“So it was him. He just needs to admit it and…” The words stick in my throat like pieces of broken glass. “He has to tell the police where Chloe is.”

  “That would be the end of it.”

  “Yeah. The end of a lot of things.”

  Dad studies me. His glasses are once again pushed up on top of his head, reflecting the light above. There’s more gray in the stubble on his chin than I’ve ever noticed before. “I thought you might be struggling to accept that all of this is the answer,” Dad says. “Is it because Ron was your friend and mentor?”

  “Of course it’s that. But it’s also…I’ll say it, but I’ll sound like a fool.”

  “I doubt it,” Dad says.

  He sounds so confident, so much like he believes in me. I’m willing to sound stupid.

  “Okay,” I say. “I believed Ron when he told me his story. When he said he didn’t take Chloe. And I thought he was telling the truth when he said he went after us but then another car came along. I believed him, so…”

  “You’re saying why would he admit to all those horrible things, but not admit to the rest? If he really knows where Chloe is, why keep it a secret?”

  “Exactly. He admitted a lot. He’s going to get fired at the very least. He’s going to lose his new job. Am I wrong to think that makes it look like he’s telling the truth?”

  “There’s no way to know. Some people will say anything to save their hides. And this guy was clearly trying to fool everyone.”

  “And he succeeded.”

  “Maybe you need to just sit back and think about all this more. Look for the things I mentioned before.”

  “Look for what?”

  “Contradictions, for one,” he says. “Places where there are two facts that seem in contradiction to each other. If two things contradict each other, there’s tension. It’s a pressure point.” He purses his lips and folds his arms. “Press on that point. Maybe something will shake loose.”

  “None of it makes sense, Dad. Sometimes I think there’s not enough information to put it all together. All we know are scraps I can remember, and now what Ron has admitted. Other times I think there’s too much information.”

  “Too much?” Dad asks.

  “Too much,” I say. “If we know so little, then the answer could be an infinite variety of things. Chloe could have been kidnapped. She could have run away. She could be pregnant. She could be living in the woods like Tarzan. She could have been taken by aliens. Anything goes because we know don’t know anything for sure. It all makes me want to bang my head against the wall.”

  “I understand. I’m sure the cops feel the same way. But if everybody just keeps—”

  “Dad, I’m sorry, but I don’t see how any of this is helping. No one has figured out anything. We’re no closer. And…” The words linger at the back of my mouth. If I give them voice, then they might become true. But more and more, it seems like that is the very thing happening right before our eyes. “Dad, I’m starting to think Chloe isn’t coming back. That we’ll never know what really happened to her. No one will ever know except for the person who took her.”

  Dad looks disappointed. He frowns, and some of the light goes out of his eyes. It’s disappointment at the truth of what I’ve said. But also disappointment that I might be ready to give up.

  What else I can say or do?

  First, I thought it was Basher. Then, I thought it was Ron.

  I’ve got nothing.

  “Well,” Dad says, “if you want to talk, just let me know. And if you don’t, that’s okay, too.”

  He stands up and walks to the door. As he’s pushing the door shut again, I say, “Thanks, Dad,” but I’m not sure I speak loud enough for him to hear me.

  Seventy-Seven

  Since Dad left the room, I’ve been staring into space. But then, without knocking, Olivia barges into my room.

  “I need you to give me a ride to Gabby’s house.”

  “Sure, you can come in,” I say. “And, please?”

  “Can you please give me a ride to Gabby’s house? Halloween is next week, and we have to finish our costumes.”

  “Can’t you walk?”

  “Dad won’t let me. Remember? There’s a kidnapper on the loose? And now we’re pretty sure it isn’t you.”

  “Nice.”

  “Sorry.” She smirks at me. “Not really, it was funny. But can you drive me? I don’t want to bother Dad. When I ask him for a ride, he acts like I want a million dollars.”

  “Are you ready to go now?” I ask.

  She nods enthusiastically. “I got ready because I knew you’d say yes.”

  “I’m glad you think of me as your chauffer.” I grab my keys and wallet.

  “Can I just say—”

  I hold up my hand. “No. You can’t.”

  “Shut up. I know you want to hear every thought I have.”

  “I think I do hear every thought you have.”

  She goes on, barely pausing, while I tie my shoes. “I never thought Basher was guilty. Do you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because he told you he kept wanting to go over to the house and work on cars or whatever stupid masculine shit he did over there. Why would he want to go over and hang out with Chloe’s parents and work on cars and stuff if he’d hurt her? I mean, how much of a psycho would you have to be?”

  “I went to her house. And into the house.”

  “And you’re not guilty, either. Why would Basher want to go over there if he was guilty? See? He’s a jerk, but not a killer.”

  I finish tying my shoes but don’t get up.

  “How did you know Basher wanted to hang out with Scott?” I ask.

  “You said. That night you tried to kick his ass and failed epically, he told you. Don’t tell me you don’t remember this, either. How scrambled is your brain?”

