Missing, Presumed Dead

by Emma Berquist

  It’s impossible to know how many stars there are in the universe. We can only estimate given how many there are in our own galaxy and multiply that by the number of galaxies we think there are. It’s a guess times a guess. There are infinity stars.

  What is life against that kind of immenseness? What are any of us? We don’t matter to the universe; we’re nothing. To believe differently is to risk your heart being shredded apart. We’re specks of dust, we’re atoms; you couldn’t find us without a microscope.

  And then Jane grabs my hand and holds it so tightly it’s just this side of painful. And how can she not matter, if her hand is warm and real, if her fingernails are digging into my skin. There is no way to reconcile the small and the tangible with the vast and the cosmic. Nothing in the wide universe that can compare to the here, to the weight in my hand and the stone in my heart.

  I squeeze back and don’t let go, not until the screeching of the coffin stops, and not until long after that.

  “Mrs. Morris?”

  She’s getting into her car, half-supported by her mother.

  “I wanted to give you something. Jane left it at my place, a long time ago.”

  I hold the rolled-up paper to her, careful not to let my fingers brush hers. She unrolls it slowly, painstakingly, and I hear the sharp intake of breath when she sees it.

  It took the better part of three hours for Jane to finish directing my hand, and my fingers were cramping by the end. It’s a sketch of Jane and her mother, both of them laughing, eyes rueful, like they’re sharing an inside joke.

  “I just thought you should have it,” I say, looking away from the emotion on her face.

  “Thank you,” she says, her voice hoarse.

  Jane squeezes my arm, and I turn to leave.

  “Wait! Are you— Will you come back to the house?” Jane’s mother asks. “Please?”

  It’s hard to say no to her, and not just because she reminds me of her daughter.

  “Um, okay. I’ll be there.”

  “I’m going to ride with her,” Jane says, letting go of me. “I’ll meet you there, okay?”

  I nod and watch as the car pulls away out of the cemetery. At last, only Deda and Ilia remain, still standing at the graveside. I make my way back over to them, trying to step between the graves in the most unobtrusive way possible. They don’t care; I know they don’t care. To the dead, bodies are nothing more than fingernail clippings; something that was once part of you that has long since used up its usefulness. But I still can’t bring myself to step where their faces would be.

  “Time to go,” I tell Deda. “You want me to take you back?”

  “Jane invited me to her house,” Deda replies. “It would be impolite not to attend.”

  I sigh. “Fine. No salty food, okay?”

  Deda makes a noncommittal sound and starts back to the car. I glance at Ilia, his eyes studying Jane’s headstone.

  “Do you want to come?”

  “I don’t think so,” he says. “I can’t stay much longer.”

  “How’s Urie?”

  “It hit him hard.” Ilia shakes his head. “This happened under his watch, with his people. He can’t undo any of it. I honestly don’t know if he’s coming back from this.”

  “Maybe that’s not the worst thing,” I say.

  “We still need someone to run things,” Ilia says. “I can’t be the one in charge; I don’t even have any gifts.”

  “So what?” I say. “No one cares if you have magic, Ilia; you’re still one of us. You’re the one people go to when they have a problem, not Urie. Maybe it’s time for a real change.”

  Ilia lets out a rough laugh. “Well. I guess we’ll see. Are you ever coming back?”

  “Come on, Ilia, I’m a terrible bartender,” I say. “You don’t really need me.”

  “Yes, we do,” he says. “People trust you, Lex. Now you’re one of the only people they trust. If you want me to step up, I’m going to need help. Don’t leave me to do this on my own.”

  I meet his eyes, see the start of crow’s feet at the corners.

  “Are you going to give me a raise?”

  “If you learn how to make drinks,” he says, giving me half a smile. “Come on, what else are you going to do? Read tarot cards?”

  I screw up my mouth. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Uh-huh. You do that.”

  We reach the car and I help Deda into mine, shutting the door behind him.

  “Take care, Lex,” Ilia says.

  “Yeah, you too,” I tell him. Then I frown. “Did I ever thank you for saving my life?”

  That surprises a laugh out of him. “I don’t remember.”

  “Oh. Well, if I didn’t, then thank you.”

  He smiles at me, and he looks like the Ilia I remember. “Anytime.”

  I leave Jane’s house as soon as I can without being impolite. I can’t take the handshakes and the tears, the pictures that are proof of a life I’ll never be a part of.

  “I did not finish my coffee,” Deda complains as I shuffle him back into the car.

  I drive north, the air humid tonight, the weight of today crushing me farther into my seat.

  “There’s coffee at the home, Deda.”

  “It is weak. And you did not say good-bye to your friend.”

  I left Jane curled up like a cat between her mother and grandmother, her face peaceful in a way I rarely see.

  “She’s with her family,” I say. “She doesn’t care if I say good-bye.”

