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When 17-year-old Arbor Hayes' best friend turns up alive after a mysterious six-month disappearance, she must piece together the fragments of her story to make sense of what happened. But as clues e...
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I've never cut class before, much less skipped the entire last half of school, but there's no way I can stay after getting a text like that. If this is a prank, I'm going to find out.
And if it's not ...
Is that even possible? Emma's been gone for months. When the police found her truck abandoned in a cornfield three hours away from home, its shiny blue paint crusted over with mud, they said she suffered life-threatening injuries based on the amount of blood in the backseat. There were other signs of struggle, too. Clumps of dark hair pulled from her head. A torn varsity jacket. One Adidas tennis shoe lying in a puddle of muck near the road. And a missing cell phone and driver's license.
But what if the text is real? What if Emma's alive?
My stomach clenches at the thought. I don't want to get my hopes up only to discover it's not true, it'd be like losing her all over again. The first time was hard enough.
But here's the thing. The text said: Long time no see. That was an inside joke we said to each other every day. Because when you saw one of us, you knew the other was nearby. We were inseparable.
Until she disappeared six months ago.
With white knuckles, I clutch the steering wheel of my CR-V, and follow the winding roads through town. The pavement is slick with rain. I'm taking the curves faster than I should, but I can't slow down, my toe pressing harder against the gas pedal. I need answers, and there's only one place I'm going to find them.
It doesn't take long before I squeal into a driveway, my wheels bumping over the curb, and follow the stamped concrete toward a spectacular log home. But for all its grandeur, there's something unsettling about the Navarro residence. A dullness stretches throughout the interior and leaks from the massive windows, coating the property in a protective layer of film. Look, but don't touch. Isn't that Mrs. Navarro's motto? The perfect house for the perfect family, nestled inside the perfect neighborhood.
I unlock the seat belt and tumble out of my SUV, not even bothering to close the door behind me. As I make my way up the stairs and onto the wraparound porch, my legs are slow and heavy, like they're weighted with wet sand.
Before I can knock, the front door swings open, and Mrs. Navarro's stunned expression brings me to a halt.
I knew she'd be home. Since Emma died—I mean, went missing—she never leaves the house. It's like she's making up for all the time she spent working while Emma was still around.
She stumbles from the entryway into my arms, her thin shoulders trembling so violently she looks like she's having a seizure. I lock my legs and try to hold her up, but she's dead weight in my grasp. We crash to our knees, the damp porch soaking through my jeans.
But she doesn't miss a beat, like the fall never happened. Her face is red, eyes like slits, cheeks streaked with tears. Gasps of air punch in and out of her mouth and I can't make out what she's saying.
