It’s a full minute before Jake says, his voice low, “Do you know something, Caroline? About Madison, I mean. About her disappearance?”
The question hangs in the closed-up silence of my car, the steady stream of rain pinging off the roof and draping us in curtains of glass and water.
I didn’t an hour ago, but now I might. Except I’m not ready to share yet. “The detectives asked all the expected stuff. My name. Where I live.”
“And?”
“And they asked me where I was the night Madison disappeared.”
That was my first lie. I barely made it through the first five minutes.
Jake hands me the vape and rubs his palms down his thighs, like he’s afraid of my answer. “Where were you?”
Truth: Starting the first phase of my tattoo at a place that doesn’t get hung up on legalities like age restrictions or parental permission. “Out. Madison’s calendar showed I was supposed to meet with her to start our chem project.”
I was supposed to meet her. And I bailed.
Not because I had to start my tattoo that night, or even because I wanted to, but because I knew exactly how the night would go if I met up with Madison.
We’d make it less than thirty minutes before Madison would start to twirl her hair and then say, “So what’s up with you, Caroline?”
She’d been building up to it for weeks — sharp inhales at the first lull in conversation that I had to cut off before she could call me out on breaking the promise we made to each other when we were fourteen, when we swore we’d never lie to each other. Never hold back the important stuff.
That night we sat on her balcony, moonlight straining against a wall of silver clouds, and sipped at Dixie cups filled with the vodka we replaced with water after breaking into her parents’ liquor cabinet. We vowed not to sleep until the sun trickled into the sky and scared away the dark.
We talked about boys and I was just drunk enough to talk about girls, and then I froze, head spinning too fast to run. But then her cold fingertips found mine beneath our shared blanket and I didn’t try to stop the tears that dropped to my cheeks. We spent the night huddled in the corner, until our breath turned white and then disappeared with the dawn.
She never told anyone, and I tucked her acceptance into my heart and let it convince me my spaces were safe. Then, that night after my game, I told my mom who I was and those spaces collapsed. I never quite found my way back.
So when I found Willa again, I didn’t tell Madison. This time, I protected my safe space with everything I had, even from the one person who’d never betrayed me.
I broke my vow to Madison. I lied to her. And Willa left anyway.
I gave everything, and it still wasn’t enough. I still wasn’t enough.
Then I didn’t know how to tell Madison I’d pushed her away for someone who left me behind.
And even now as I sit here in this car, with Jake staring at my temple like he can pull the thoughts from my head, I can’t stop remembering how Madison seemed quieter lately, her smile a watt dimmer.
And not once did I ask why. Or what was up with her. I did to her what so many others had done to me.
I walked away.
Since then, all I’ve done is hand out flyers and wait.
“What’d you tell the cops?” Jake stares through the windshield to the blur of trees struggling against the wind.
“That I was sick.” I avoid his gaze when he turns to me, but I can feel the accusation in it like a scrape across my skin. “What difference does it make, Jake? My answer isn’t going to bring her back.”
I want there to be more conviction in my voice, but my words fall flat and quiet, closer to a question than I’m willing to admit.
But there is something I can do — I just have to get Jake out of my car to do it.
My phone buzzes in my cup holder and an email notification from Mr. McCormack lights up the screen. My phone case fogs with the sweaty heat of my hands when I press my thumb to unlock it.
The screen shifts and I’ve barely read the first word when Jake’s hand darts out to grab my phone. I lunge for him and my fist connects with the side of his head, sending stabs of pain through my knuckles.
He yells, “Jesus, Caroline! You didn’t need to concuss me with your douche flute.” He rubs the spot on his head that has only the smallest smear of blood.
“Next time don’t try to steal from me! And I didn’t mean to hit you with it anyway. It was just in my hand.”
His brows are furrowed. “Why is Mr. McCormack emailing you?”
I click the locks. “Get out.”
“No. You shouldn’t be emailing him. Or texting him. Or hanging out in his class after —”
“Mr. McCormack emails everyone. And I don’t think I asked for your opinion.”
“You don’t —” He shakes his head, his eyes not betraying his thoughts.
“What?”
He shakes his head again, lips pressed so tight they’ve lost all color. “Just … trust me.”
“Not good enough, Jake. If you know something, tell me, otherwise get out so I can leave.”
He presses his palms together, fingertips to his lips, then peels his hands apart so he can rake them through his hair. “Preston Ashcroft’s brother is on the new task force for Madison’s case.”
“Preston Ashcroft is also the biggest gossip in the entire school. Why would anyone tell him anything?”
“I know, but just … Just listen, okay? Madison had this burner phone she used sometimes to score weed.”
I raise an eyebrow, but it’s more to cover the guilt weighing heavily on my chest. At some point, it seems Madison started lying too.
Jake’s face is splotched with red, his jaw clenched so tight I take pity on him and say, “Relax, Jake, I’m not the NCAA coming to drug test you for eligibility.”
He nods toward my vape. “You wouldn’t exactly be setting the right example.”
I flip him off and his laughter fills the car before he says, “I don’t smoke, and Madison didn’t much either. You know that. Just for parties and stuff. But that’s not the point. Preston says they found out about the phone because they got a warrant to search Mr. McCormack’s earlier today, and Madison texted him from her burner the night she went missing.”
I fiddle with the heat so I won’t look as rattled as I feel. “So?”
Mr. McCormack converses with plenty of his students. He does movie nights and chaperones overnight trips. He’s got an insufferably enthusiastic open-door policy for any student who wants to talk. But he’s always professional, never letting anyone slip past a line. He talks with lots of students, all the time. By email and phone — his St. Francis–supplied cell phone.