I watched Rustin Rice shoulder his backpack, wave good-bye to a few friends, then make his way toward the student lot. I jogged over to him, and he glanced at me, clearly startled.
“What do you want?” he mumbled.
I shrugged, doing my best nonchalant act. “Nothing.”
“All right. Bye.” Rustin turned his back to me.
“Just one question, bro.”
Rustin turned and eyed me, one strawberry-blond eyebrow cocked. “Yeah?”
“You talk to Hope lately?” I kept my eyes on him, scrutinizing, looking for some sign that he was about to crack or admit the truth.
A noncommittal shrug. “Not really. You know she’s missing, right?”
“It’s all over the news.”
“So how would I have talked to her?” His face was stone—no flinch, no shifty eyes. Not that I really knew what to look for.
“I don’t know. I thought you guys were getting pretty close…”
“You guys weren’t seeing each other anymore.”
“I know. But after.”
Rustin shifted his weight, his chest hefting out a tiny bit more. “What are you getting at, dude?”
I had to admit I had no idea what I was doing, what I was expecting. That Rustin would fall to his knees, suddenly crumble, and admit that Hope was stashed in his closet or something?
“Never mind, man.”
I walked to my car feeling stupid and defeated, but I didn’t start the engine. Instead, I watched Rustin walk to his, then pulled into the lane of traffic three cars behind him. I followed him for six miles, hiding behind a minivan plastered with an enormous stick-figure family and an Entenmann’s snack cake truck. Rustin pulled off the highway and I followed, taking two corners and eventually flicking on my blinker a car length behind him.
I followed Rustin into the 7-Eleven parking lot, then into the store. He didn’t notice me because he was on his phone the whole time, a basket slung over one arm, raking things off the shelf. When he finally slid the phone into his back pocket, I was about to make my move. But then I noticed the things he was putting in his basket: Baby carrots. Hummus. Coconut water.
Rustin was kind of an athlete—the kind who was naturally good at sports and ate two of everything at one sitting at McDonald’s. Not the hummus and coconut-water type. Not baby carrots. I followed behind him and paused when he paused at the stand of sad-looking leftover fruit. I watched him inspect the bananas and poke at a soft spot on an apple that had seen better days. Finally, he went for the package of blueberry muffins hanging from the side of the produce cart.
I shook my head. “She’s not going to eat those, dude.”
He looked up, surprised to see me. “What?” Then back to the muffins. “What are you muttering about, Gardner?”
“Hope. Hates anything full-sized that’s prepackaged and artificial. And those”—I pointed—“have been here since freshman year. Best bet is try the mini muffins. She usually lets those slide based on the cute factor.”
Rustin looked at me, half incredulous, half annoyed. “What the hell do you know about it?”
I shrugged. “Just saying.”
“And who says I’m getting these for Hope? I told you, we weren’t doing anything. I don’t know where she is. No one does, man.” He squashed the muffins back onto the shelf and took a step closer to me, so we were nearly chest to chest. “Unless you have something to confess.”
I was trying to keep my cool, but I could feel the perspiration beading under my arms, and my palms were slick and wet. I held them up anyway, hoped the expression on my face was even and unfazed. “I’m just trying to help.”
Rustin held my stare for a beat before halfheartedly lunging at me, then jumping back. I held my ground, even through my heart was whaling in my throat. He offered one of those stupid dude chuckles.
“Fuck off, Gardner.”
I left the 7-Eleven and sat in my car, waiting. Inside, Rustin looked around before slipping a package of mini muffins into his basket and moving through the checkout line.
I slid low in the driver’s seat, threw on a baseball hat, and pulled out my cell phone.
Bellingham answered on the first ring.
“Hey, it’s Tony. I’ve got some information for you.”
Bellingham sounded wary. “What kind of information?”
“About Hope. I think…I think she’s hiding out somewhere. You know, holed up, pulling the strings?”
I could almost hear him lean into the phone. “What do you know?”
“There’s this kid from school, Rustin Rice. I know he knows Hope. Anyway, I heard him say some stuff at school, then I followed him here to the 7-Eleven. He was grocery shopping.” I paused.
“And?”
“Well, he bought hummus, baby carrots, coconut water, and mini muffins.”
“So he likes tiny things. That’s not a crime.”
“No, he wasn’t shopping for himself. The kid is a human garbage disposal. What teenage guy do you know eats baby carrots?”
“Frankly, I don’t know and I don’t care.”
I blew out a frustrated sigh. “You don’t get it.”
“Obviously. Explain it to me, or quite wasting my time. Your case isn’t going to hinge on baby vegetables.”
“Hope loves all those things. And when I confronted Rustin—because he got regular-sized muffins and Hope won’t eat those—he changed to the mini muffins.”
“And?” I could tell that Bellingham wasn’t following my mode of thinking, and I was almost swayed.
“Don’t you see? He’s buying stuff to bring to Hope, wherever she is. He knows, obviously.”
“Because he bought some mini muffins?”
“You don’t know Hope.”
“Did this kid actually say he knew where Hope was? Or that the crap he was buying was for her?”
“No, but—”
“Tony, look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but the best thing you can do for yourself, your case—hell, for Hope—is to lie low. Just go home and keep out of sight.”
I was trying to listen to Bellingham, but Rustin stepped out of the store with his paper bag and tossed it on the passenger seat of his car.
“He’s leaving now,” I said.
“Who?”
“Rustin. I’m going to follow him.”
“No, you’re not. You’re going to go home.”
“He’s probably going right to her.”
“Tony, go home.”
