Olivia or Gabriela could give me a boost, but they can’t be that close to the house. If something goes wrong and the police come, they can still avoid them. This is my mess and my plan.

  I let out a deep breath, like a diver on the high board, and leap for the opening.

  Both hands grip the sill. My forearms hit the frame. My feet push against the brick to try to propel my body up, digging for purchase, my sneakers scraping, gaining some traction. My body moves up slowly, and I arch my back like an inchworm and keep going. Once I’m over the sill, I take hold of the small end table just below the window inside Chloe’s room with a lamp on it and use it to pull myself forward.

  But just as make some headway, the table slides toward me across the hardwood floor, and my body weight goes backward. The lamp tips over and crashes. Thank goodness it’s not ceramic. My heart jumps, and I grab for anything. But I only get air, and I’m starting to go back out the window again like a falling piano.

  Fifty-Two

  My arms go out and catch the sides of the window frame.

  My biceps scream in protest as I hang there, suspended like a poor imitation of Spider-Man.

  “Crap,” I say. “Holy crap.”

  It’s not far to fall, but I don’t want to have to start all over again. I’m not sure I can get myself out of the position I’m in, either. And I’ve now made enough noise that if anyone is listening, they’ll definitely know something is up.

  Then the mom from next door starts again.

  “Trevor?”

  “Oh, shit,” I say.

  “Don’t you dare, Trevor,” the woman says.

  “I’m going to the Summerses’ house, Mom.”

  My legs pump, my shoes searching for some traction, but it’s not enough.

  “Trevor. Come back here this instant.”

  Go away, Trevor, I think. Go the hell away.

  “Okay, Mom.”

  I dig with my feet and then pull harder against the edges of the window frame. I reach out far enough to grab the leg of Chloe’s desk. It’s solid oak, made by her grandfather, and there’s no way it’s going to move. It’s like gripping an anchor.

  I pull and pull until my body slides over the sill. When my waist hits the frame, I know I’m home free. I slide the rest of the way and tumble onto the floor of Chloe’s bedroom with a loud thump.

  If anyone is home, it’s all over. I might as well prepare myself for handcuffs.

  But I’m too tired to care.

  I lie on the floor in the dark, my chest rising and falling. When my breathing finally slows, I get up.

  And then it hits me. I’m standing in Chloe’s room. I’m standing in Chloe’s room, but no one knows where she is.

  Everything is so familiar. The white comforter, the yellow striped pillows, the gray walls. The novels she’s read and loved: Eleanor and Park, Their Eyes Were Watching God, The Fault in Our Stars. A photo of her parents on their wedding day. A photo of us at the lake, the one on my phone. A pair of black Converse sneakers by her closet door. The familiar scent that can’t be found anywhere else in the house. Something soft, almost fruity. Something that let me know I was in Chloe’s room with Chloe.

  But nothing is the same. Not by a long shot.

  I want to soak it all in. Get in the bed, pull the blankets and pillows around me, and pretend she’s there with me like so many times before. The space holds so many memories. The word “shrine” jumps into my head, but I push it away. No shrines. No memorials. Those are for dead people.

  And Chloe isn’t dead.

  I tell myself to focus and get to work. Time is short, and I can’t just stand around in a house I’ve basically broken into.

  Okay, I think. The secret hiding place.

  It can’t be in the closet, under the bed, or in one the drawers. Those places are all obvious, and the cops would have turned them inside out right away. It has to be someplace else, someplace more obscure.

  I spin in a slow circle, searching. It’s dark, but my eyes are beginning to adjust. I’ve spent enough time in this room to know nearly every inch of it. But that doesn’t mean I can discover a hiding place that’s meant to be hard to find.

  Could it be hidden under the floorboards? The room is carpeted from wall to wall. I go to the corner to see if the carpet comes up, but it doesn’t move. I try the other three corners with no luck.

  I drop down on all fours and look under the bed, the flashlight on my phone shining at the underside of the mattress. Maybe Chloe tucked it under there. There’s nothing besides dust balls and a lone yellow sock.

  It all seems hopeless. A terrible idea I never should have tried. I curse myself for not remembering more about the accident, for not coming up with a better plan than to break into Chloe’s house and try to find something that may not even be there.

  But then it gets worse.

  Much, much worse.

  I’m still under the bed, cursing myself, when my phone vibrates.

  A text from Olivia.

  Chloe’s parents. Pulling in now! GET THE F OUT!!

  Fifty-Three

  When I stand up, my head bangs against the edge of the metal bedframe.

  It’s a sharp, jarring pain, one that causes starbursts to appear before my eyes.

  No. No. No more head pain…

  I wince. The pain eases, so I start around the bed for the open window. I grab the lamp and the end table I’d knocked over and stand them back up. My movements are frantic and urgent, the blood rushing in my ears like a roaring wave. When I let go of the lamp, my hand gets tangled in the cord, and it starts to fall again. I catch it before it hits the floor.

  Once I’m sure it’s steady, I turn back to the window.

