“Now I know why you wanted me to come,” I say. “How were you planning to find this place, without me and my phone?”
Nolan grins, gesturing to the glove compartment. “Look inside.”
I pull out a pile of maps, folded up and labeled in sections with a highlighter. “Oh my,” I say.
“Yep. Stopped in a gas station to fill up the tank, bought these inside.”
“Admit it, though. You’re glad I’m here.”
He turns his face from the road briefly, his eyes meeting mine. “I am, Kennedy.”
It’s a long drive, and the highway twists through the mountains in the dark. I keep worrying he’ll fall asleep, or I’ll fall asleep, but both of us are on edge, antsy in our seats. And I think I understand: instead of waiting for answers, we’re driving after them. It fills me with adrenaline. I almost don’t need the second coffee. Almost.
I turn off my phone when we arrive on the street of the Long residence, just after dawn. Joe will be waking up soon, and he’ll see the note I left—Be back by Sunday, promise—and he’ll immediately start calling my number. Whatever tentative trust he’s placed in me, I’m sure I’ve shattered it with this move. But I hope he’ll forgive me. That he’ll understand.
Nolan’s car idles at the curb. There are two cars in the driveway, beside a white picket fence. The porch light is still on.
“It’s early in the day still. Maybe they’ll leave soon,” Nolan says.
“Let’s get some breakfast and come back,” I say.
“If by breakfast you mean more caffeine, then yes.” It’s then I notice the dark circles under Nolan’s eyes—mine must be the same. A string of sleepless nights, ending in this.
The residential area of town we’re in is just a scattering of streets in a grid. As we drive, the homes give way to brick buildings set farther back from the road. In the distance, a plume of smoke rises from the large chimney of a factory.
There are very few people, or stores, or restaurants. The sidewalks are half crumbled, the pavement buckling in sections. Beyond the residential area, this feels like a town of decaying buildings, with weeds pushing back through the concrete squares, like the earth is reclaiming it. There doesn’t seem to be much in the way of food, just large, nondescript buildings with empty parking lots. But eventually we find a fast-food place with a drive-through on a corner next to a gas station, surrounded by nothing but empty space.
There are three other people inside the restaurant, all spread out, sitting at the farthest corners. No one looks up as I pass with the tray of food to join Nolan at the booth. Out the window facing away from the road is a ballfield surrounded by a chain link fence. But even the dirt has become overgrown with grass, like no one’s used it in ages.
I’m suddenly queasy, unsure of what we’ll find—unsure of what exactly I’m hoping for.
“You’re quiet,” Nolan says.
I guess I’m worried that everything means nothing. That there is no reason for anything, other than chance encounters, and chaos. The universe, heading toward more disorder.
But I smile at him instead. “Thought you could use the break,” I say.
He smiles back, but it’s like he knows I’m lying.
Two coffees and three breakfast sandwiches later, we head back to the house.
Both cars are gone. We linger at the curb, staring at the house. “I’m going to ring the bell,” I say, since neither of us appears to have a plan. “Go park somewhere else in the meantime. If someone’s home, I’ll meet you around that corner.”
Nolan leaves me at the sidewalk, and I enter the gate of their white picket fence, easing it shut behind me. It’s a modest home—two stories, older, but kept up nicely. There are brightly colored flowers on either side of the porch. When I ring the bell, it echoes inside. No one appears after a few moments, so I use the brass knocker, just in case.
Still nothing.
I look over my shoulder to see if anyone’s watching. It’s a residential street, but the homes are hidden behind larger oak trees, and I hope that obscures the view of me, if any of the neighbors are watching. Eventually, I hear someone walking up the driveway, and I prepare to come up with some excuse—selling something; looking for directions—but it’s only Nolan.
I shrug one shoulder at him and then check the obvious places for keys: under the flowerpots and the doormat. Out of luck, we circle around to the backyard. Here the curtains are pulled open, and I can see the darkened kitchen, the laminate surfaces, cleaned and orderly. Except for a coffee cup in the center. I freeze, wondering if someone’s there, or whether someone has just forgotten it.
Nolan knocks this time, and I stare him down. “And what exactly will you say to explain why you’re knocking on the back door?” I whisper.
He shrugs. “Lost Frisbee?”
Oh my God, I think, looking at the sky. He’s serious.
Thankfully, no one comes to the door, and I resume my search, checking the downspouts and around the patio furniture. There’s a metal planter on the patio, and tipping it to the side, I find a metal key, lined with dirt. “Hallelujah,” I mutter, wiping it off on the side of my shorts.
