brown right now. I know you know more than you’re telling.”
I shake my head.
She closes her eyes as if she’s trying to keep control of herself, but when she opens them, her pupils are as sharp as pencil points. “You were always leading her into trouble. Even as a little girl. I tried to talk to her about you, but she wouldn’t listen.” Her lips quiver, and she doesn’t speak for several seconds. “How could you let her face him when you knew he was a monster?”
My heart pounds, and my legs start to shake. It feels like she’s growing taller, stronger, while I’m shrinking, dying inside. I try to look away, but the room is a dizzying kaleidoscope of faces.
“Why couldn’t you just leave her alone?”
Dr. Linton pulls ineffectively at his wife’s arm. “Sarah,” he says quietly. “Don’t.”
“It’s her fault,” Mrs. Linton insists. She leans closer, and her voice drops to a sour whisper. “It should have been you. Whatever happened to her should have happened to you. It’s all your fault.”
The venom in her voice is like poison in my bloodstream. Heart pounding, I turn, knocking into someone and spilling their coffee and pushing past, out of the room. Running down the hallway, Mrs. Linton’s voice repeats clearly in my head. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
I run through the maze of exhibits. Where can I go where I won’t see Mrs. Linton’s accusing eyes? Where do you go when the person you most want to avoid is yourself?
I race past the taxidermy display, the wall of bronze tools, the shelves of pottery, and the curtained-off area, and then I’m in the gift shop.
I veer away from the floor-to-ceiling windows that face the cliffs and then push my way past the racks of T-shirts, the postcard stand, and the shelves of stuffed animals to a corner where an ancient-looking soda machine stands along the wall. I lean forward against it, breathing hard, absorbing the heat coming off its surface.
A voice makes me jump. “So what kind do you want?”
I turn slowly. Jalen is standing behind me, still as a shadow. His eyes are black, serious.
When I don’t answer, he takes a dollar bill out of a worn brown wallet and peers past me at the selections, although he probably already knows most have been empty since the day I arrived.
“Water, water…or water?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” I shift an inch backward and feel the heat of the machine at my back.
He leans around me and feeds the limp dollar into the slot. A bottle bounces to the bottom with a thump.
His hand looks huge as he twists off the cap. As he gives it to me, our fingers touch. The contact startles me. A spark. I almost laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s either laugh or cry. His hand moves away abruptly, leaving me with the cold weight of the plastic bottle.
I take a small swallow of the icy water and mumble “thanks.” I hope he’ll go away.
I lift my chin. “You didn’t have to come after me. You don’t have to try and make me feel better.”
“I know,” he says.
But he doesn’t know, or he wouldn’t keep standing there as the seconds tick by. I want to ask why he came after me, why he never says my name, and why he’s still standing there. And yet I say nothing at all.
Yet there’s something comforting about his presence, as if he’s a wall between me and the rest of the world. But as much as I’d like to hide behind him, I can’t let myself do that.
“I’m fine.”
“I know.”
I lift my gaze from the slimy blue label around the water bottle. “You can go.”
“I know.” The hint of a smile softens the straight line of his lips.
“So why don’t you?” I would cringe at the coldness in my voice if I didn’t need it so badly to hide how scared I am. How guilty I feel.
He shrugs. “Because you’re so pleasant to be around?”
His face is so serious I have to study him hard to see if he’s joking or not, and even then I’m not completely sure.
“I’m not going to fall apart.”
He nods as if this is a given but then doesn’t budge an inch. “Good. You want to sit down?”
“Are you babysitting me?
He smiles. “A little. There’s a bench just outside the door in the cactus garden. It’s quiet there.”
“You’re trying to keep me away from the Lintons.”
His smile fades. “They’ve been up all night. Their daughter is missing. You can’t take anything she says seriously.”
But I can. And I do. Because she’s right. It should be me who’s missing. Me who should fight her own fights.
It isn’t until we step outside of the information center and into the heat of the morning that I realize how cold I am. How welcome the sun rays feel, soaking into my skin as if they’re going all the way to the bone.
We take a seat on some wooden benches that face the cliffs. The police dogs are gone, and the landscape stretches out as far as I can see, empty of people, empty of any birds or animals. I don’t know if I’m more terrified that they’ll find her body, or that they’ll find nothing at all.
Next to me, Jalen is quiet. His eyes are watchful, fixed on something in the distance. If as much as a rabbit moved, I think he’d see it. I have the feeling he can sit this way for hours, not speaking but soaking up thoughts. I take a sip of water and hear myself ask. “What do you think happened to her?”
“I don’t know.”
I start peeling the label off the bottle and ask the question that haunts me. “Do you think she’s alive?”
He takes a long time to answer the question. “I hope so.”
“I hope so,” I mimic in frustration. “You must have heard something. Last night, or earlier before I got here. What did the police say?”
His lips tighten. “The dogs keep following a scent into the park, but there’s still a possibility that she was abducted from the parking lot.”
I compare this to my own theory, and it comes up short. “Mrs. Linton said the police were questioning Jeremy Brown. Do you know anything about that?”
He shakes his head. “No. But Detective Rodriquez questioned me about him. What happened on Tuesday afternoon between you and him.”
I hold his gaze. “What did you tell them?”
“That I heard noises coming from Chamber One and when I called out if everyone was okay, you came up the ladder looking upset.”
He had pulled me up the last few rungs. I still remember the power of his grip, the strength of his hand lifting me. For the first time, however, I realize that the story didn’t end with me running out of the ruins. “Did you see Jeremy?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
“He was in a hurry. He asked which way you’d gone.”
“Did he seem…mad?”
“No. When I asked him what was going on, he told me to stay out of it.”
“And then what happened?”
He turns to meet my gaze and blinks a couple of times. “I told him you climbed up into the third level.”
He lied for me. He saw me run through the doorway out into the open. Although nothing in his face moves, something in his stillness gives him away. He’s holding back. “That’s it?”
My suspicions are confirmed when Jalen does another series of slow blinks. “Well, he was kind of in a hurry to get to the ladder and he accidentally tripped over my feet. I helped him up and told him that he should be more careful, that accidents like that could happen pretty easily around here.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m not even sure how I feel about him defending me. Part of me feels glad, and yet I also realize that, once again, I’ve let someone else stand up for me. It’s like I’m five again and Emily is explaining the rules of fear—it either helps you grow or makes you less of yourself. Maybe there’s more truth in that than either of us thought.
Before I can either say thank you or tell him that I can look after myself, the door to the information center opens. John Yazzi sticks his head out of the opening.
“Jalen,” he snaps, “we need you inside.”