Find You There

by Brianna Bennett

  Find You There

  Brianna Bennett

  Edited by

  Alexandra K. Ellis

  Copyright © 2021 by Brianna Bennett

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Also by Brianna Bennett

  Faerest

  For you, reader.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “Murder,” said Maddie.

  “Mutilation,” said Meg.

  “Mayhem,” said Michelle.

  “Welcome to the 3M true crime podcast, brought to you by Maddie, Meg, and Michelle!” exclaimed the three hosts in unison. As the voices grew quieter and the dramatic music swelled, Lyric prepped her workstation.

  Around her, scents of earthy clay and musty walls mingled together like an aphrodisiac to her creativity. Craft Me Happy, Claymoor’s own crafting studio, was Lyric’s favorite place in the world. Others would compare the ceramic studio’s temperature to the surface of the sun, but Lyric would say those people were being dramatic.

  Accompanied by the podcast hosts’ chattering in her ears, Lyric glanced around the room, smiling faintly at the distant scent of lemon detergent. Eddie must be making his nightly rounds in the hallway. As her gaze came back around, she found startlingly green eyes staring expectantly at her. She took a headphone from her ear, smiling apologetically. “I’m so sorry. Did you say something? I’m listening to a podcast, and I must not have heard you.”

  “Tut, tut. Honestly, Lyric, I expected better from you,” Luca teased, and Lyric pursed her lips, trying and failing to hide a smile. Luca Sherwood had started coming to CMH a few months ago, and he’d learned the basics remarkably fast—so much so that Mr. Patterson, the pottery teacher for CMH, had given him potter’s wheel privileges far sooner than he usually did. Unfortunately, Luca’s beginner’s luck had run out shortly after that, and he’d been trying to master the wheel ever since. “Which podcast is it?” he added curiously, head tilted slightly. He looks like an overgrown puppy, Lyric thought.

  “3M. It’s a true crime podcast. I’ve been on a binge lately,” she answered. “Did you need something, or did you come over here just to procrastinate and, in turn, distract me?”

  “How dare you accuse me of such a thing!” Luca put a hand over his heart, playing the wounded victim, and Lyric just shook her head bemusedly. “Unfortunately, it’s the same thing I always need help with.” He gestured to the pottery wheel, and Lyric got to her feet to follow him back to his workstation across the room.

  By Lyric’s estimation, Luca was about twenty, same as her, with short golden hair and light skin. When standing at his full height, he probably came to six foot one. Under his borrowed CMH-branded apron, he wore a white T-shirt and basketball shorts, completing the look with black Crocs. As they moved together, the calming scent of summer rain—petrichor—floated from Luca. She couldn’t see the logo on his T-shirt, but Lyric assumed it was a Philadelphia team; after all, Claymoor was close enough to be considered Philly-adjacent. Luca dramatically flounced onto the stool by his pottery wheel, gesturing helplessly to the unchanged lump of clay. “Show me your ways for the hundredth time, sensei.” For her part, Lyric wore simple denim capris and a Claymoor High Spirit Night T-shirt. Glaze and clay had long stained her shirt in several places, making it perfect for the messy art of ceramics.

  “It took me a while to get it too.” She crouched in front of his wheel, shoes squeaking on the linoleum as she briefly fought with gravity to maintain her balance. Graceful, Leer. Good job. “The first step is knowing what you want to make, or at least having a general goal in mind. Sometimes the wheel can help you figure it out.”

  “I’d like to finish a bowl for once,” Luca muttered. “Every time I try, I screw it up,” he added, eyeing the mound distrustfully, curling his mouth as if this lump of clay in particular had deeply offended him. Lyric laughed again, the kind of guffaw that would lead to a piglike snort if she wasn’t careful.

  What he said wasn’t even that funny, but I haven’t had a reason to smile in a while, what with everything happening at home—no, don’t think about it. You’re here to get away from all that crap.

  “You aren’t going to be an expert on your first try. Or your second or even your third.”

  “Or your millionth, apparently,” Luca cut in sourly. Lyric shook her head.

  “Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. Just . . .” She reached for his wrists but stopped before she touched him, hyperaware of what Mr. Patterson had taught her about consent. The last thing CMH needed was a lawsuit, especially from the son of a senator. “May I?” When he nodded, she loosely hooked her fingers around his wrists, placing them on the lump of clay.

  He had athletically toned arms, so he clearly worked out, but his hands were definitely those of an artist: long fingers, short nails, and slim wrists. She let go and encouraged him to lean forward. He did, brow furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out of his mouth. “Now picture the bowl you want to make in your mind’s eye. Is it a cereal bowl, um, a pet’s food dish, or something else? A place to toss your keys, maybe?”

  “A place to put my keys would be nice. I feel like I’m always looking for them and they’re never where I thought I left them.”

  “Okay, so picture that. Focus on that image, and trust yourself to do the rest.”

  Tap, tap, tap. “Just a second.” Lyric turned just as the door opened and her older brother Rhythm stepped through.