  “No, I do.” I remember lying in the grass, waiting for my breath to return. That’s when Basher said he offered to spend time with Scott and work on the Mustang to distract him from Chloe being missing, but Scott told him no. Scott said he hadn’t been out in the garage at all.

  In fact, Basher said that Scott acted offended at the suggestion. Like the last thing he wanted to think about was going into the garage.

  “I can’t give you a ride, Livvy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  But I’m already up and heading for the stairs, ignoring Olivia who is following along and calling my name.

  In the kitchen, Dad sits at the table with a thick book about Ulysses S. Grant open before him. He’s using a highlighter to mark significant passages, but when he sees me, he pushes the book aside and caps the marker. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve got to go somewhere. And Olivia wants a ride to Gabby’s. Can you take her? I’m in a hurry.”

  He steeples his fingers against his lips, nodding his head.

  Olivia comes rushing down the steps and stands in the doorway. Watching.

  “What are you in such a hurry to do?” Dad asks.

  “I have to talk to someone. About one of those contradictions.”

  “Why don’t I go with you? Or why don’t you call Detective Haley? I’m worried that there’s someone out there—”

  “Thanks, but no.”

  “Hunter, this is dangerous.”

  “I’ve got this, Dad. I’m not doing anything dangerous.”

  “Okay,” he says, clearly not satisfied. “Is there anything I can do to help? Besides driving your sister to Gabriela’s house?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Do you have any advice?”

  “What’s going on, Hunter?” Olivia asks. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”

  But I ignore her. And so does Dad.

  Dad’s brow furrows. His lips purse. This is what he looks like when one of his students asks him a particularly vexing question during office hours. Finally, he says, “Be careful. And don’t take any shit.”

  Seventy-Eight

  Once again, the Bashers’ house is lit up like a light bulb factory.

  Little tremors of anxiety flood through my body.

  The chime of the doorbell echoes inside the house, followed by the high-pitched barking of a small dog. I hope Basher answers, but luck isn’t with me tonight.

  Basher’s dad looks at me through the sidelight. He yanks open the door and steps outside. He’s a shorter, squattier version of his son, but there’s a resemblance in the heavy brow, the broad nose.

  “What the fuck are you doing here? Are you looking for another ass beating? I promise this time no one’s going to pull him off you.”

  One step back. And one only. I refuse to yield too much ground, even though it’s his porch.

  “I just want to talk to Mike. I want to ask him a question.”

  “Well, you can’t. Now get out of here before I call the police.”

  “Can you just—”

  And then Basher is there, appearing behind his dad and placing one hand on his shoulder. “Dad? Dad?”

  Mr. Basher spins around like he’s about to be jumped, but when he sees Mike’s face, his posture relaxes. “What?”

  “I want to talk to him, Dad,” Mike says. “Just go back inside. Mom’s starting that movie she wants you to watch with her.”

  “You come with me,” Mr. Basher says. “There’s only trouble out here. This loser couldn’t even keep that perverted teacher away from his girl.”

  “Dad. Go in. I’ve got this.”

  Mr. Basher stares at his son for a moment, and then shoots me one more tough-guy look, the kind of thing intended to make me melt into the ground. My face flushes, but I don’t move or flinch. Mom always said: I’ve been barked at by bigger dogs than that.

  It’s true. After everything else, Mr. Basher is the least of my worries.

  When he’s finally gone, Mike shuts the door and faces me. He’s wearing a T-shirt and shorts, no shoes. It’s a cool night and cloudy, with moisture in the air like it could rain at any moment. He makes no concessions to the weather, standing there like it’s a hot day in July.

  “What do you want?” he asks, his voice flat.

  “I want to ask you something,” I say. “And then I’ll leave you alone.” I turn and point to the yard, to the spot where he tackled me. “When I was here that night, when you threw me on the ground, you said something. You said you’d been over to Chloe’s house and tried to help Scott with the car.”

  Basher sounds impatient. “Yeah. So what?”

  “You said Scott told you he hadn’t been working on the car. That he hadn’t been in the garage since Chloe disappeared.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “When I was in their house on the night I took the journal, I overheard Laura and Scott talking.”

  Basher’s face scrunches with disgust. “That’s sick, dude. Why did you do that to them? They’re such good people.”

  “That’s not important. When they were talking, Laura was complaining about Scott going out to the garage every day. That he was spending all kinds of time out there. Something doesn’t add up.”

  One side of Basher’s mouth turns up. “That’s what you wanted to ask me? That’s the big deal? Scott didn’t want me coming around and lied about it. So what? Go home, Hunter. I’m tired.”

  “Can the Mustang be driven? Does it run?”

  Basher hesitates. “Like a dream. The body’s a little rough in places, but the engine is sweet as hell.”

  “So…Scott could have driven that car the night of homecoming. And maybe now he doesn’t want anyone to see it.”

  Basher grabs my elbow in a grip like an iron claw. He pulls me off the porch and into the yard. We stop twenty feet from the house. He leans in close—so close that some of his spit lands on my face when he talks.

