I flick a kernel of corn at him, and he scowls. A few minutes later, he pokes me with his elbow and says, “Try to say S-N-I-K-E without sounding Australian.”
“Snike,” I say, and we giggle at the sound of it.
“Snike.”
“Snike!”
Like any Sunday dinner, there’s way too much food. Stan leans back in his chair, patting his lean belly like it’s invisibly expanded. Mom and Shailene spend most of the meal talking to each other. We’re clearing the table when my phone pings. It’s a text from Cress. She loves the picture of the little astronaut I sent her from Elsewhere, which she agrees is the perfect touch for her Friendship 7 model. She’s going to use the idea.
“YAY!” I text back. Then I add, “I would never squish your model.”
After a pause, another text bubble appears. I hold my breath, waiting to see what Cress will say. Finally, the words pop up.
“I know. So are you going to tell me what’s up?”
I can imagine Cress at her house, probably sitting on her neatly made bed with a book propped on her knees. Or a word puzzle. Or maybe her family is having one of their epic Scrabble matches. I’m not supposed to tell Cress that Billy and Shailene are living here, but they’re moving out tomorrow. I’m tired of keeping secrets from my best friend.
While everyone’s chatting and cleaning up, I text Cress the whole story about Billy and Shailene. How I kept looking for more information, especially after Cress agreed that Eric looked an awful lot like Billy Holcomb. How Miss Rivera gave me a list of online newspapers to research over Easter, and how I found a picture of Billy Holcomb’s dad that matched Eric’s sweatshirt. How Billy’s dad showed up at the pig pickin’ and set all the secrets into motion.
I text for so long that my fingers get tired and autocorrect has to save me from spouting pure garbage. It’s a lot to write, and my heart pounds as I think of Cress reading the whole story.
“Let’s put the pies on the table,” I say to Billy.
“What kind of pies?”
“Toll House,” I say. “And lemon.”
He grins.
We carry the pies to the table and straighten the place mats and silverware. No one has room for pie right now, but they’ll be here waiting for us, whenever we’re ready.
We go back into the kitchen and find the grown-ups in tears, only this time it’s from laughter. “Frankie might need to go out,” Stan says, cough-laughing, his cheeks pink.
“I took her out before we ate.”
“Well, she may have had a little too much pork,”
Mom says.
Billy makes a face all of a sudden. “SBD alert!” he says, wrinkling up his nose and coughing. That’s when the smell hits me: raw cabbage at full volume.
“Oh my gosh, Frankie!”
Frankie pops up at the sound of her name, tail wagging like what she’s done is a good thing. I wrap my arm around her. God knows I love Frankie, but her farts are the actual worst.
My phone rings. It’s Cress.
“Mads! Are you for real? Eric is the kid that went missing and he’s living at your house?”
“I know,” I say, trying to catch my breath from laughing so hard my sides hurt.
I start telling Cress about what happened.
With the phone pressed against my ear, I don’t hear the door to the garage open and shut. It’s not until Frankie growls that I look up and see Billy’s father standing in the doorway.
43
LOST
The second I see him, I know we’re lost. Mr. Holcomb’s face is made of rage. His eyes are red, his mouth twisted. Gone are the sunglasses and the sweatshirt, but his tan skin and salt-and-pepper hair are the same as in the picture I found. His right arm is cocked behind his back in an odd way. “Hello, son,” he says, in this very quiet voice.
Next to me, Billy goes completely still.
Shailene half screams, and I lurch back, bumping Billy into the wall. The door to the living room is behind me, and beyond that, Dad’s field, and escape. I’ve spent so much time preparing for the worst, and now here it is. The Biggest Bad I have ever faced.
But I’m frozen.
I clutch Frankie to my side. She growls and growls while Mom slowly turns to face the doorway. Stan is next to her, his hand on her shoulder.
“Everyone stay calm,” Mom says in her nurse’s voice.
