Come Find Me

by Megan Miranda

  “Couldn’t he have gone missing and, like, officially disappeared after?”

  “Yeah, but then, what was he doing for those four hours when we were looking for him? We were all together when he…”

  I see it then, in his face, in his words. The first crack. Uncertainty.

  “The date means something, Nolan,” I say. “December fourth, right?”

  “Yeah,” he says, nodding to himself. As if he needs to convince himself. My stomach twists, but I follow him through the front yard.

  * * *

  —

  He leads me inside the house, and I was wrong. There is nothing normal about this house. At first, there’s the living room, which seems normal enough. But it doesn’t take long before you realize something is definitely weird here. Only part of the downstairs looks like a home. The den on the other side of the living room doesn’t have any couches. Instead, it has a long table with a row of computers and a cluster of phones between each monitor. There are whiteboards covering the walls, instead of family portraits or paintings.

  Oh, but then I see the pictures. In the dining room, in the kitchen, they line the walls. It looks like what I’d imagine the inside of a police investigation room to be like, except this is a house, and they seem to be looking into dozens and dozens (hundreds?) of cases all at once.

  “Right, so, my parents run a nonprofit for missing youth,” Nolan says, as explanation. He walks straight past it all, like it’s normal. And I guess for him, at this point, it is.

  Missing children lining the walls, in place of family photos, or paintings of fruit baskets or something. It puts me on edge, but I nod, like it’s cool, totally normal, no big deal.

  I try not to look as we head for the stairway. There are so many of them. Which means, there are so many people like Nolan, too. Left behind. Searching for answers. For signs of what happened.

  As I pass them by, the words keep hooking me from the corner of my eye. Last reported seen at a gas station in Cedarwood, NC; Missing since February 23, 2015.

  All these people, where do they go?

  At first, they blend together, in a mass; regardless of age or sex or race or features. But step closer, and the eyes look back, one by one.

  “Don’t look too close,” I hear from Nolan behind me. “Or else you’ll keep seeing them.” And then I understand. It’s not normal for him, either. It’s inescapable. This is what greets him, every morning. I have the shadow house. And he has this.

  So I take his advice and turn away. But then my eye catches a single photo, alone on the wall of the kitchen. Like they’ve run out of space and are just beginning a new section. I step closer. Blue eyes stare back, straight into my own. Freckles across the nose and cheeks, all the way to the narrow chin, the forehead. High cheekbones.

  I take another step, until I can’t see the face all at once, but only features, one at a time.

  The hair is dark, wrong.

  The hair is wrong, but.

  My hand reaches out, my fingers tracing the words below. Hunter Long…

  “Nolan,” I say, in warning. He circles back slowly as I cycle through the features again.

  I never thought that much of Elliot’s friends. In high school, they were sort of like him—quiet, studious, building things in the basement together in their free time. When we moved to West Arbordale last year, he didn’t really know anyone until he started college in the fall, and most of them lived there. Campus living was unnecessary for Elliot, since our mother taught history there. They commuted in together most days, or Joe would give him a lift, or Mom would leave him the car keys for after school and Will would drop her home later in the evening. So I remember this face. I remember Hunter Long. This is the kid he brought back home from college.

  He stuck out, I noticed, because he was the only friend of Elliot’s I’d seen at the house. I’d gotten home from school, and they were in the kitchen, raiding the fridge. Neither noticed me as I walked by.

  It was later, when I was alone in my room, and my door opened slowly—he stood in the entrance, like he was surprised to see me there. His hair was bleached pure white, a sharp contrast to his eyebrows, and the dark roots growing in.

  I jutted my thumb to the left. “Bathroom’s that way,” I said, and he shut the door again.

  By the time I came out of my room later, they were both gone. But they must’ve been looking at the radio telescope, because later that night, I heard Elliot’s laughter, and when I peered out my window, they were lying back and looking up at the sky.

  I didn’t mention it to Elliot; he didn’t mention it to me. It was a brief, forgotten moment. But looking at the image, I’m sure now.

  “I know him,” I say, my finger pressing into the photo, to make sure it’s real. “I’ve seen him.”

  And suddenly, the room fills with a warm, prickly feeling. Like I’m surrounded by static. Like everything’s connected somehow.

  “You’re right, Nolan. Something’s happening. Something here, too.”

  His brother, the signal, me, him—all of us, connected. After, before. There, here.

  This signal sent me here for a reason. So I would see this. It’s right here. This is what I was supposed to do, where I’m supposed to be. The pattern was so I’d find this picture. It’s not a signal for anyone else. It’s for me.

  “What do you mean you’ve seen him?” I ask.

  Kennedy stares at this new photo on the wall, and her hands are shaking. The statistics are listed below: last reported seen; location; date of birth. He’s seventeen—just barely making the youth list, just barely getting the attention of an organization like this. And he’s from North Carolina, not close enough to make our news, as he didn’t disappear from the middle of a picnic, like magic; but in the middle of the night, with a bag.

  Her hand lingers on the letters of his name, and the fine-print details below. “Last fall. With my brother. I thought he was a friend from college.”