  “You’re talking some serious bullshit,” he says. “Are you really saying Scott ran you off the road in the Mustang? Are you sure you want to say something that freaky?”

  “Maybe I am. But what else could have happened?”

  “The cops searched the whole house. You know that. They only missed the journal because it was in the wall.”

  “Maybe they didn’t even look in the garage. Why would they? They searched the house because they wanted to find anything that was related to Chloe. Her computer, her journal. Hair samples. Clothes for those scent dogs they used during the searches. But it was all Chloe’s stuff. Why would they look in a place that belongs to Scott? Chloe never went in the garage. She didn’t keep anything in there. And Scott was never a suspect.”

  “No,” Basher says, shaking his head. “No. Not this. You can’t say this.”

  “Just tell me how you get into the garage, Mike,” I say. “I know there’s a code. I’ve seen Scott use it. If you tell me that, I’ll leave.”

  “You’re going to break into their house again?”

  “I didn’t break in. And this is just the garage. I want to look at the car and then leave.”

  “How do you know I wouldn’t give you the wrong code? Or maybe Scott changed it? He changes it every couple of months. How do you know I won’t give you the code and call the police?”

  “I don’t know any of that,” I say. “But I’m willing to risk it.”

  He studies me in the darkness, his eyes looking down on me.

  “Look, I know you care about Chloe, too,” I say. “I know that. You wrote that poem about her. You want to know what happened. All I’m doing is trying to eliminate this…contradiction. Once it’s cleared up, I’ll never think about it again. I’ll move on.”

  Basher’s still staring at me, and I can’t read the look on his face. I expect him to grab me again and drag me back to my car. But he stands still while the clouds rush by overhead.

  “You’re an idiot, you know that,” he says.

  “I know.”

  “I mean, really. There’s something wrong with you.”

  “There is. You’re right.”

  Basher turns and starts back for the house.

  “Is that it?” I say. “You’re not going to help?”

  “Get in your car,” he says. “I have to get my shoes.”

  Seventy-Nine

  We park in the same spot as the night of the great journal heist.

  It’s getting close to nine, and the neighborhood is quiet. Our mission is easier. We’re just going into the garage, not the house. Basher and I dash across the grass like overgrown trick-or-treaters. We move through a few neighbors’ yards until we reach the Summerses’ property. Mike is ahead of me, and he presses his body against the side of the garage, so I do the same.

  There are two lights on in the house—one in Chloe’s room and one in the kitchen. But we can’t see anyone. Both cars are in the driveway—Laura’s and the rental I saw at the accident site.

  “The door’s on the other side,” Mike says, gesturing with his head. “I say we go around the back instead of crossing in front of the garage.”

  I give him a thumbs-up. We walk the perimeter—first along the side of the garage we’re on and then around the back. We move carefully. Three garbage cans and an old wheelbarrow make it an obstacle course for us. At the far corner I peek around at the house. Still no movement inside. There’s a light above the door to the garage, but it’s turned off. A break.

  “Why don’t I go and open it,” I say. “Then I’ll signal you.”

  “Okay, Jason Bourne.”

  “What’s the code?”

  Mike’s eyes get bigger. “Oh. It’s Chloe’s birthday. 0-2-1-8.”

  I remember Chloe saying it was a special birthday because she’d be turning eighteen on the eighteenth. “That only happens once.”

  Would she ever get to celebrate it?

  I crouch again and slink along the side of the garage, keeping my eyes on the house. I reach the keypad and take another quick glance at the house. I drop flat on the ground.

  Scott is in the large kitchen window. He’s wearing a Garrett Morgan sweatshirt and carries a mug of tea or coffee. He pauses, presses his face against the glass, and looks outside.

  Right at me.

  I’m frozen on the ground, pressed as flat as my body can get. The grass is wet against my face. Scott continues to stare out at the night. Then he turns and walks away from the window.

  Relief surges through me like cool water.

  I push myself up, my fingers shaking, and enter the code.

  The knob doesn’t budge. I check the window, looking for Scott, and see nothing. I enter the code again, being more careful than ever.

  No go.

  I look down the length of the garage. Mike’s head appears. I shrug. He shrugs back.

  If it’s not Chloe’s birthday, it could be anything. It could be Scott’s best friend from kindergarten’s birthday. It could be four random numbers.

  Laura’s birthday was in August. I went to the party along with a million other relatives and friends. August 16.

  So I try that: 0-8-1-6.

  Nothing.

  I look at Basher again. He leaves his position behind the back wall of the garage and rushes over to me. We speak in whispers so low I can barely hear him.

  “What’s Scott’s birthday?” I ask.

  “How the hell do I know? I say we leave. Abort mission.”

  “No, Mike. Think. When’s his birthday?”

  “I don’t know.” His forehead wrinkles. “Wait. He went to a car show on his birthday last year. He offered to take me, but I had practice.”

  “April then?” I ask.

  “Yeah, April. April 4. Or maybe it’s the twentieth. Shit. One of them is my mom’s birthday, and one is Scott’s.”