But I’d already fed the key into the ignition and turned the engine over. Rustin was backing out, and I waited a beat, then followed a car length behind him. He seemed to already have forgotten me, cranking up his radio so Pitbull came screaming out the windows.
“I’ll call you later, Bellingham.”
I followed Rustin for three miles down the expressway, losing hope. He was heading toward his house. Maybe he was just a baby carrot–eating douche, and I was the idiot wasting my time following him around town.
But then he threw his blinker on.
Made a left turn.
Got on the freeway.
He hit seventy, seventy-five in the blink of an eye. His BMW purred like a kitten; my geriatric Corolla spat and shimmied, rpms rising with an unhealthy-sounding groan. I was waiting for my engine to blow, for smoke to start spewing, when Rustin took a hard right turn, catching an exit. I slammed on my brakes and did the same, my car whinnying, my tires spitting out gravel like gunfire. He took the off ramp smoothly; I took it with an inelegant eeek and a cloud of dust, but I could still see his bright taillights and the slick black bumper of his fancy car.
And then I saw the brake lights.
My stomach dropped, and pins and needles shot out across my body. I slammed my foot on the brake, and my eyes closed at the same time as I cursed myself and tried to wrench my eyes back open.
I smelled the burned rubber. The smoke and grit from the road floated into my open car windows and choked me. I slid for what felt like a football field, coughing, choking, leg fully extended, knee locked, brake pedal mashed against the car mat, hands gripping the wheel. Rustin was outside his car, watching mine slide, his face barely registering a centimeter of tension as the bumper of my car came to within inches of his brand-new one.
He let out a breath when I came to a cloudy stop, my whole dashboard shimmying, my steering wheel bucking, my heart slamming against my rib cage. I pushed my car into park at the same time that Rustin wrenched my car door open, clapped a hand onto my chest, and yanked me out by my T-shirt.
“What the fuck was that, you idiot? You following me?” He shoved me against my own car, and I sprawled like a boneless stuffed toy. It wasn’t that Rustin was all that strong; it was that there was nothing in my body—no bones, nothing but white-hot lactic acid that pooled in my muscles and made me an uncoordinated idiot. That was why I didn’t move when he punched me. Square in the jaw. My mouth exploded with blood, a starburst of pain, and before I knew it, I was hitting back. I had Rustin by the shirtfront, my knuckles crashing against his cheek. His head vaulted back, and I got a spray of blood-tinged saliva.
“Where’s Hope, you asshole? Where is she?”
I hit again, and Rustin went from solid to deadweight. I was holding him up by his T-shirt as his knees buckled underneath him. I coiled back for another punch, but he had his hands up. He wasn’t giving up; he was going in for another shot. It caught me in the chest, and I heard myself let out a groan, my hands going to my belly. Rustin stumbled back, recoiled, and came at me hard.
That was why I didn’t hear the sirens.
We were lodged together, fighting, punching, scrabbling.
That was why I didn’t hear the officers’ voices.
My fist hit the fleshy part of Rustin’s gut.
That was why I didn’t feel the arms on me, the hands, until I felt the cold clink of metal around my wrist. Until I felt my shoulder screaming, my other arm being wrenched behind my back.
The cops pulled me and Rustin apart, and we were both breathing hard, slightly hunched, arms pinned behind our backs. Rustin had blood on his shirt. A busted lip. His teeth and gums were bloody. I didn’t remember hitting him that hard, that much, but he looked bad.
“Gardner.” It was Pace. If I’d had anything left to lose, it would have shown, but I didn’t. Instead, I sighed, little bits of snot and blood raining out of my nose. I could taste the blood on my lips.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
Pace didn’t bother to answer, just cocked an eyebrow and looked from me to Rustin. “This psychopath has been following me all day,” he spat out.
MacNamara was there too, walking up slowly, notebook out and poised. I could hear her walkie-talkie cackling on her shoulder, and I watched as she leaned into it, murmured something. I couldn’t make much of it out, but two words stood out loud and clear: Tony Gardner.
“I only followed him from the 7-Eleven,” I said, keeping my voice low. Every breath I took made my lungs wheeze and felt like my rib cage was shrinking in on itself.
“Why were you following him at all?” MacNamara wanted to know.
“Because he’s picking things up for Hope. He knows where she is. Admit it, Rustin. You know where Hope is, and you’re bringing her supplies.”
MacNamara and Pace swung to look at Rustin. “This true?”
Rustin paused long enough to spit out a mouthful of blood and saliva. “No.”
I tried to step forward, but Pace pushed me back. “He has groceries in his car. Check inside! He’s got a bag of supplies!”
MacNamara took her time walking toward Rustin’s car, scanning the inside. “I see a grocery bag.”
“I bought some groceries.”
“For Hope!” I shouted.
“For my mom!” Rustin shouted back.
I felt like I was been pummeled again. “No…the muffins. He has mini muffins!”
MacNamara raised her eyebrows, hand on the driver’s side door.
“Go ahead,” Rustin told her. She slid the grocery bag over.
“He does have mini muffins.”
“Yeah, my mom likes mini muffins.” Rustin looked from one officer to another. “That’s a crime?”
“He bought them for Hope!”
“Did you buy some mini muffins for your friend Hope, son?”
“No.”
Pace shrugged, didn’t try to hide his smile. “Seems airtight to me.”
I looked incredulously from Pace to MacNamara. “You can’t just—” But then I heard how ridiculous it sounded. How futile. How stupid.
I’d beaten up a guy and was standing on the side of the road in handcuffs over a goddamn package of blueberry mini muffins.
I was going to jail.