  “Do you think so little of yourself? Or of her?”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to have dead friends.”

  “This one is . . . different,” Deda says. “She cares for you. She wants more for you, wants you to have a life. Perhaps I was wrong to be afraid.”

  I swallow hard, the truth like a stone in my belly. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s over, now. She doesn’t need me anymore.”

  “That does not sound like the Jane I know.”

  “You don’t know anything about her, Deda,” I snap.

  “I know she makes you smile. And I know I have not seen that for a long time. I do not think you should give that up.”

  I clamp my lips together, because he doesn’t understand. She isn’t mine to give up.

  When I pull up outside the home, he turns to me and kisses my forehead.

  “I only worry because I love you,” he says.

  “I know, Deda.”

  “I left some books in the back for you. Do not forget them.”

  “I won’t. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  Deda nods, shutting the door behind him.

  “You are a good girl, Alexandra,” he tells me. “You deserve to be happy.”

  I take the long way home, not eager to be alone in my apartment, but I still arrive too soon. I park and sit for long minutes, letting the sun flare through the windshield and bake the entire car. It’s just starting to dip low in the sky, turning the clouds electric blue.

  My body jerks and I’m awake before I realize I was starting to drift. I shake out my limbs and open the door, cool air hitting my face. I let the breeze chase some of the sleepiness away, get the bag of books from the back, and start the walk upstairs. Maybe I should have said good-bye. But saying good-bye to her only reminds me of the inevitable last good-bye we’ll have, and when I think of that the emptiness inside of me yawns, threatening to swallow me whole.

  “What the hell, Lexi?”

  I jump, and part of me wonders if thinking of her made her appear.

  “You just left,” Jane complains. “I went looking for you and you weren’t there.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, opening my door. “I got really tired.”

  “Well, you could have at least told me,” Jane says, coming inside with me. “Anyway, Trevor’s waiting down by the car; he says we should go to a strip club because people always want sex after a funeral.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “Look
, I’m just the messenger,” Jane says, smiling. “Are you in?”

  I sit down on the bed and start to unlace my boots. The apartment looks different with Jane’s sketches pinned to one wall, more like a real home.

  “Maybe some other time,” I say.

  Jane tilts her head at me, frowning. “Are you okay?”

  “Like I said, I’m tired.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She stares at me for a moment, chewing on her lip. “Well, at least look at your books.”

  “I’ll look at them tomorrow.”

  “No, look at them now,” Jane says, tugging on my arm. “Come on.”

  I bend down to get the bag.

  “What’s the big deal, it’s just . . .”

  “Surprise!” Jane says, bouncing from one foot to another.

  I reach in, my mouth dry, and pull the laptop out of the bag, cords dangling down.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “It’s my computer,” Jane says.

  “But—how?”

  “I told your grandpa to go into my room and get it. He’s pretty sly when he wants to be.”

  “You can’t give this to me,” I tell her. “Won’t your mom notice it’s missing?”

  “Lexi, my mom would barely notice if her head went missing,” Jane says, rolling her eyes. “Trust me, it was only going to waste; she doesn’t know my passwords or anything. And now you have a computer.” She grins at me, her eyes bright. “You can take classes online if you want, listen to music, and Trevor can shut up about getting a TV.”

  “I . . .” My throat doesn’t want to work. “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “I know,” Jane says. “But I wanted to.”

  I put the laptop gently on the bed and sit down.

  “Do you like it?” Jane asks.

  I nod. “I love it. Thank you, Jane.”

  She sits next to me, and I breathe in her smell of frayed wires and the sun hitting asphalt. I taste it in the back of my throat, let it live inside my mouth. She tastes like blood, like life.

  “I should be thanking you,” she says. “My mother got to bury my body today. It’s finally over.”

  She closes her eyes, and I sneak a look at her profile, the long line of her neck.

  “Jane? Are you okay?” I ask. “Now that it’s over?”

  “Yes,” she says, opening her eyes. “And not just because I wanted him stopped. But because now there are no more reasons to wait.”

  I knew it was coming; I knew, and it still takes the air from my lungs. The scream rattles the bars of its cage, threatens to burst through my chest.

  “I’ll help you,” I say, forcing the words past my lips. “Say the word, and I’ll help you cross over.”

  “That’s not,” she says, “what I’ve been waiting for.”

  She slides her fingers around the back of my neck, dragging my face toward hers. Her lips part and I tear myself away, scrambling off the bed.

  “Jane—”

  “It’s not because I’m lonely,” she says firmly. “It’s not because I can touch you. I want to kiss you, Lexi, because it’s you.”

  I can’t get enough oxygen, the room too small, my heart too vulnerable.

  “Jane, this can’t work,” I say. “You know that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re a ghost. I’m not. I’ll get old.”

