Clutching my injured head, I rock side to side as sickness envelops me. Violet can’t be missing. I see her face; it’s furious and twisted. I remember in a flash that I was on my way to her house to talk to her with the monsters, and that I was scared. Did I make it? Did any of us? Who do the angry voices belong to? Whose blood is dripping on the carpet, and who is lurking in the window?
I try to stand again and crash to the floor.
22
August 5
Days Violet has been missing: 3
Time: 10:01 p.m.
When I open my eyes, I’m back in my hospital bed and it’s full dark outside the window. My dad dozes on a padded chair that unfolds into a short bed. “Dad,” I call out to him.
His eyelids flip wide, and he jerks upright. “Hey,” he says, rushing to my side. “You fell out of bed. Are you all right?”
I shake my head. “I saw the news.”
His face pales. “Oh.”
Tears rush to my eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me Violet is missing? What happened?”
My dad rubs the bridge of his nose and inhales slowly. “The doctor wants you to stay calm and rest, Hannah. You gave us a scare when you fell out of bed. Don’t worry about Violet, I’m looking for her.”
“Where?”
He offers a wan smile. “We’ve put out an Amber Alert and we’re processing tips. I’ve set up a special task force, and my station received an agency assist to help my deputies handle routine calls while we’re dealing with this.”
“Dealing with what?”
“It’s a high-profile case, Bug.” He sighs and then continues. “The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children is here. They’re working with Lulu and Violet’s parents to organize search parties, make flyers, and get the word out on social media and to the news anchors. The family has offered a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for information. I’ve also notified TSA, in case Violet leaves or is taken somewhere by plane. Homeland Security and Border Patrol are also aware, and the FBI is helping. Everyone is looking for Violet.”
In that jumble of agencies he rattled off, all I heard was FBI. “The FBI is here, in Gap Mountain? Is it really that serious? It’s Violet, Dad, she’s probably at the mall.”
He frowns. “It is that serious, Hannah. She’s not at the mall.”
“You know what I mean. It’s Gap Mountain! Nothing like this happens here.”
“And now it has.”
God, I can’t believe this is real. “But why the FBI and TSA and stuff?”
He turns down his radio. “There’s some concern she was kidnapped.” He peers at me. “Did you know Violet has a personal trust fund worth six million dollars and that she’ll receive another six million on her twenty-first birthday?”
I feel my cheeks color, because I did not know the dollar amount or that she had more money coming when she turned twenty-one. Another secret she kept from me. “No.”
“That money doesn’t include what she’ll get after Lulu passes,” he adds.
A panicky feeling fills me. I never considered Violet in these terms before, as an object of value that might be stolen. “When did she disappear?” The news mentioned it, but I already forgot.
“August second, the night you were attacked by the bear.” He stands and leans over me, feeling my forehead like he did when I was a kid. “Are you in pain?”
I ignore that. “Maybe she went home to Santa Barbara?”
He grimaces. “I don’t think we should talk about this right now.”
“Why? She’s one of my best friends.”
“Because you’re recovering, that’s why.”
“Dad, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, the news will.”
We both glance at the television mounted to the wall. He grunts and sits on the edge of my bed. “All right, this is where we’re at. It doesn’t appear Violet ran away, she didn’t pack any clothing or take her ID, purse, or car, but a significant amount of cash is missing from her purse, so we haven’t ruled that out completely. Her last known location is the attic at her grandmother’s house. She went up to watch a movie, and Ms. Sandoval passed out on the couch. A few hours later, Lulu woke and went to say goodnight. Violet was gone.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” A bolt of pain shoots through my forehead as I remember hearing raised voices and seeing blood on white carpet. Violet’s attic has white carpet. “You think somebody took her from the third floor?”
“Or she snuck out of the home, but I’m not going to speculate on that. We’re still gathering information and looking at the evidence.”
