Tone Deaf(37)

She spends the whole evening answering messages and shooting me victorious looks as she munches on her mac and cheese. I hang out on the couch and practice one of our newer songs, although my attention keeps drifting away from my guitar and back to Ali. Sitting there at the desk, her slim legs crossed and her head tilted in concentration, she looks more attractive than ever. Not just cute, not just beautiful, but confident and intelligent.

I keep wandering over to peer at what she’s doing, and she doesn’t move away from me as I look over her shoulder at the messages on the screen. She’s obviously at ease working with computers, and it gives her a sort of calmness I haven’t ever seen before. It’s getting late, and I pack away my guitar, but I don’t suggest she stop for the night. Ali seems to be enjoying herself for once, and I don’t want to ruin that.

I grab the TV remote resting haphazardly on the couch’s arm. From the bedroom, Cuddles lets out a bored whine, and I know I should probably take her out on a run. But I turn on the TV instead, deciding that bringing out Cuddles is just going to make Ali nervous.

I flick to the news channel and let myself zone out. News stories flash by on the screen, one by one, some of them happy, but most of them depressing as hell. Then a red banner appears at the bottom of the screen, along with the words “AMBER ALERT.”

I turn up the volume just as Ali’s face appears on the screen. It looks like a school photo, her hair carefully styled, her makeup carefully applied, but her smile fake and strained.

“According to authorities, Alison Collins went missing three days ago from her home in Los Angeles,” a woman reporter says. I stare at the screen, too shocked to react.

What the hell? The girl is seventeen, and they’re putting out an Amber Alert? She’s almost a legal adult, so no one should care if she’s gone, at least not enough for an emergency alert to be raised. Unless there’s some other reason they’re concerned about her safety?

As if answering my question, the reporter says, “Alison, who goes by Ali, has been diagnosed with multiple mental health disorders. Her father states that she has a history of self-harm, and it’s urgent that she be found quickly.”

I blink a few times, hoping I’m dreaming, that I’m about to wake up from a nightmare. Mental health disorders? Self-harm? Ali sure as hell didn’t mention any of this. She led me to think the exact opposite—that she was running from someone hurting her, not doing it to herself. Is everything she’s told me some sort of sick lie?

I whirl toward the desk, opening my mouth to demand answers, but stumbling uselessly over the words. The report has to be a mistake. Ali’s face goes pale as she flicks her gaze between me and the flashing red banner on the screen. She jumps up from the desk, and I wait for her to launch into some explanation that’ll clear everything up.

Instead, she runs. Ali slips out of the room, and a second later, I hear the bathroom door slam closed and the click of a lock. I curse and jump up from the couch, my bones screaming in protest, my heartbeat crashing against my chest as I race after her.

She lied. I believed her, I trusted her, I tried to help her, and all she gave me in return was lies.

I hear muffled crying from inside the bathroom, but Ali doesn’t come to the door when I knock. I grab the emergency master key from the top of the doorframe, using that to pop the lock open.

Ali sits in the corner of the bathroom, tightly hugging her knees to her chest, like she’s trying to put a barrier between us. She stares up at me, her eyes wide and terrified. Or is she really even scared? Is her fear even real, or is it just another lie?

“I’m sorry,” she signs.

Is her sign language a piece of her act? Is she even deaf? My head pounds as I try to sort out the truth, and I reach up to rub my forehead.

As soon as my hand moves, Ali lets out a strangled yelp and draws closer to the wall. Her cheeks grow paler as more tears join the initial rush. One drips down from the tip of her nose, and she flinches as it brushes against her chin.

Shit. Maybe she could pretend to need help, and maybe even pretend to be deaf. But she can’t fake fear like that. Her gaze flicks wildly between my face and my hands, and I know that sort of terror can only be the result of one thing.

I take a deep breath and hold up my hands in a gesture of innocence. It doesn’t do anything to calm her, and my thoughts keep whirling in confusion. What the hell is going on?

I crouch beside Ali, ready to voice the question, but she cringes and rips her gaze away from mine. I remember that so well: Don’t look him in the eyes, don’t make him mad, don’t make things worse. Those words were my personal mantra for years, and now . . . now those same words are probably running through Ali’s head.

Because of me.

I shudder and stumble back a few steps, giving her space. Then I just freeze in place and wait for her to look up so she can see my words. It takes a long time. Maybe a minute, maybe an hour; I’m not sure. All I know is that it feels like an eternity. Tears stream down her face, landing with soft plops on the linoleum floor, creating a quiet beat that sears into me. Then Ali runs a shaking hand across her eyes, clearing them of tears, and finally looks up.

“Explain,” I say, keeping my voice soft, even though I know she can’t hear me.

Ali bites her lip and stares at me for a long second. Her teeth cut through her chapped skin, and a tiny drop of blood leaks out. She doesn’t even seem to notice.