  Despite being born and raised in rural Pennsylvania like her, he had the stereotypical California-surfer blond hair and equally tan skin, though he didn’t have a single freckle and the rest of his body hair grew dark and thick. Immediately, the drama king started repeatedly pulling at his shirt collar and dramatically waving a hand in front of his face.

  “You know doing that just makes you hotter, right? It’s better to suffer motionlessly. Keeps the sweat glands from activating.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense! Besides, this feels good.”

  “Fine, but don’t complain to me when you’re uncomfortably warm and sticky for no reason.”

  “I’ll show you warm and sticky!” He pulled her into a one-armed hug, jabbing his knuckle into her scalp to give her an affectionate noogie.

  “Rhythm!” she squealed in protest, fighting her way out of his grasp.

  “There’s my little know-it-all!” he taunted playfully. “Seriously though, how have you not died of heat exhaustion or stroke in this place?”

  “Our sister, in all her infinite Zodiac-related wisdom, would say it’s because I’m a Taurus,” she answered. Rhythm smirked. “Realistically though, it’s all about being accustomed to the kiln’s heat,” Lyric explained. “Mr. Patterson is firing some of our projects, and the heat has to go somewhere. Anyway, not that I’m not happy to see you, bro, but what’s up? I thought you weren’t coming home until later this week.” The oldest of the three Meadows children, Rhythm had just finished his junior year in college and was coming home for his summer break.

  “Finals got done early this semester,” he explained, leaning against the door. “Have you been ignoring your phone? Mo
m was partially convinced you’d been abducted when she called me in a panic, demanding I stop by on my way home to pick you up.”

  “Oh crap. I put it on do not disturb because my battery was about to die and I wanted to listen to my podcast.” Guilt arced through her. I should’ve known Mom would worry. She exhaled through her nose and rubbed at her forehead. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “Seven.” Lyric’s eyebrows furrowed, and she darted over to the window to peer through the blinds. Once she did that, she found a breathtaking summer sunset colored with tropical pinks, purples, and oranges. Part of her wished she could bottle up those colors to use for glaze . . . . Focus on the fact that the sun is setting! The sun shouldn’t be doing that yet!

  “Okay, uh, let me get this last student out and clean up. I’ll be out in . . . twenty minutes or so?” Rhythm peered over Lyric’s head, using his height as an advantage, and leaned down to whisper, “Is that Senator Sherwood’s son?”

  “Yes,” Lyric answered cautiously, lips curling into a pout when she noted how his eyes lit up. “Don’t start, Ry,” she pleaded after a moment.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything!” he claimed, but Lyric crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him expectantly. “What? I can’t want my little sister to be happy?”

  “Of course you can. But you can also keep it to yourself. Plus, not everyone’s happiness is linked to whether they’re in a relationship or not. Now go on, get outside. Wouldn’t want Barney to get towed.”

  “Fine, but this conversation isn’t over!” He shoved open the studio door and practically bolted for his car. He means well, she reminded herself as she returned to Luca, where she found that he’d made a little bit of progress on his bowl, but she resisted the urge to congratulate him.

  I don’t want him to think I’m patronizing him. I would hate it if anyone did that to me.

  “So, it turns out that it’s later than I thought, and I need to clean up the studio, which means you have to skedaddle.” She made shooing motions with her hands, and Luca chuckled.

  “Do you want help?” he offered. “I have to be at the convention center by eight, but I can at least get you started.”

  “N . . .” She almost denied the offer but changed her mind at the last second. I wouldn’t put it past Rhythm to make me walk home just to prove a point, especially since I called his car by the name he hates. “You know what? Sure. Do you want to tackle the tools, and I’ll power down the kiln?”

  “Aye, aye, captain!” Lyric smiled, shook her head, made her way to the back room, and turned down the kiln. She listened to Luca as he made his way around the main room, collecting dirty tools and then dropping them all into the sink with a clatter. The ceramics studio could be described as organized chaos. Between the rolling tool carts, permanently dirty tables and ceramic wheels, and an ancient patchwork couch nestled in the corner, it had all the aspects of a shabby-chic bachelor pad. Once she was sure the kiln would power down appropriately, she made her way around, turning off Mr. Patterson’s radio, switching off the lights (except for the one nearest Luca), and hung her apron on the coatrack by the door.

  Once the studio was clean, Lyric and Luca paused outside CMH’s main entrance to say their goodbyes. Lyric was in the middle of telling Luca that she usually had weekends off but had promised Mr. Patterson that she’d come in to help out the next day, a Saturday. I kind of want to see him again, but I’m sure he’s got stuff to do for his dad.

  “You could come back and work on your key bowl if you wanted.” The words were out of her mouth before she had time to overthink them, but the smile that he shot her, just this side of crooked, was worth it. Lyric’s stomach swooped just a little bit.

  “As long as I get to see you again, I’m cool with that.” Did he just . . . flirt with me? Flustered, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as her eyes gravitated toward her feet.