I rub my head and try to remember that night. The monsters and I were on our way to talk to Violet about her text. Did I make it? Are these fingernail scratches on my arm hers?
“I got you something,” Dad says, changing the subject. He retrieves a small box tucked on the chair and hands it to me. “A new phone,” he explains. “I found yours smashed outside our house. Looks like you dropped it. Must have run over it too. It was beyond repair, so I got you this.”
I open the box and pull out a phone that is much fancier than the one I ran over. “Thanks. That was nice.”
He moves to leave, then pauses, considering me. “I wasn’t going to do this, but if I ask you a few specific questions about Violet, would that be okay? It might help.”
My heart rate speeds up. “Yes, yes, I want to help.”
He grabs his pad and a pen. “Can you think of anywhere Violet might go if she wanted to hide?”
“I don’t know, maybe one of her grandmother’s vacation rentals?”
“We’ve searched the family’s real estate holdings. Anywhere else?”
“Maybe a friend’s house?”
He shakes his head. Of course he would have checked those leads first. “Did Violet take drugs or drink in excess?” he asks.
“In excess, no, not really.”
“Was Violet dating anyone?”
Drummer’s face flashes in my mind. He was there. I remember seeing his avatar standing beside Violet’s in the attic. “No,” I answer quickly, and tingles erupt across my scalp.
My dad consults his pad. “Luke might have been suicidal when he drove his Chevy off the embankment. Was Violet in a similar frame of mind? Was she upset about anything?”
My head begins to throb. She was upset about everything. “Yeah, she was upset about her friends getting arrested, but I don’t believe she’d hurt herself.”
I chew the inside of my lip, wondering if that’s true. I wouldn’t have thought Luke would drive drunk and high and veer off the road either, but he did. And guilt was eating Violet alive. “I mean, she might have done something out of character, like Luke did.”
“We’re considering that option.” He exhales and puts his pad away. “If you remember anything that might help, call me.” He nods toward my new phone.
“I will.”
I curl into a ball and let the morphine drag me into a deep sleep.
* * *
—
The following day, a parade of nurses and doctors come and go, and they remove my catheter, run tests, and check my vitals. I download my contacts from the cloud into my new phone and text Drummer: Come visit me.
Drummer: I tried before and they said no
Me: It’s okay. Come now
A half hour later, Drummer enters with a knock and a handful of balloons. His face contorts at the sight of me. “Hannah, oh fuck, are you all right?”
I gently touch my bandages. My dog is dead, my friend is missing, and I was almost eaten by a bear. I’m not fucking okay. “I’m doped up,” I say in answer.
He lowers himself onto the bed beside me. “I wish I was.” He takes my hand, and he looks so good—his hair shining, his tan skin darker than ever, his shirt tight, his blue eyes drinking me in. I open my mo
uth to, I don’t know—to kiss him, to profess my love, to swallow him whole—but the meds are kicking hard, so I say nothing.
He lowers his voice, strokes my fingers. “Did you hear about Violet?”
“Yeah, and I don’t think she ran away. She’d never ditch her grandma like that.” Or you.
He lifts his shirt to wipe his eyes, showing his taut, bronzed stomach. Fucking Drummer. He makes it difficult to focus.
“Detectives were all over Violet’s house, pulling out bags of evidence,” he says, dragging me back into reality. “They think something bad happened to her.” His voice warbles, and I realize Drummer is crying. Before I can ask if I or the other monsters made it there that night, he says, “I’m in trouble, Han.”
I sit up. “What are you talking about?”
“I was the last one to see her,” he answers. “I parked down the drive and snuck in through the back door.”
“The one Grammy never locks?”
“Yeah. I should have waited for you like we said, but I thought I’d have better luck on my own.”
“Why did you park down the drive?”
He inhales a long, regretful breath. “Because we’re dating. It started right after the fire.” He turns his eyes to me like a bad dog would. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“I fucking knew it,” I mutter.
