The Disappearance of Emily H.

by Barrie Summy

The soda cup has the brightest, pointiest sparkle of the three objects. I wrap my hands around it, lacing my fingers together. I lean back on my pillow.

  Michael’s crouched down, gesturing to a dog. “Come here, Pes. Come here, boy.” On the ground next to him sits a grocery bag.

  The dog, medium-size, a mixture of breeds, has deep brown eyes like Levi. Pes sits and stares at Michael, sniffs the air and whines. He doesn’t budge.

  “You don’t want to be my friend?” Michael pulls a piece of raw meat from the bag. “That’s okay. We don’t have to be friends for this to work.” He waves the meat.

  Pes sniffs some more and licks his lips. He walks in circles but keeps his distance.

  Michael tosses the hunk of meat. It lands at Pes’s feet.

  The dog sniffs it, turns it over with his paw, sniffs again, then chews thoughtfully. The whole time, he watches Michael out of the corner of his eye.

  Michael throws another piece of meat.

  Same cautious scenario.

  By the fourth chunk, Pes pounces and goes for it.

  Michael takes a plastic bottle from the bag. The label says RACUMIN: RAT POISON. He pours blue liquid onto the next piece of meat and lets it soak in.

  When he lobs it to Pes, the dog doesn’t hesitate. He chomps on the meat, downing it in seconds.

  Michael feeds the dog more and more tainted meat. Pes eats it all.

  I crush the cup and throw it in my trash can. Then I wipe my eyes. Michael poisoned Tasha’s dog.

  Michael White is the scariest person I’ve ever met.

  “Raine,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Dinner.”

  While my mom’s carrying bowls of chili over to the counter, I hug Levi, then feed her, adding a few treats to her kibble.

  I force down a couple of spoonfuls of chili, but I’m just not hungry. I can’t get the evilness of Michael out of my brain.

  “Are you feeling sick?” my mom asks, buttering a slice of French bread.

  “Just tired. I’m going to bed.”

  I set my alarm for one in the morning. Surprisingly, I actually fall asleep. Of course, I have nightmares about fires and alarm clocks and a dog and blue poison and a guy with soulless eyes.

  At 12:59, before my alarm has a chance to go off, I jolt awake. I pull on a sweatshirt, grab Shirlee’s phone, and head to the kitchen.

  I crack the door to the basement stairs. Emily’s bags are still on the top step where I set them. She’s not here yet.

  Dunking chocolate chip cookies in milk, I read the texts I missed from Jennifer. They’re a bunch of questions. Is Michael’s ankle broken or sprained? Did he find the surprise? Did he like it? Why isn’t he replying?

  Sprained. Sleeping lots. Only woke for more pain pills. Key chain is epic. I press send.

  A key turns in the back door lock. Emily tiptoes in.

  “Emily,” I whisper loudly. “I’m in the kitchen.”

  She peers around the corner. “Where’s your mom?”

  “In bed, zonked out on sleeping pills.” I bite into another cookie. “You want something to eat?”

  “Sure.” Emily slips out of her backpack and drops it to the floor along with the sleeping bag and a couple more bags of stuff.

  “Chili?” I open the fridge and pull out leftovers.

  “Sure,” she says again.

  “You can sit.” I scoop chili into a bowl and nuke it.

  Emily perches on the edge of a barstool, looking awkward and out of place. She must be starving, because she digs into the chili like it’s gourmet. Which it’s definitely not.

  This whole situation is so beyond weird that I just have to roll with it. I’m sitting in my kitchen, in the middle of the night, heating up chili for a girl everyone thinks is dead but who’s actually living in my basement because she’s collecting evidence to convict a high school arsonist who threatened her sister if she goes to the cops. It doesn’t even fit in a sentence.

  “Exactly how are you getting evidence on Michael?” I ask as she shakes Parmesan cheese onto her chili.

  “I’m following him online. He created this online group for teenage arsonists. They all brag about their fires and exchange tips and have contests. Very sick and creepy.” She blows on a spoonful of chili. “I go out at night for the Internet. I can get on with my laptop in the Bean’s parking lot.”

  “You have a laptop here?” I say, surprised.