  But he’s too young for college. And the details don’t fit.

  She turns to me, suddenly, looking me over slowly. Her eyes searching my face for something. I try not to look away. “Do you believe the universe can talk to us?” she asks.

  I open my mouth to say no, then instead I remember the image of my brother in the corner of the room, his mouth moving. “Maybe.” Maybe not the universe. But something.

  “Maybe,” she repeats, like for the first time, it feels almost possible to her, too. “Because I’m thinking that maybe I was supposed to come here.”

  I look to the wall, at the image of the missing kid. “For this?” I ask, jutting my thumb in his direction, but she doesn’t answer.

  Her eyes widen, and then I hear it, too—a car engine turning off, the beep of the door automatically locking. I gently push her toward the steps. “Go,” I say, my voice low and urgent.

  “Where—”

  “Upstairs, first door on the left. My room,” I whisper quickly, knowing no one will look in there.

  I brace myself for my parents’ return, but instead the key turns twice and, realizing the door is already unlocked, Mike pokes his head inside tentatively. “Hello? Nolan?”

  Well, my car is parked out front.

  “Hey, Mike,” I say, stepping out from the kitchen.

  His eyes narrow slightly. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

  I nod. “Forgot a project due after lunch. Rather take the skipped class than a zero on the assignment.” He makes a face, like he knows I’m lying, but he also won’t turn me in. Mike was Liam’s volunteer supervisor at the shelter and has been working with my parents since they moved the headquarters of their foundation to our house. He sees what it’s like for me here, day in and day out. And I know he’s been through it, too.

  He steps inside, shutting the door behind him. “Your parents called me,” he says, a
s if he needs to defend himself for his presence as well, “to cover the lines today. The interns should be here any minute. What’s been going on?”

  “Hey, Mike,” I say, cutting him off, gesturing toward the wall. I don’t want to talk about the picture of Liam. “What can you tell me about this newest face on the board?”

  “What?” He’s confused, and I don’t even blame him. The number of times I’ve expressed an interest in any of these faces, in any of the things my parents have gotten involved with, can be summed up to a grand total of zero.

  Mike steps closer, answering anyway. This is what he does, why he’s here. Bringing the missing to life. It consumed his own life, the not knowing—he’s dedicated his life to this. As if he can atone for what he missed in his own history.

  There’s a spark in his eyes now, even as he doubts me. “Hunter Long. New case. Just been added to the system. I did it myself last week.” He shakes his head. “He up and left his home sometime in the fall, but it wasn’t reported until much later, in the winter.”

  “So, over six months ago? And it’s just being added now?”

  “It’s complicated. It wasn’t reported for weeks because he had a habit of doing this; of leaving home for a while and then coming back. Had some issue with the stepfather, spent some time crashing with friends. The investigation, it seems, was sort of half-assed.” He cringes at his language, but I nod.

  Children are children, is my parents’ philosophy. Danger is danger. It’s not our job to judge the circumstances; no one is to be seen as worthier than anyone else. I’m glad this kid eventually made it onto our wall, because sometimes I’m not so sure if that statement is true.

  Still, he’s here now. Every day, reminding us, just like all the rest.

  “Thanks, Mike. I’m just gonna grab my stuff now.”

  Mike settles in front of the long table, puts a headset over his ears while I bound up the steps, two at a time, to my room.

  * * *

  —

  Kennedy isn’t in my room. The door is open, but I can tell it’s empty even before I step inside. Down the hall, the door to Liam’s room is uncharacteristically ajar, and a shadow stretches out the door. I watch her from the doorway—she’s standing in the middle of the empty room, surrounded by the moss-green walls, her hands at her sides, staring straight ahead, as if she’s in a trance. I’m scared to spook her.

  “Kennedy?” I whisper.

  She jumps anyway before spinning around. Sorry, she mouths.

  I ease the door shut behind us. “It’s okay. The guy downstairs works for my parents. He’s got headphones on, so he’s not going to hear us. But more people will be showing up soon.”

  “Is this it?” she asks, frowning.

  It. My brother’s room. The source of the signal, of everything.

  “Yep, this is it.” She’s staring at the room the way I did, like she’s looking for something that isn’t there. I’m too embarrassed to mention that I actually whispered his name, looking for him.

  I clear my throat. “I told Mike I was on my way out, back to school, so…”

  She raises an eyebrow, and it turns her more carefree, like I can picture the girl inside, underneath everything that’s happened: the signal, the house, her devastating history. “Is this why you questioned my stealth mode?” she asks, and I laugh.

  * * *

  —

  In the end, I have her sneak out the back door, behind the kitchen. Mike was right—the interns arrived right after him. Dave and Clara (or Sara). Clara/Sara looks at me when I come downstairs, notebook in hand. Her face pinches into both recognition and pity, and I can’t stand it. She smiles warmly. She reminds me of Abby: pretty, friendly.

  “Hey there,” she says. “Nolan, right?” Dave runs a hand through his red hair, looks from her to me, and lowers his eyes again.