He blinks and his eyelashes spike with tears. “We kept it from everyone, including Grammy. It just became a habit to park out of sight and sneak into the house.”
“A habit? Jesus, Drummer, we don’t lie to each other.” My jaw muscles clench, and that sends shooting pains through my skull. I feel no satisfaction he’s finally admitted to the relationship.
“At first, I didn’t expect it to last,” he explains. “And then it got serious and I—I wasn’t sure how to tell you guys.”
Because you’re a coward, I think but don’t say it.
“Plus, there’s the stupid pact we made when we were kids.”
“It’s not stupid.”
He squeezes my hand. “Yeah, I know. Don’t tell your dad I was there, please? Violet and I had a fight, a bad fight—but I didn’t do it.”
Angry voices. Blood on white carpet. “Do what?” I ask him.
His voice pitches higher. “I don’t know, whatever happened to her!”
My heart thumps—loud but slow. This can’t be real. That bear either killed me or I’m dreaming.
Tears roll from his eyes and streak his tan cheeks. “They lifted fingerprints from all over the house, and they’re writing search warrants like party invitations. My prints are fucking everywhere. And there’s that text she sent to the four of us: tomorrow I’m telling the police everything. If the FBI finds out about that, we’re all fucked.”
I glance at my closed door and lower my voice to a hiss. “How do they not already know?”
“She must have both her phones on her, because they’re missing too,” he answers. “I made Violet delete that last text—but what if it’s still in the cloud? Damn it, Hannah, you were right about her. She can’t handle the pressure.”
Now he sees what I saw. “Look, you’re not a suspect, right? And even if you were, you’re her friend and it’s natural your fingerprints and hairs and stuff would be at the house and in the attic. Don’t worry.”
Drummer goes silent mid-sob. His voice is flat when he speaks again. “I didn’t hurt her, Han. Don’t believe what they say.”
“Don’t believe what who says?”
“Them, the FBI. If she turns up dead or something, I didn’t kill her.” He stands up, tears leaking down his face, lips twisted. “Forget it. I gotta go.”
“Drummer!” I reach for him and drop my phone. The new screen cracks. Fucking great. When I look up, he’s gone.
I call his cell immediately, and it goes straight to his cheery voicemail: “It’s Drummer, say what you gotta say, this ain’t me anyway!”
I hang up and think about his words: I didn’t kill her. No one said Violet’s dead, and I can’t imagine Drummer hurting anyone. He’s a master at defusing, not fighting—he kisses girls out of their bad moods and jokes with his enemies until they’re friends. We had a fight, he said. But hell, I’ve fought with Drummer, and it’s always one-sided—me fighting, him poking fun or apologizing or admitting guilt, even if he did nothing wrong. Drummer wants to go back to having fun as quickly as possible; that’s his modus operandi, not murder.
But he also said, I’ll die if they put me in a cage. It’s the one thing Drummer can’t tolerate—constriction—and Violet threatened his freedom. Even a mouse will fight to protect itself. What will a man do?
23
August 7
Days Violet has been missing: 5
Time: 11:00 a.m.
The hospital releases me in the morning. My discharge papers include a referral to a psychologist who will treat me for post-traumatic stress disorder and traumatic dissociative amnesia.
I see my face for the first time. The bear’s tooth sliced open my cheek, up along the bone, across my left eye, and up my eyebrow. The center of the brow is missing and my eye is swollen, but the eyeball itself is undamaged. There are tooth punctures and abrasions on my forehead and hairline, and another long gash leads down my temple. A few patches of my scalp are shaved, and neat stitches have sewn my skin back together. Yep, I’m Frankenstein, but I don’t cry; I simply stare. Instead of feeling ruined, I feel revealed. I’m starting to look like the awful person I’ve become.