  “Tasha brought mine over,” Emily explains. “I have my cell phone, too. No service, but I can still use the camera and listen to my music.”

  “Why aren’t the police following him online, too?” I say, trying to process this weird situation.

  “They’d never find him. He’s using a chat room through the high school.” She tears the crust off a slice of French bread.

  “Would a teacher find it?”

  “No way,” she says with confidence. “They wouldn’t even be looking for it.”

  “But you found him.”

  “I hacked in,” she says nonchalantly, the way I say “I walked the dog.” “I’m not showing the police. I don’t trust them.” She dunks her bread in the chili. “They already messed up investigating Michael once. Plus he’s a pretty good hacker. He’d be able to tell if they were cyberspying.”

  “What’s he saying online?” I ask.

  “They have this contest going. ‘Bigger and Better.’ You have to one-up the guy before you. Set a ‘better’ fire. On Saturday, Michael’s burning down two buildings: a shed and a cabin.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s a motel sign out on Highway Twenty. The path behind it leads up a hill. If you go one way, you come to a ravine. That’s where Jennifer and those guys left me. The other way goes farther into the woods where the cabin and shed are.”

  “He chose that cabin because…?” I ask.

  “He hates the guy whose family owns it. Hates him.”

  “You already have some evidence?” I ask.

  “I’ve got screenshots of all his posts. On Friday, he’ll set up for the fire with cushions and newspapers and gasoline. He’s using a timer, an alarm clock again, to start the flames. He’ll be at the bonfire, nowhere near the scene, while the fire takes off. I’ll go out Saturday during the day and take photos of the setup. I’ll give the posts and photos to the police. Together, they’re strong evidence. The police can work with the fire department to disarm the clock and prevent the fire.”

  Emily sounds so reasonable and organized. Like she’s planning a simple field trip. But Michael White is dangerous. Very dangerous.

  I arrive at school to find Shirlee pacing around the flagpole like a prisoner in a jail cell. “What’s going on?” she asks me.

  “Read the texts,” I say, giving her back her phone.

  She reads, chewing on her bottom lip. “You intercepted the gift? Weren’t you scared?”

  “Definitely,” I admit.

  The bell rings, and we walk toward the main entrance. I spot Jennifer and her girls inside, waiting for one of us. “Go in the side doors,” I say to Shirlee.

  “Jennifer?” Panic colors her voice.

  “Go, go. I got this one.” And it’s true. When Jennifer and the others start the KleptoRainia thing, I almost don’t realize it’s going on. They’re so nothing compared to Michael. Like a few drops of summer rain compared to a monsoon.

  —

  At lunch, Torie slides her tray across the table, then follows it. “Hugh and Avalon broke up,” she says. Her eyes shine with excitement.

  “I never got what he saw in her to begin with,” Sydney says.

  “She’s really good at video games.” Willow picks up her sandwich.

  Torie snorts. “Do you find something nice to say about everyone?”

  Willow reddens.

  “Except possibly you, Torie.” Sydney laughs.

  “Avalon’s failing Spanish,” a girl from the other end of the table says. “She never does her homework. As in not once since the beginning of the year.”

>   “I think I’m failing Spanish, and that’s with doing my homework. Lopez is the worst teacher ever,” Sydney replies. “Who wants my pudding?”

  I don’t mention Avalon and the mystery guy at the elementary school. Hugh might be in the know, but doesn’t want to broadcast it to all of Yielding Middle. And if he doesn’t know, I don’t want to be responsible for starting that rumor mill.

  Shirlee passes me her phone under the table.

  My grlfriends r getting on my nerves. Jennifer texts from across the room.

  What r they doing? I hit send.

  Saying mean things abt u.

  Not cool.

  Alyssa’s so jealous of me. She has no self-esteem. She photoshops her selfies to look thinner and get rid of her zits.

  Whats with the other girl?

  Rele stupid. Its embarrassing when danielle talks. Shes failing everything. She eats too much. No self-control, Jennifer texts.

  Hang in there. See you tomorro at the bonfire babe.

  “Screenshot these,” I say to Shirlee under my breath. “Email them to me.”