The back door creaks when I push it open, and the downstairs smells like syrup and coffee. It reminds me, suddenly, of home. And I can hear my mother and Elliot talking at the table—only now I can’t remember whether they sounded happy, or whether there was tension underneath. I remember Elliot saying, “You don’t see the other side of him, Mom,” but when I walked into the room, they stopped talking. I remember entering the room, my mother tucking her dark hair behind her ear, her smile when she saw me, the steaming mug in her hands—
“Kennedy?”
Stop. I have to stop. But I wonder if, even then, they were discussing Hunter Long.
“Coming,” I say.
The first floor doesn’t appear large—a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, maybe a bathroom out of sight. There’s a family photo on the mantel of the fireplace—a mother, a teenage daughter, and a younger version of Hunter, without his hair bleached white. He looks just like the image hanging on Nolan’s wall. There are other photos surrounding it, including a man, but Hunter isn’t in any of those pictures.
Nolan completes a circuit of the downstairs. “Come on,” he says, waiting for me at the base of a staircase. I follow him up the carpeted steps, the wood underneath our feet squeaking with every shift in weight.
There appear to be three bedrooms upstairs, all off a single hall—two with their doors open, which Nolan walks right by.
“It will be that one,” he whispers, pointing to the closed door. Still, I peek in the other two doorways we pass—a room in purple and gray, clothes strewn across the floor, which must belong to the teenage girl in the family photo; the other room has a queen bed and an ornate headboard.
Pushing open the closed door, Nolan holds his breath, as if expecting to see something waiting for us.
But, as I could’ve told him, it’s only the emptiness. You can feel it, that the room has been abandoned. Someone has been through here, cleaning, organizing, so all that remains is a bed, neatly made, with a pillow on top; a dresser, all drawers firmly shut; and a closet door, also shut. You can see the vacuum marks on the rug, and I know we’re leaving a trail of evidence just by setting foot in here.
I’m thinking about how to cover it up—find the vacuum, maybe?—when Nolan walks straight for the closet, his footprints marring the pristine lines on the floor.
When he opens the closet door, an assortment of shirts faintly sways on the bar, disturbed by Nolan’s presence. He lets out a long sigh. It’s just an empty room, and I think he must be facing the truth, too: that there was nothing leading us here. This room belongs to a missing kid, but, like I learned when I was standing in the downstairs of Nolan’s house, there are hundreds, thousands, of missing people, all over the world.
There’s nothing on the walls. Nothing for us to find. Elliot and my mom were probably talking about someone else that morning, anyone else. We’ve driven through the night to look at the room of a random kid, who will end up meaning nothing to us. We’ve been trying to force the connection, seeing it everywhere, even in things that don’t exist.
This room feels like it’s hovering in the in-between, just like Liam’s room felt to me when I hid upstairs at Nolan’s house. Like it’s the ghost of a room, waiting for someone, with all the life sucked out of it.
Nolan frowns, looking around. “When you don’t have answers, you don’t know what to do….”
“Answers don’t always make things easier,” I say.
Nolan’s face changes, and he reaches for me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…That was a terrible thing to say.” But he sets his jaw, looking out the window. He means it, I realize. He thinks it’s better to know, even if the knowing is horrific. What must it be like, living in that house, for him to think my life is the better option? What must it be like here?
“It’s all terrible, Nolan,” I say.
He nods once, and then his eyes widen. Downstairs, a door creaks open. We stare at each other, frozen. Nolan grabs my arm and pulls me into the closet, shutting us both inside. We’re pressed together, chest to chest, the clothes and hangers swaying around us, and I can feel his heartbeat against his ribs, as fast as my own must be beating. His breath against my forehead comes quickly, and I try to slow my breathing, to calm myself. It isn’t working. Someone’s here.
Nolan grabs the clothes, to keep them still. I hold my breath.
The house is older, and I can track the person just from the creaks in the wood, doors opening, cabinets closing, water in the pipes.
I start to relax, thinking we just need to wait this thing out. Maybe someone forgot their wallet, or something else they needed, and they’ll be on their way again. But seconds later, we hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I start to panic.
And then, as the steps get closer, they start moving faster. Oh God, we left the door to this room open. My entire body tenses, and I can feel Nolan’s doing the same.
The steps stop at the door of the room. And then a voice. “Hunter?” She sounds younger, our age—I imagine the teenager in the family picture downstairs.
My hand tightens on Nolan’s arm, and he pulls me closer.
The footsteps approach, and it sounds like she’s mumbling, “You’re such a jerk—”
I hold my breath, counting the seconds, hoping she turns away. Nolan’s fingers are trembling against my skin. Then, in three quick steps, she storms across the room and yanks open the closet door.
I close my eyes, as if that can stop the inevitable. And I throw my hands in the air, as if that’s ever stopped anyone.