Billy’s father ignores her. His eyes shift to Shailene. “You think you can take him away from me? Well, you’re wrong.” He takes a step toward Billy.
“Whoa,” Stan says, getting in front of us. “Can I help you, buddy?”
“This is none of your business,” Mr. Holcomb growls.
“That may be true, but this is my house.”
Mr. Holcomb smiles. It’s a slow and slippery thing that makes my stomach turn. He whips a handgun from behind his back and points it at Stan’s face.
Shailene makes a strangled sort of sound.
Cress’s voice crackles in my ear. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”
I don’t dare answer her.
“Why don’t we all sit down and talk this out,” Mom says, holding her hands up like she means no harm, but Billy’s dad is having none of it.
“Give me what’s mine, and I’ll go.”
Billy’s breath comes quick and shallow from behind me.
“That’s not going to happen,” Stan says.
Mr. Holcomb thumbs the hammer.
“No!” Shailene shouts.
Cress is still in my ear, asking questions. She knows something’s wrong, but I can’t answer. There’s no way I can manage to hang up and dial 911 without him noticing, either.
My eyes dart around the kitchen, searching for a solution. The knife by the cutting board. The phone. The emergency button. When I see it, a sound escapes me.
Mr. Holcomb’s eyes cut my way. He puts his hand out. “Give me the phone.”
Mom’s eyes meet mine. Do what he says, they say.
I know I should, but I’m not ready yet.
I thought if I anticipated every little thing that might go wrong, I could save us, but that’s impossible. Things will always go wrong. All we can do is make our choices.
Stan reaches for me. He wants me to give him the phone, and then he’ll hand it to Billy’s dad. This is my chance. The emergency button isn’t that far away. Maybe five steps. It’ll take a while for the police to come, but if I hand the phone to Stan, it might distract Billy’s dad long enough that I can make it there without him noticing.
Billy steps out from behind Stan. “I’m not scared of you,” he says to his father, and I take the opportunity to step toward the button.
Mr. Holcomb laughs. “You would be if you had a lick of sense, but we both know that’s not the case, now, don’t we.” His eyes cut back to me. “The phone. Now.”
I let my weight pour into my right foot, keeping one hand on Frankie’s collar. She growls and pulls, but if I let her go, she could get hurt. I’ll have to drag her with me.
I reach to give the phone to Stan and lean toward the emergency button.
Cress’s voice gets tiny and far away.
For the first time in forever, I don’t feel like I’m tipping over the edge of something. The floor is solid beneath my feet. The phone touches Stan’s open palm. He grabs it. Mr. Holcomb’s eyes follow the phone, and I dodge sideways, toward the emergency button.
“Stay where you are!” he shouts.
My finger reaches the button.
He cocks the gun.
The button clicks.
Mr. Holcomb’s eyes bulge, the gun wavering. For a moment, it seems like there’s a chance we will get out of this okay. Somehow he won’t understand what I’ve done and the police will get here in time and he’ll be captured and we’ll all be fine.
I believe that might really happen, too—until the house phone rings.
That’s what happens when you press the alarm. The company gets the signal, and then they call to see
if you’re okay. If we are, we have to give them our password to prove it.
Only this time everything is not okay.
The phone rings again, and Billy’s father stumbles back.
The gun jerks in my direction.
Mom screams.
Stan leaps in front of me.
The gun goes off.
44
JUNE 2
The day my father died, we went to the beach to dig for mole crabs. Some people call them sand fleas, but we call them diggers. When a wave crashes into the beach, the water spreads over the sand like a fan unfolding before it turns back and runs into the sea. The stretch of wet sand left behind is where the diggers live. They pop up as the waves rush over the beach and burrow back into the sand as the water recedes.
Mole crabs are my favorite to catch. Their little legs scratch like sandpaper against my skin, but they don’t bite—they just want to get back to the sand.
That day, we went down to the beach with a little plastic rake and a bucket to keep the diggers for a little while, but not too long or they would overheat in the morning sun. Mom lagged behind at the rental house, packing a lunch for later. She said she’d meet us out there.
