The Boy Who Lives In My Garage > jariana (COMPLETED)

nineteen

"Someone died," Alyssa says. "That's why cops show up at your house for no reason, right? To tell you someone died? Oh my God..."

"Stop freaking out," I snap, but it takes me three tries to unbuckle my seatbelt, which proves I'm not taking my own advice. "No one died."

"Wait," Alyssa says. "Do you know about this? Have you been hanging out with Jimmy Parson?"

"God, no," I say, getting out of the car. "Just...stop talking." I'm unable to handle both Alyssa's panic and my own. We walk in through the middle stall of the garage, but instead of taking a right toward the door, I take a left.

"Where are you going?" Alyssa demands.

"Hang on." My hands shake and my lungs tighten as I step around the front of the Trans Am. Justin and his backpack are both gone, but the tarps and blankets are in a state of disarray, like he either left in a hurry or was taken away. I peer under the car. No dice.

As I approach my sister, she stares at me like I've grown a third eyeball in the middle of my forehead. Ignoring the look, I say, "Let's go."

When I open the door, the house smells of freshly brewed coffee and dread. Voices stutter to a stop. Alyssa closes the door behind us, and I lean over to take off my heels, heart pounding against my rib cage.

"Ariana?" Dad calls from the kitchen.

If it was something other than Justin, he'd be asking for both of us. Not just me. Taking a shaky breath, I stand up straight. "Yeah?"

"Come in here, please."

I don't go right away. Not only do I put my heels away for a change, but I take my time and hang my coat neatly on the rack as well.

When I finally make my way into the kitchen, Mom and Dad are seated at the kitchen table with two uniformed police officers. It's jarring to see the coffee mugs we use every day in the hands of cops.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Why don't you have a seat?" Dad's words are an order in a suggestion disguise.

One of the officers is sitting in my usual seat, so I take Alyssa's.

"Ariana, these are Officers Monroe and Jackson," Dad says.

Mom turns on her tablet and slides it across the table. The browser is open to a news site. The headline reads "Traverse City teen still missing." The guy in the picture is familiar. Even though his hair is longer and he looks slightly younger, it's unmistakably Justin. I'm hot and cold at the same time and wonder if this is what people feel like right before they pass out.

"I finally figured out why Justin looked so familiar," Dad says. "It was because I'd seen his picture on the news."

"Ariana," the older of the two officers says, "do you know where Justin is now?"

"The truth," Mom says, warning in her tone.

They didn't catch him. He got away. Though I'm not sure I should be relieved, I still am. "No. I don't."

The younger officer asks, "When was the last time you saw him?"

"This morning. Before school."

The first officer nods. "How long have you known Justin?" They bounce the questions back and forth like this is a well-practiced ping pong match and I'm predestined to lose.

I consider. "A little over a month."

Back to the second officer. "And how do you know him?"

If I tell the truth, Justin's hiding place isn't safe anymore. It's gone. He's gone. But if I don't tell the truth, I'm going to be in deep shit. Even I'm not ballsy enough to flat-out lie to the police. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. "I found him living in our garage."