  I stand when the end-of-lunch bell rings, gathering up my trash.

  “You heard what I said about Hugh and Avalon.” Torie slurps the last of her chocolate milk. “Now’s your chance, Raine.”

  “I’m not interested in him,” I say.

  “Puh-lease.” Torie rolls her eyes to the top of her head. “Like anyone’s buying that.”

  “Don’t be so pushy, Torie,” Willow says. “Wow. I just said something not nice.”

  “Hugh doesn’t look like he’s crying over the breakup. He and Garrett are cracking up at their table.” Sydney pops the last of an Oreo in her mouth.

  I refuse to turn around and look.

  “I’m leaving,” I announce.

  “Wait for me.” Shirlee starts positioning her plastic containers in her lunch bag.

  The hall is crowded, and we’re dodging people like we’re riding bumper cars at the fair. Even when a guy crashes right into her, Shirlee can’t turn off her smile. “Those texts are so perfect.”

  “I agree.”

  I stop at my locker for my afternoon books.

  “By the way, hooking up with Hugh goes along with your horoscope,” Shirlee says, walking away before I can answer.

  The rest of my classes go okay, even better than okay. In English, Mrs. Hughes hands back last week’s test on The Call of the Wild, which I seriously rocked, including the essay question. When Mrs. Woodford calls on me in science, I’m able to answer her question about electrons and noble gases. Mr. Magee shows a movie for the entire period of film. And I’m not exaggerating when I say I run like the wind in practice. Coach gives me the biggest thumbs-up ever. Torie, Sydney, and Willow calculate what I can buy with the prize gift certificate from the upcoming invite. Jennifer is furious, throwing stuff in her locker hard enough to dent the metal.

  That evening, after my mom goes to bed and the house falls silent and dark, I start thinking about tomorrow. Saturday. The street fair. The bonfire. Emily sneaking out to take incriminating pictures of Michael’s arson setup in the woods.

  So much can mess up. If Emily’s timing is off, Michael could spot her. I shudder. The firefighters and police could refuse to take Emily seriously. Or they could set her evidence aside because they’re busy. Then the cabin fire would rage out of control.

  I sit in bed and play mindless video games on my computer, hoping to numb my brain enough that I fall asleep.

  Around midnight, Torie texts.

  I get why ur not interested in hugh.

  ???

  Bec ur interested in a high skool guy, Torie replies.

  My stomach begins swirling.

  ??? I text back.

  He was across street after skool today, asking ppl abt u while we were @ practice. I heard he’s cute. Has an Oily Artichokes t shirt like you.

  Asking them what? The swirling speeds up, throwing my dinner to the walls of my stomach.

  Ur name, where you live.

  Did ppl tell him?

  Of course!

  I think I’m going to throw up. Why did Michael want my address? To torch my house? I have to tell Emily. She has to get enough on him tomorrow to get him thrown in jail.

  I can hear my mom snoring softly as I head out of my bedroom. I knock on the basement door. No answer. I open it. “Emily. Emily,” I whisper-call, not wanting to freak her out. I flip up the light switch. I walk down three steps and crane my neck to see around the corner. Her sleeping area is empty. Her laptop power cord is plugged into the wall, but the laptop is gone. Emily’s left to do her cyberspying at the Jitter Bean’s parking lot.

  I camp out in the living room, watching reruns, determined to catch her when she returns.

  After a couple of shows, I go to the kitchen and stare out the window over the sink, watching for Emily. Mrs. Burns’s house is shrouded in black. With no breeze, the bushes, the tree, every blade of grass all stand perfectly still.

  And then my eye latches onto a small red circle of light across the street. It moves slowly in a line from lower to higher, then stops. Then it moves down low again, stops, then moves higher, then stops. From hip height to head, then back to hip. A little red, glowing circle.

  Someone is standing across the street, smoking a cigarette. Who? Michael? The person’s next to the streetlight, just outside the arc of light, protected by the shadows.

  I watch from the safety of my kitchen, from the safety of the darkness, almost hypnotized by the moving, glowing tip. From hip to mouth to hip.

  Then the red tip falls to the sidewalk. The person steps forward to grind out the glow with the toe of a shoe.