  But it’s closed.

  It slid shut like it always does.

  “Damn it.”

  My phone buzzes, but I ignore it.

  I try to work my fingers into the small space between the bottom of the window and the sill. I can barely do it. A splinter pierces my index finger, and I pull my hand back.

  “Shit.”

  My phone buzzes again. And again. I know it’s Olivia. Or Gabriela. Do they think if they text me over and over it will make me move any faster? Do they think I don’t recognize the urgency of the situation?

  My heart does. The roaring wave is now a tsunami.

  I work my fingers back into the narrow space.

  That’s when I hear it. A door slams in the house. Followed by voices. Two of them.

  “Are you just going to sit in there again? Is that really for the best?”

  It’s Scott. His voice muffled by the closed bedroom door. But it’s him.

  And then Laura, her voice closer. “I’ll do whatever I want. This is my daughter’s room. I’ll sit here all night.”

  “You’re already sleeping in there,” Scott says. “You spend all your time in this room.”

  “You spend all your time going out to your garage. You’re out there now more than ever. Is that how you’re staying sane? Do you have a problem with me staying relatively sane my own way?”

  “No, honey. I don’t. I just…that event tonight…”

  “I don’t give a damn about the event. What do I care about the police? What are they doing to bring Chloe home? Detective Haley couldn’t find his ass with a funnel.”

  They’re right outside the door.

  I have a choice to make. And a split second to make it.

  I push the window down gently, shutting the quarter-inch gap I’ve been trying to work open. Then I take two quick, long strides across the carpet to Chloe’s closet, pulling it open and slipping inside. I ease the door shut just as Chloe’s bedroom door opens, and I crouch on the bottom of the closet between the shoes and a basket of laundry.

  The doors are slatted, so when Laura flips the overhead light on some of it leaks through. But the slats are at an angle, so no one can see in unless they open the door. I hold my breath, willing every muscle in my body to freeze.

  The bedsprings squeak. And then two thumps as she kicks off her shoes.

  “I’m sorry that was so hard,” Scott says. “I shouldn’t…if you want to sit in here, that’s fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Can I get you something?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Okay. I’m going to check the voicemail.”

  Scott leaves, and I try to make my body as small as a dust bunny. I want to be insignificant or, better yet, invisible.

  The bedsprings squeak again. I hear Laura’s soft footsteps against the carpet. They get louder. She’s coming to the closet. Her silhouette rises through the slats.

  My body tenses. Every muscle clenches like they’re made of wires and bands stretched to their breaking point.

  Laura is right outside.

  “What are you doing?”

  Scott again.

  “I don’t know,” Laura says. “I just like to look at Chloe’s things. Her clothes still smell like her.”

  “Detective Haley called. He said he’s sorry he missed us at the church.”

  “Screw him,” Laura says.

  “He’s doing his best.”

  “Did you fix the closet?” Laura asks.

  “The closet? What about it?”

  “The hole in the plaster. Remember? She threw her boot in there last winter and made that hole? You were so pissed when she did it. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. That.”

  Scott sounds confused. But also like a guy who doesn’t want to admit he knows what his wife is talking about.

  “Did you fix it, Scott?” Laura asks.

  “Not yet. It doesn’t seem like the most important thing.”

  “I want you to fix it,” Laura says. “I want everything perfect for when she comes home. Maybe we should get new carpeting, too. She wanted the room painted. But why wait until she goes to college? And you know what else? She needs a new winter coat.”

  Laura’s hand reaches for the door and starts to pull it open.

  Fifty-Four

  I squeeze my eyes shut like a little kid. As though she won’t see me if my eyes are closed.

  Scott says, “No, no, honey. Stay out of the closet. Come on, don’t worry about that. Don’t go in there. Why don’t you lie down?”

  “I want to look at her coat and see what size it is. She needs a new one, something nice for college visits. We’re going to be doing those when she gets back.”

  “We’ll get her a new coat. I promise. But she can pick it out herself.”

  “Will we? You want to move. You keep talking about leaving town and starting over. We need to be here, Scott, in this house. For when she comes back.”

  “I know. You’re right.”

  They move away from the closet. Just as they do, my phone vibrates again. Over and over like someone is calling.

  I cup both my hands around it, hoping they can’t hear it.

  “What was that?” Laura asks.

  “What was what?”

  “Didn’t you hear that?”

  Scott doesn’t speak. Then I hear the noise, too. Not my phone, but a distant chime.

  “It’s the front door,” Scott says.

  “Who could be bothering us now?”

  “It might be the police. Or maybe the neighbors with more food. Someone brings a casserole or a cake every day, you know that.”

  Scott’s heavy steps leave the room. And the bedsprings squeak again.

  Everything is quiet. Dead quiet.

  Then sniffling from Laura.

  “Oh, Chloe. My little Chloe. Where are you, little girl? Where are you?”

  This gets to me. Tears burn at my eyes, and I choke them back, trying to keep them from spilling over. Trying to keep from making a sound.

