Gone (Ianthony)

Two Months, Two Weeks, Four Days, and One Hour Before

Anthony:    

The first time I had gotten a full night of sleep since it happened, probably just because my body couldn't force itself to stay awake anymore, I was woken up fairly early in the morning by an official-sounding knock on the door.

Now, first of all, I woke up not even knowing what day it was, or the last time I had taken a shower, or even changed my clothes. Second, I didn't know who the hell would come here without calling first, and I considered not answering it for a moment.

I laid on the couch for another minute, praying whoever it was would catch on and leave, but they knocked four more times. 

I shouldn't have answered the door.

Because as soon as I opened it, I realized I should have thrown a clean shirt on and a pair of pants for that matter. And as I stared up at the two men before me, I completely froze.

"Good morning, Mr. Padilla, correct?"

I stared at him. He pronounced my name as it was literally spelled, like Padi-ll-a, instead of how it was quite obviously pronounced, with the "y" sound - Padi-y-a. Had he never had a tortilla before? Quesadilla?

And I knew this was serious from the start, considering he said "correct?" in his very first sentence. Also, him and his partner both had on dark suits, complete with the black tie and everything. The only missing component was the black sunglasses - then they would have Men in Black completely.

"Uh, Padi-y-a, yeah," I stuttered. 

I had barely talked to anyone in nearly two weeks. Ian's mom, his grandma, Ross... I had completely cut off everyone else. It was like I sort of forgot how to speak. Especially to intimidating-looking tall guys in black suits.

"Padi-y-a, my apologies." The man reached a large hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a badge. "I'm Agent Hastings, and this is my partner, Agent Schuler - FBI. May we come in?"

"Uh..." I glanced from him to the guy standing next to him. "I guess."

I stepped aside and closed the door behind them. 

To say the least, if I had known two FBI agents would be showing up at my house, I would have used the time I spent sleeping last night to clean up a little.

"How can I help you?" 

At least I was trying to sound a little more mature. Less nervous. I had to ditch the whole Jesus-Christ-there-are-FBI-agents-in-my-house-and-I-haven't-showered-in-at-least-a-week-and-shit-there's-an-empty-coffee-cup-right-by-their-feet tone.

The two creepy agents exchanged a glance, and then the one who hadn't spoken yet - I forgot his name already - took a deep breath and stood up so straight it looked painful.

"Mr. Padilla, you are fully aware of the disappearance of Ian Hecox, correct?"

There it was again. Correct.   

My throat went dry.

"Yes."

"I take it you were very good friends with him, correct?"

"Yes."

I was starting to become convinced "correct" was the only word taught at whatever school FBI agents had to attend to become FBI agents.

"And our records show that he lived here."

"Yes."

The other one spoke this time. I remembered his name. Hastings.

"Would you mind showing us his room?"

That meant having to show them more of my messy house. No thanks.

"Sure, but..."

My stomach knotted, which was the body's universal sign for "shut up now before saying something you regret." But I ignored it. Maybe the lack of sleep was getting to me.

"If you don't mind me asking, why does the suicide of one person affect the FBI?"

They looked at each other again. The other guy - the one whose name I still couldn't remember - was totally bald. I found myself distracted by how the light reflected off of his head.

"Well, in order for a case to be legally classified as a suicide, a body needs to be evident. And so far, there are no traces of Mr. Hecox's corpse anywhere, so as of right now, we are looking at a missing person's report. Or possibly a murder trial."

"Murder?" I felt my mouth drop open.

"Yes. Which is why we're here."

And as the agent held my stare, I realized what he meant. 

On top of everything else, now the FBI thought I killed my best friend.

"You think I..." I trailed off, shaking my head in disbelief.

"Look, we're not assuming anything. We just need to check out all the possible outcomes." The bald guy pressed his mouth into a straight line, which seemed like a very odd thing to do when trying to talk. "His room?"

|||

That night, after the two creepy agents had not only scoped out his whole room, but mine also, and said they would be back later in the week for more questions, I had the sudden courage to return some of the calls that had been piling up in my phone's inbox every single day.

I called my mom. She answered on the first ring with "Anthony, honey how are you?" And I told her I was fine and I was sorry for ignoring her and thank you for not coming right over or anything, and she said she would have if it was too much longer, and I told her sorry but I really don't want to talk about what happened but I'm fine and I love you and I promise I'll see you soon.

I called a couple other friends who had heard and wanted to make sure I was alive myself, and told them I was fine and I promised to see them all soon.

There was only one person who had called me that I didn't call back. I couldn't stand to talk to her. Not yet.