  It is Michael. He steps back into the shadow, invisible again.

  “Stay away, Emily,” I whisper. “Stay away.” I wipe my clammy hands on my pajama bottoms.

  Michael hangs out a little longer. Then there’s a blue flare from a lighter as he lights another cigarette. He starts walking along the sidewalk, in the opposite direction of the Jitter Bean. He stops, throws back his head, sucks in, and blows smoke rings. He begins walking again.

  I breathe out a huge sigh of relief. He’s leaving without seeing Emily.

  A couple of houses down the street, he stops, does the smoke-ring thing and looks around, checking the neighborhood one more time.

  Suddenly, he freezes, like he’s been Tasered, a look of total disbelief on his face.

  Picking her way home from the Jitter Bean, Emily’s balancing on the curb. She stops directly under a streetlight. You can tell by the smile on her face that she’s lost in her own thoughts, happy to be outside, even in the dead of night.

  Michael backs into the shadow of a tree.

  Emily circles away from Mrs. Burns’s motion light and skips across our lawn. I hear the soft thump of her footsteps on the hard dirt as she passes under the kitchen window. Then the back door creaks. She’s in. The lock clicks.

  Head down, Michael quickly crosses the street and follows the same path as Emily. Watching through the smallest possible crack in the blinds, I see him pause and listen at the side of our house, a hand on the bricks. He’s like a predator tracking. I almost expect him to sniff. When he gets close to the window, my heart plugs up my throat. I can barely catch a breath.

  Emily enters the kitchen. “The light’s on in the living room.”

  “Shhh.” I point at the window. “Michael.”

  Her face drains of blood.

  Michael vanishes from sight.

  Next we hear the rattle of a doorknob as he tries to open the back door. There’s a thud as he pushes on the locked door. Then silence. Then footsteps past the kitchen. Then another rattle as he tries the porch doorknob.

  Emily and I are shaking.

  Finally, through the kitchen window, I watch Michael walk across the yard and veer onto the street.

  “What was he doing here?” Emily asks.

  I give her the quick version of how Shirlee and I are getting back a
t Jennifer, that Michael saw me at his house and then asked people at school about me. “But why come here? And hang out across the street, smoking? Why even check up on me at school? I’m nobody to him. Nobody.” With each sentence, my voice squeaks higher. “Is he going to burn my house down?”

  Emily chews on her bottom lip. “Maybe he didn’t have a definite plan. But you made him uneasy. Those are some weird coincidences. You were at his front door. You know Jennifer. You live in the house of the girl who knew he was setting fires.” She chews some more. “Did he think I left a diary behind? That you actually knew something?”

  “He’s so evil and creepy.”

  “And now he knows I’m still alive.” Emily starts to cry.

  Saturday morning finds me up early and in the passenger seat of our truck.

  Apparently, in a parallel life, I agreed to help my mother at her property management’s street fair booth. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  We squeal into the Jitter Bean’s parking lot. “Want a hot chocolate?”

  “No. I’m good,” I say. What’s Michael planning? Will he go after Tasha?

  “Come in and choose a doughnut.” Mom squeezes my shoulder.

  I follow her. Will he go after Emily? Will he burn my house down?

  Hugh’s behind the counter, helping his dad with the morning rush. He’s very wide awake. “Street fair volunteer?” he asks, glancing at my mother’s T-shirt.

  “Absolutely.” She beams.

  “The only decent parts are the bonfire and the fireworks,” he says cheerfully to me. “I put an extra one in for you. For doing your civic duty.” He hands me the bag of doughnuts.

  Just hearing the word bonfire sends my pulse skyrocketing. Will Emily get enough evidence to convince the police to go after Michael? Will Michael concentrate on his original plan of setting the cabin and shed on fire during the bonfire?

  “Hugh seems like a nice guy,” my mom says, glancing quickly at me as she pulls into traffic.

  “Uh-huh,” I reply. How long will Michael leave Emily, Tasha, and me alone? Long enough that he gets locked up? When we get to her company’s booth, my mom introduces me to Nancy, the other volunteer and her coworker. “As soon as you’re finished eating, we’re putting you on the fortune wheel,” my mom says.