The tide was still high, and the water had carved a kind of shelf into the dry sand of the beach, creating a drop-off, like a tall ledge that ran along the edge of the water.
We could hear the waves crashing into it.
Crash, crash, crash.
“We’ll walk farther up,” Dad said, taking my hand.
I went to swing, but without Mom there I flopped against his legs, so he lifted me up onto his shoulders even though I was too big for that. We walked along the edge of the sand cliff, headed for the smooth stretch of beach up ahead where the diggers would be plentiful. I loved that first dip into the water. The ocean is always much colder than you expect, and alive. Frothy with bubbles and sand and bits of seaweed and shells. I always screamed when my toes hit the water, but it was a thrill to run down and back, chasing the waves and daring them to catch me.
I was falling before I knew what happened.
It was like the drop on a roller coaster—a sudden weightlessness, the sky spinning before me, flashing water then sky then water again.
The sand shelf had given way beneath us like an iceberg breaking off a glacier, only the sand sank, leaving nothing to hold on to. No life raft.
Just me and Dad, tossed into the ocean where the riptide waited, hidden beneath the blue-gray surface of the water. We plunged beneath the waves, white water crashing over our heads. I knew how to swim, but not in that water, deep and cold and tossing all around. Dad’s hands clasped my waist and lifted me up. I broke the surface and gasped for air.
“It’s okay,” he shouted. “I’m here.”
There was blood on his forehead, but he was strong enough to hold me up while he swam along the shelf of sand, looking for a way up and out of that water. The tide fought him, pulling us down with every wave. He called out, his arms shaking. We spun beneath a wave, but he didn’t let go. It seemed impossible, that we couldn’t claw our way up that shelf of sand and out of there, but the ocean is a million times stronger than a single human being.
A surging wave lifted us up again, and Mom’s head appeared at the edge of the sand shelf. Her arms reached for me. Dad lifted me up, and Mom snatched hold of my fingers so hard that I screamed, but she didn’t let go, not until she had me clear of the water.
As soon as I hit dry sand, she leaned back over the edge, reaching for Dad, but he had slipped below the waves. We waited and waited, but he didn’t come back up.
That is how I lived.
And that is how he died.
45
MAN DOWN
For a moment after the gun goes off, everyone freezes, including Billy’s dad. Openmouthed horror spreads over his face, as if he’s been possessed by a devil that has only just let go. He stares at the gun, then drops it to the floor, his hand shaking. He steps back, and Frankie somehow manages to slip out of my grasp. She charges at him, and he runs. Out of the kitchen, out of the house, with Frankie tearing after him, barking her head off.
Relief pours through my veins.
Then I see the blood.
“Honey!” Mom cries, reaching for Stan as he slides to the floor.
Stan’s face is even paler than usual, his cheeks two red spots on a background of paper white.
Mom’s hands run over him, searching. “Where is it? Honey, where did it hit?”
Stan lifts a trembling hand toward his thigh, and my stomach lurches when I see the blood pouring from his leg like a geyser. A lake of red spreads across the kitchen tiles.
Mom presses down on the wound. “Quick, Mads. The dish towel!”
I snatch the towel from the oven bar and hand it to Mom. She rips it down the middle but not all the way, making it twice as long, and fastens it around Stan’s leg.
“You’re fine,” she says. “You’re going to be fine.”
I want to believe her, but I feel like I’m sinking beneath the waves again. It’s hard to imagine there’s any blood left in Stan’s body.
Shailene joins Mom on the floor and presses her hands to Stan’s leg.
Time seems to stop.
I’m frozen again.
Long minutes pass with Mom talking urgently to Shailene and on the phone.
Someone shouts outside. Then a chorus of voices. Yelling, demanding. I start toward the front door to see what’s happening, but Mom says, “No, Maddy! Stay here!”