  Laura continues to cry softly until Scott comes back.

  “Honey?” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “You okay?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there’s someone at the door who wants to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “A girl from the high school, someone who knows Chloe. She wanted to go to the church tonight but couldn’t, so she came here.”

  “Do you know her?” Laura asks.

  “No. She says her name is Maria. She’s a Latina girl with purple hair.”

  A Latina girl with purple hair?

  Gabriela!

  “I don’t know if I’m up for it,” Laura says.

  “Come on,” Scott says. “Just say hello. It will do you good to see how much these kids care about Chloe.”

  There’s a long silence, one that feels like it stretches for days. Then Laura lets out a long, loud sigh. “Okay. I’ll say hi. But, Scott, then I’m coming right back here. I might sleep in here again tonight. What if Chloe comes back, and I’m not in here?”

  “That’s fine,” Scott says. “That’s really a good idea, Laura.”

  Their footsteps slowly leave the room.

  I wait—but not so long I miss my chance.

  And when it’s safe, I stand up, my muscles aching now from being squished down in the closet for so long. I slowly push open the door and peer around the edge.

  The room is empty. Just the bed and the furniture. And the window I need to get through.

  I start across the room but freeze in my tracks. I remember the hole in the closet wall—

  I go back and look around the closet. I clearly see Chloe’s shoes. Clothes on hangars, the sweaters neatly folded on the shelf above.

  And down on the lower right-hand side there’s a hole in the plaster. Like Laura said—smashed with a boot. I go right over, and the opening is just large enough for me to put my fist in. I half-expect to grab a dead mouse or a wire that will shock me into unconsciousness. It doesn’t seem big enough to hold a journal.

  But the space opens up, and it’s larger than it looks. My hand scrambles through dust and grit, and then I feel something leather and smooth. I grip it and pull back, but the only way to get it through the opening is to roll it over like a tube. When it’s out, I don’t even bother to look but just dash back across the room.

  I face the challenge of the window.

  I put the journal in my armpit and slide my fingers under the window again. With the light on it’s easier for me to see and get my fingers into the space right away. I push up and the window slides open, squeaking as it did before.

  But I have to go. I have to get out.

  I throw the journal out the window and follow it, landing on my feet in the grass, my knees buckling with the impact. I reach back and up and pull down the window, hoping Laura isn’t in the room.

  Then I turn, grab the journal, and run like hell across the yard in the direction of the car.

  Fifty-Five

  I dash toward the car, my legs pumping and pumping.

  But no one is there. There’s no sign of Olivia or Gabriela.

  I flop into the driver’s seat and sit for a moment, unable to move. My breathing is heavy, and sweat runs down my forehead and into my eyes.

  Did I leave some trace of myself behind? Did I shut the window? Is the closet door open? Did I drop my wallet or phone…

  My wallet is there. The keys got me in to the car, so I know I have those. The bulk of my phone fills my other pocket. I closed the closet and the window, put the lamp and table back in place.

  “Okay,” I say out loud. “It’s okay.”

  I’m clutching the journal in my left hand. I angle it to catch the light from the nearby streetlamps. It’s a Moleskine, the cover dark brown. I don’t open it. I hate the thought of looking at her most private thoughts, even if it might shed light on what happened to her. Will she be pissed when she finds out?

  But I have no choice. I have to look. In the weak light, I squint to see Chloe’s handwriting appears on page after page. Neat. Bold. Written in black pen. I don’t focus on any specific words or phrases, don’t stop to read anything. I just marvel at how much of herself is spilled here in black and white.

  Are there things in here she never told me?

  And what if there’s nothing helpful? What if I risked everything for nothing?

  At least I’d know and could stop obsessing over the journal.

  The passenger door flies open, and I jump.

  Olivia’s face is flushed, her hair looks like she’s been in a windstorm.

  “Are you okay, Hunter? My God, I’ve been trying to get in touch. I thought for sure they caught you.”

  She leans over and hugs me, her thin arms much stronger than they look. She nearly crushes me.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I got out.”

  When Olivia leans back, she sees what’s in my hand. Her face lights up like a kid at their own birthday party. “You got it. Holy shit. Where was it?”

  “A hole in the closet wall. It’s a total fluke I found it. Where’s Gabriela?”

  “She’s coming. Just wait. How did the cops miss it?”

  “They must have overlooked it. I really had to stick my hand in there and work it around to find the journal.”

  “What’s in there? What does it say?”

  “I haven’t read it yet, Livvy. I just got here.”

  “Okay, easy. I’m just dying to know.”

  “I feel weird, like should I read it? This is her private business. Maybe it’s wrong…”

  Olivia’s face is hard to read. Then she says, “What are you thinking, Hunter? You have to read it. What if you were missing, and Chloe got ahold of your journal? Wouldn’t you want her to read it to help you? Wouldn’t you want that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Even if there was embarrassing personal stuff in there like how many times you masturbated or whatever.”

  “Okay. I get your point.”