The plastic surgeon stops by before I check out. He advises me to wear my bandages to reduce scarring. And he tells me I might need another surgery later, after my left eye heals. He says he’ll make me look “as normal as possible.” Thanks, Doc, that’s real comforting. I’m issued a sling for my arm and powerful painkillers and then discharged with a follow-up appointment in a few days.
Dad picks me up and drives me home, the radio tuned to country. “So what’s happening with Violet?” I ask, feeling twitchy.
“Still processing leads and evidence, Bug. Nothing new.”
We pull into our driveway, and there’s an empty spot where my Wrangler should be. “Where’s the Jeep?”
“At the repair shop, but the insurance adjuster says it’s totaled. The interior is ripped apart. The metal frame is bent, and there’s fur, saliva, and beef stew spread all over it.”
A memory of the snarling animal, her ripping claws, and the shaking car flashes sharply in my mind. Grief rolls through me for my beloved Jeep. “Can I see it?”
Surprise flickers in my dad’s eyes. “You want to?”
“It might help me remember.”
He nods. “I’ll talk to the shop, but not today. When you’re feeling better.”
I open his car door with my good arm and ease out. “I was going to sell that car to help pay for college.”
“The insurance company will reimburse us,” he assures me.
I face the porch, ready to greet Matilda, and remember all over again that she’s gone. The loss hits me fresh, and I can’t move my feet.
“Come on,” Dad says, guiding me gently into the house. “The neighbors sent food over for you. There’s soup in the fridge, a casserole or two, some fruit, desserts, wraps, all kinds of stuff.”
Six families live on our street, none closer than a mile. “That was nice of them.”
“I have to get to work.” He rolls on the balls of his feet, thinking hard, and opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, or question me again.
I pretend not to notice and yawn widely. “I need a nap. My brain feels fuzzy.”
He takes the hint and leaves with a soft goodbye. Before driving away, he gives me the keys to his off-duty F250 pickup, should I need to go anywhere, and he unlocks the hunting rifle in case another bear shows up. To everyone’s relief (mostly m
ine), the bear’s rabies test was negative.
The house feels empty without Matilda in it. Dad has cleared away her food and water bowls, her bed, and her toys. We’d talked about getting another puppy while she was still alive, but I can’t imagine that now.
I stare at my new phone and the small crack on the screen. My old data, photos, and contacts have been restored, making this phone a shinier reincarnation of my last. I swipe through the saved photo albums, which are filled with images of my best friends—the monsters—my horses, and Matilda.
Violet smiles in almost every one of her pictures, her dimples deep, her eyes shining. She has a knack for posing, and every shot is perfect, her head cocked, her body angled. She’s been cute and beloved and cherished since the moment she popped out of the womb. I wonder what that’s like? My mom put whisky in my baby bottle to make me stop crying.
I send a group text to my friends and include Violet, just in case she’s out there somewhere, reading them: I’m out of the hospital.
Mo texts me privately: don’t include Violet, what if a murderer or kidnapper has her?
Jesus, Mo, that’s dark. I send a new group message to the four of us, minus Violet: I’m home. Is there anything new about Violet?
A long silence and then a simple answer from Luke: no
Mo: I’m sorry about Matilda
Me: can you guys come over? I don’t want to be alone
Mo: I can come over
Luke: me too.
Drummer: I’m at work
Luke and Mo show up an hour later, and we sprawl in my family room with sodas and chips. My dad finished arresting Luke on the malicious arson charges while I was in the hospital, and Luke’s out on bail for now. Lulu Sandoval paid his bond.
“Makeup will fix that eyebrow,” Mo says matter-of-factly.
I recount for them what I remember about the bear attack—mainly, that she dragged me by my head.
“The wrestling team could use talent like that,” Luke jokes.
“Thanks, asshole.”
Luke’s speech remains slow, his expression flat, but he has more color in his face since the last time I saw him. He shrugs and avoids looking at me; in fact, he hasn’t looked at me once since he came over. I touch my bandaged face. Is it because I’m gross or because my dad arrested him?
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