  I half-wave and walk by the table. I can’t stand that still, two years later, I am something to be seen in relation to an event. It’s the only reason she’s looking at me like that. Head tipped to the side, mouth pursed, so tragic.

  Like Kennedy said, the spectators do come out, drawn to the scene. Like there’s something alluring about our tragedy.

  “Sara, right?” I say, pressing my fingers into the surface of the table, waiting for Mike to look up.

  “Clara,” she corrects.

  Dave has inched closer, but he’s fidgeting with the papers, like he’s hoping I won’t notice he’s totally eavesdropping. “I remember you,” I say, and he flinches.

  Dave nods slowly. “I was at your school when…” When it happened. When Liam disappeared. He looks back down again. “I didn’t really know him. But he was always friendly.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say. As if I didn’t know this about my brother.

  Mike’s talking on the phone and barely notices the exchange. He probably wouldn’t have noticed if Kennedy had walked right by him, either.

  “Well,” I say, channeling my parents, “thanks for your help.”

  Clara leans across the table, just as I’m backing away. “You know, Abby is a friend of mine,” she says, and I feel my cheeks start to heat. I wonder what Abby told her, about Liam, about me. I wonder if she knows about the email. Dave looks up again. Maybe everyone knows. Abby’s friends, the police, Dave, who thinks he knows us.

  “Late for next period,” I say, turning away.

  I’m out the door before anyone can call me back.

  I wait for Kennedy in the driveway, weaving past either Clara’s or Dave’s black SUV and Mike’s blue car, which is much nicer than my own. It only makes it more obvious that mine is in desperate need of a cleaning. They’ve both got a decal of my parents’ organization in their back windows, whereas I’ve always refused. I felt like a walking billboard as it was—no need to add a sticker for people to know.

  I like to avoid the attention magnets as much as possible.

  Kennedy slips into the passenger seat, and she’s looking at me in a way I can already interpret: she wants to boss me around. “Okay, Kennedy,” I say. “Where to?”

  “Well, I sort of need my bike back. Maybe you can drop me at my house and I can take it to Joe’s? As you can see, I’m pretty stealthy. I’ll sneak around back when the buyers aren’t looking.”

  “That’s kind of a long bike ride.”

  She shrugs. “I do it every couple of nights.”

  “Wait, when do you sleep?”

  “Naps, Nolan. Give them a shot. I’m big on the after-school nap before Joe gets home for dinner. At this point, I think I have him convinced it’s just a normal part of female adolescence.”

  “You know, I can just drive you instead.”

  She twists in the seat, not responding.

  I repeat the offer, only this time I make it a statement instead of an offer, so she will just accept it already. “Stop biking. I’ll drive you over there tonight to get your things. And then whenever you need a ride. At least until we figure this out. Okay?”

  “Are you going to try the nap?” she asks, and I think that means she’s agreed.

  She asked me if I believed the universe could talk to us, and the truth is, I do think it’s something. The fact that we both received the signal and it linked us together; the fact that she came to my house and recognized a photo. All of it means this was not chance, but purpose.

  I think it’s this: The signal isn’t the message. It’s the sign. A clue, from my brother maybe, trapped somewhere beyond this world, telling me where to go. And right now, it’s telling me to follow Kennedy Jones on her mission, and somewhere along the way, it’s going to lead me to the next sign, or the next, and we will find him.

  Now.

  Wait, no.

  Now. For real.

  Okay, my texts to Nolan are not the most eloquent. Not that his are any better.

  Here,
he wrote five minutes ago.

  I mean, at the corner, he amended in the next text.

  I’d just spent the last five minutes making sure Joe was really sleeping, and not just staring at the ceiling in the dark. Joe didn’t come home until after dinner, when I was crashing—a nap in preparation for tonight. When he knocked on my bedroom door—to apologize for being late, got caught up, etc, etc—I tried my best to look like I hadn’t just been sleeping.

  I must’ve failed, because he frowned and asked if I was feeling okay.

  I’ve been watching the clock since then. Joe didn’t go to bed until just after midnight, when the house was dark and quiet. I gave him twenty extra minutes.

  When I opened his bedroom door to check on him, he didn’t move.

  It was time.

  Without my bike, the routine feels off. I’m more on-edge than usual, sneaking out in the middle of the night. Once I’m outside, I make a dash for the corner of the street, where Nolan said he’d be waiting.

  The overhead light inside his car turns on as I pull open the passenger door, and he squints. “Hey,” he says.

  “Geez, find the creepiest spot on the street, why don’t you.”

  He rolls his eyes, and it looks like he just woke up. Like he’s only half focused, and it turns him softer at the edges. “Better than having someone call the cops on me because some beat-up car is parked under a streetlight outside their house.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say as he drives off.

  “Hey,” he says, nudging me in the shoulder with one hand while he drives. “Breathe, Kennedy.”

  I smile at him, at the slow grin that forms as his eyes adjust to the dark again.

  * * *

  —

  The street is quiet at night, winding through forest and farmland, no sidewalk on either edge. “I can’t believe you bike this in the dark,” Nolan mumbles.