  “Good,” she says. “One of us should get to.”

  “You won’t want me then—”

  “I’ll always want you,” she says. “And if I can change my clothes, I can change my face. It’s all in my mind, right? Will you still want me if I’m wrinkled and liver spotted?”

  “You’ll get bored,” I say, changing track. “Jane, even if you don’t move on, you can go anywhere you want, see any part of the world. You don’t want to be stuck in this shitty apartment forever.”

  She stands in front of me, looking up into my face.

  “Lexi, I’d rather be here in this shitty apartment with you for the next eighty years than stuck on a cloud with a harp or whatever. I’d rather watch you eat pancakes every morning than go see the pyramids by myself.”

  I shake my head. Hope is a dangerous taste on my tongue. “Why?” I ask.

  She reaches out and grasps my hands, her warm fingers threading through mine.

  “You know why,” she says.

  “But what if it goes wrong?” I ask, laying everything bare.

  I can’t have her and then lose her; I’m not strong enough for that. The scream inside of me is too savage, too desperate, to survive that kind of heartbreak.

  “Lexi,” she says, and I think I could die happy if I could just hear her say my name that way again. “I can’t promise you it will be perfect. But I’m just asking you to try. Tell me to go and I’ll go. Tell me to stay, and I’ll stay.”

  “Jane,” I say, because her name is the only word I can think of. And then I don’t talk at all. I lean forward and she meets me halfway. Her mouth is warm and her body is warmer and her kiss smooths something ragged inside me. I plunge my fingers in her hair and press against her and it’s better than I imagined it because it’s real, because she’s pressing back against me and making a sound in the back of her throat, and when she finally breaks the kiss her eyes are glazed the darkest brown I’ve ever seen.

  “Stay,” I say.

  If two pieces of metal meet in space, they will fuse together. In a vacuum, the atoms can’t tell that they’re in separate objects. They only recognize that they are the same. This is called cold welding. It doesn’t matter that she’s dead, it doesn’t matter that I’m alive; we dance without music, and with her arms wrapped around my waist, I can’t tell where I end and she begins.

  Acknowledgments

  I OWE THANKS FIRST AND FOREMOST TO Martha Mihalick, who did some heavy lifting on this book. It’s been an absolute privilege to work with you, and if you think I’m going to stop emailing you random nonsense once the book is out, think again.

  Thanks to my agent, Heather Flaherty, for constantly talking me off ledges and doing all the real work so I can continue to play in the clouds.

  Eternally grateful to the fantastic Greenwillow team: Katie Heit and Tim Smith for editorial prowess, Shannon Cox for marketing, fearless leader Virginia Duncan, Paul Zakris and Sammy Yuen for my gorgeous cover and jacket design. I couldn’t have asked for a better group of people to have in my corner.

  Thanks to Hope Cook for notes and for saying I made you cry. Thanks to Jen for an insightful critique and for liking my stupid tweets.

  To everyone who bought, read, borrowed, or reviewed Devils Unto Dust: thank you, thank you, thank you. I never thought I would write one book, let alone two, and all the work and revision and stress is worth just a single email from someone saying they connected with the words that I wrote.

  To my girls, Adrian, Katherine, Laura, and Leah: y’all know what you did. Eternal love and devotion, etc.

  Graham Norris and Lee Arcuri, thank you for dragging me out of the house and forcing me to actually experience LA. I love you both, please send more pictures of the changeling.

  To the amazing writer friends I’m made over the past few years, you are so talented and generous, thank you for your advice and commiseration.

  To my friends in Texas, California, New Zealand, and all the places in between, I’m so grateful for your enthusiasm and encouragement.

  I wrote the majority of this book while listening to Frightened Rabbit, and I can’t let the moment pass without acknowledging the impact Scott Hutchison’s music and lyrics had on me. I don’t know that any other songwriter came as close to capturing what it’s like to live inside my head. Scott’s music made me feel seen, made me feel less alone, and I only wish someone had been able to do that for him. I wish I could have told him he made tiny changes to my life.

  To my family, thank you for your unconditional love and borderline-fanatical (lookin’ at you, Hill) support. I’ll try to come home more often.

  Finall
y, thank you to Monkee for letting me know when it’s time to get off the computer, and to Mike, for always making me coffee. Te quiero.

  About the Author

  EMMA BERQUIST grew up in Austin, Texas, and she rarely stays in one place for long. She has lived in San Antonio, Los Angeles, Singapore, San Francisco, and New Zealand. She is also the author of Devils Unto Dust.

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  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD. Text copyright © 2019 by Emma Berquist. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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  Cover art copyright © 2019 by Sammy Yuen

  Cover design by Sammy Yuen

  Cover photographs copyright © 2019 by panic_attack (iStock), choness (iStock), draganab (iStock) and peeterv (iStock)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data