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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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The sky drops closer and changes to a dingy gray.
After Smith drops me off, I watch from the front window as he pulls out of the driveway, rain falling in sheets, slanted and cold, carried by wind blustering in from the foothills. Thunder rumbles overhead, beads of water beating against the windows, rolling down the glass like tears. It's normally soothing, the persistent cadence of a downpour, but not today. Today it only adds to the gloom weighing down my head and chest; the heavy burden draped across my already aching shoulders.
The soccer game only lasted one quarter before lightning made them quit, a text from a fellow teammate notified me of that. She said no one's heart was in it anyway—not even Coach's. They were too busy worrying about Jordan, wondering if she's okay.
From what I've pieced together after texting with friends, Jordan and a group of girls hung out in the diner's parking lot until sometime after midnight when she told them she was heading home. Whether she'd planned to come to my place, or if it happened on a whim, I don't know. So, I decide not to mention her texts. It wouldn't change the outcome, anyway. Her car still would have gone over the rail, crashing into the valley below.
I hope she pulls through. Not only because she knows something I don't, but because she didn't deserve to get into an accident. No matter what she's done, what she may be guilty of, Jordan shouldn't be in that hospital, fighting for her life.
Mom senses something's off as soon as she returns from her appointment. After telling her about the accident, she leaves me to my thoughts, glancing up from her computer every few minutes with worried eyes. "When I'm finished with this proposal, do you want to grab a bite to eat? Your choice. Except not that Italian place by the mall. Last time we ate there I was bloated for a week."
"That's because you scarfed down all the garlic breadsticks," I tell her, my eyes never leaving my phone. I've been searching for news articles about Jordan's crash, but they all say the same thing—which is a whole lot of nothing.
What I really want to do is call Dad and ask him to check into it for me, but I hate to put him in that position. Sharing information about patients in his hospital is against the law, and even though he'd never break that confidentiality, he'd feel awful telling me no.
"That wasn't me," Mom says. "It's called PMS. It has a mind of its own." She closes her laptop and sets it on the table next to her. "Anything new about Jordan?"
"Not since you asked ten minutes ago."
"Wow. Sorry I'm concerned about your friend."
Guilt squeezes my chest. When I look up, Mom's tucking her hair behind her ears, a sure-fire sign that she's pissed off or worried. Probably both. I blow out a breath. "Sorry. I'm just tired of all the drama."
"I get it," she says with a slow nod. "You've had a rough year—first with Emma, and now Jordan. You're due for some good news. I mean, Emma coming home was great news, but things haven't been the same between you two. Especially now that she knows about Smith."
