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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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As much as I hate to, I need to see Emma and squeeze out more information. Though judging from how things have gone so far, it won't be easy. Since she's been home, what little clues she's shared have added up to a big fat nothing.
But if I can get her talking about her disappearance maybe something will leak out? It's worth a shot, and basically the only option I have.
After dinner, I tell Mom I have a bunch of homework and lock myself in my room. Cooper's stretched out on my bed, his tail twitching as I pace back and forth, continuously checking the time on my phone. When I'm confident Mom has settled in for the night, most likely with a regency romance in her lap and a glass of wine beside her, I push open my window and lean over the pane.
Emma's bedroom light is still on.
It's now or never. I slide over the sill and creep down the roof, taking my time so I don't slip and fall. Once I'm at the ledge, I lunge toward the closest tree, and the rest is as simple as dismounting a ladder.
A swift wind blows the hair from my face the moment my feet touch the grass. With my hands curled into my sleeves, I dart across the yard and hoist myself onto the iron pergola beneath Emma's balcony, scaling the vine-covered trellis with ease. I heave myself over the wooden rail, the light penetrating Emma's sheer curtain guiding my way. But when I peer through the window, the room is empty. My shoulders deflate.
What am I supposed to do now ... snoop around her bedroom while she's missing in action? A hollowness spreads in my chest. I turn to leave and then stop.
An empty room means I can poke through her belongings and she'll never even know I was there. Besides, I'm already here and don't want this to be a wasted trip. I need to figure out what's going on before it's too late. Too late for what I don't even want to think about.
Before I chicken out, I push open the bedroom window and slide inside, closing it half-way in case I need to make a quick escape.
It looks the same as always, clothes and shoes scattered across the floor, the bedcovers half-hanging off the bed. A lot about Emma has changed, but keeping a tidy room isn't one of them.
My gaze scans the perimeter, unsure of what I'm looking for. I guess if it's something important, I'll know it when I see it, but nothing unusual catches my eye.
If I were evidence, where would I be?
I hide things I don't want my mom to see beneath the rows of folded panties in my dresser. I tiptoe to Emma's night stand and ease open the top drawer, sifting to the bottom of her silky undergarments. Snapshots of Emma and Smith are strewn across the wooden base, with occasional photos of me and Mey or some of the soccer players tossed in the mix. Cradled in the crease where the bottom meets the side is a strange looking pen.