Then I hear Frankie barking, and my heart leaps into my throat.
I run to the front door as Mom shouts for me to come back, but I can already see red and blue lights flashing outside.
“The police are here!” I shout.
Billy comes running.
There’s an officer halfway between the house and the court, in the woods. He’s kneeling over Mr. Holcomb, who is facedown on the ground as Frankie circles, barking. One of Billy’s spike balls swings lazily overhead, winding down from having been triggered.
“Got him,” Billy says.
In the kitchen, Stan cries out, and I know what I have to do.
I throw the door open. “Help! We need help!”
The officer finishes securing Mr. Holcomb’s handcuffs and comes running. Behind him, another police car pulls into our driveway. The man who steps out is broad, with a tall hat.
Sheriff Dobbs.
The officer reaches me. It’s the same man who came to the house before.
“It’s my stepdad,” I say. “He’s been shot.”
“Ten forty-three, man down,” the officer calls into his radio as he jogs down the hall to the kitchen. I can hear Mom’s voice, urgent. My knees turn to rubber as I think of Stan lying there, of the blood on the tiles, and all I know is that I don’t want to lose him, too.
46
A NEW PUZZLE
The last time I rode in an ambulance, it was without my father. He was in his own ambulance, ahead of us. What I didn’t know was that he was already dead.
This time, I’m in a separate ambulance behind Mom and Stan’s. Billy and his mom are with me. Billy’s gripping my fingers like his life depends on it.
When we get to the hospital, Stan’s stretcher rushes ahead, and Mom runs over to wrap me in her arms. She’s trying not to cry, but her body gives her away with big, jerking breaths. She pulls back and looks at me, right in the eyes, and says, “I’m here. I’m right here, Maddy.”
I know she is, but a part of me is floating above us now, apart from everything.
It’s like the barrier has reappeared, only now it cuts me off from the entire world.
We sit in the waiting area while Stan is in surgery. The bullet hit an artery in his leg and they have to repair it. After a while, Sheriff Dobbs appears. He says something to me, but I don’t hear him the first time. He takes off his hat and sits down next to me.
“Your friend called us,” he says. “She wouldn’t get off the pho
ne until we promised to go to your house. We got the safety alert, too, and, well, you did good, kid.”
I think of Cress and my eyes flood with tears again.
Eventually, Sheriff Dobbs goes away. Other people come and go.
Cress and her family show up, with Mia, too. We hug, and Cress gives me a bracelet she’s made for me out of little white beads that spell my name. A simple thing, but pretty, with sparkly beads on either end.
I slip the bracelet over my arm and we sit back down together.
While we wait, the police give us our space, but they hover by the door.
I think back to all those times I wished that Dad were there instead of Stan, and my heart sinks a little lower. More than anything, I want Stan to be okay. To go on goofy field trips together. To talk about computers and build new rooms for our house. But all I can do is wait.
After what feels like a century, Stan is out of surgery and we go back to see him. My throat closes as Mom opens the door, but once we’re inside the recovery room, we find Stan propped at a gentle angle in a hospital bed with his little red notebook in his hand.
“Oh, honey,” Mom says, collapsing against his shoulder. She clutches him, and Stan clutches her back. After a minute, he pulls away enough to give me a little wave like he isn’t sure if I’m glad to see him, and the rest of that barrier falls away, shattered into pieces.
I run to the bed and hug him. He hugs me back.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m okay.”
“No you’re not. You got shot.” A hiccup of tears escapes me.
“The bullet missed the bone,” he says in his matter-of-fact way. “And they say there isn’t much muscle damage. Just bad luck with the artery, that’s all. I should be good to go in no time.”
I can’t help smiling. Encyclopedia Stan. Spouting facts and writing in his little red notebook like always. I pull back and pick up the notebook, waving it in front of him.
“Really? You’re taking notes now? What’s in this thing, anyway?”
He hesitates. Looks at Mom. She nods.
Every Missing Piece Page 16