  Rhythm honked his horn, which shattered the moment and saved her from making things awkward, as she was prone to do, mostly without meaning to. She managed a half-hearted wave and jogged in the direction of her brother’s pride and joy: a forest-green Dodge Challenger, double-parked in a tow-away zone in front of the building. The dark-purple racing stripes adorning its sides had earned the car the name Barney, though Rhythm hated when anyone used it in front of him. Rhythm had haphazardly shoved numerous Tupperware containers into the backseat and likely filled the trunk, so much so that they blocked the entire back window.

  “I guess this is what happens when you don’t have Mom’s Tetris skills. Cadence would say it’s because you’re an Aries and that means you’re chaos personified.” She gestured to the mess.

  “I resent that! I know where everything is!” he complained, but Lyric just shot him a look. “Okay, fine. I know that I have everything at least, so that’s something!” She snorted and reached over to turn down the air conditioner, but Rhythm snagged her wrist and stopped her from doing so, a sly smile on his face. “What?”

  “Cozying up with Senator Sherwood’s kid, Leer?” he asked, eyes sparkling with

  good-natured mischief. I’d hoped he’d forgotten about that. She exhaled, trying to keep her attitude in check. Still, warmth tickled Lyric’s cheeks at his implication, and she glared at him, yanking her wrist away from his hold with a scowl. “The paparazzi would have a field day if they weren’t preoccupied with the announcement,” he continued, putting the car into gear and taking off down the road.

  “Shut up. It’s not like that. I’ve told you before, Ry, I’m asexual.”

  “And that means what, exactly?” Lyric huffed. “I’m just trying to understand,” he added placatingly yet somehow managing to mock her at the same time. Why is it my job to explain this crap to him? she thought resentfully.

  “You know, there’s this wonderful invention out there. It’s called Google.”

  “Fine, if you don’t want to tell me—”

  “You’re insufferable, you know that?” She cut him off, and he just grinned. “It means that I don’t feel sexual attraction toward anyone. I’m not even a little bit interested in it.”

  “Not even a little bit interested, hmm? Then what about your high school boyfriend . . . what was his name . . . ?” Lyric stiffened against her will. I don’t want to think about him. I don’t want to think about him. I don’t— Rhythm snapped his fingers. “I remember! Shawn!” Oblivious to Lyric’s internal mantra, he added, “He was such a little douche. I’m glad you guys broke up. He didn’t deserve you.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Anyway, being ace doesn’t mean I never ever feel sexual attraction. It just doesn’t happen as often for me as it does for others,” Lyric replied, curling in on herself as she recalled the night before Shawn had broken up with her over text message.

  “Come on, Lyric, I think I’ve been patient enough.” He pressed his hands harder against her waist, thumbs against her hipbones like iron clamps. “You never know, you could like it,” he added with a whisper in her ear that only heightened her apprehension. “Don’t be a tease, Songbird.”

  “Shawn, I . . .” She tried to tell him to stop, that she wasn’t ready, but it didn’t seem to matter. He got what he wanted in the end after all.

  They abruptly jolted to a stop, which jerked Lyric from her flashback. “What the hell, Ry?!” Her brother didn’t seem to hear her, as he was fixated on the pedestrian they had almost turned into a pancake. Annoyed, Rhythm rolled down his window and shouted:

  “Hey, buddy, there’s a crosswalk there for a reason!”

  “Screw you!” the jaywalking pedestrian returned nastily. “Didn’t they teach you anything in driver’s ed?” He cast a judgmental look at the car and sneered. “Although, considering your taste in cars, you probably didn’t even pass that class.” Bad idea. Barney is Rhythm’s baby. Rhythm’s hand went to the door handle, shoulders by his ears, but Lyric grabbed his bicep. Eyes glittering with malice and something else entirely, the boy goaded, “I’d like to see you try.�
��

  “Ry, don’t. Let’s just go.” Rhythm’s jaw clenched, and he exhaled like an irritated bull.

  “Yeah, listen to your girlfriend,” the boy added cockily.

  “That’s my sister, asswipe,” Rhythm ground out, fingers flexing against the door handle. Lyric pulled at his arm insistently, eyeing the car that had pulled up behind them.

  “Good, she’s way too pretty for you.” The boy winked at Lyric, and she recoiled in disgust.

  “You know what, you little—”

  “Rhythm!” Lyric urged, and it must have been the use of his full name, because he suddenly hit the accelerator and sped away from the rude pedestrian and almost-accident.

  Rider Sherwood stared after the car that had nearly flattened him, his nails biting his palms as the impulse to chase after them washed over him like a tidal wave. That won’t accomplish anything, Luca’s voice said in his head, reminding him to breathe and all the other crap his therapist told his family to tell him. He reached into his pocket and swallowed a pill.

  The headlights on Senator Sherwood’s ancient Honda Civic flashed insistently, and he got into the passenger seat without a word. Luca stared at him expectantly, but Rider wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.

  “Just drive. Dad will be pissed if we’re late.” Luca complied with Rider’s harsh demand and remained silent for the rest of the drive to the Claymoor Convention Center. A lazy summer drizzle started as they parked, and Rider jogged to the Civic’s trunk to grab their suits while Luca reached into the backseat for umbrellas.