Everything You Are(73)

But Ethan’s dad is dead. He said so. Died from suicide years ago. These pills can’t be his, unless that was a lie, just like the phone.

Her tongue is made of cotton, and her lips are disconnected from her brain. She manages to get her eyes half open.

Ethan’s breath snores in and out of his throat. Drool trails down over his chin. He’s not beautiful anymore.

Her brain is a small spark of consciousness, but it flickers like a candle in the wind.

Ethan lied. About the phone. About his father.

She doesn’t want to die as part of a lie.

Call for help.

She reaches for his phone, but her fingers won’t work right, and it slips away, out of reach. She tries to stand, but her legs seem to belong to some other girl and drop her onto the floor. The carpet stinks of mold and old tobacco. Her eyelids are heavy while the rest of her body is floating. Moving is hard, too hard. She’d like to say goodbye to her father, to tell him that she loves him. But even that seems too far away. Maybe it’s too late for it to matter.





Chapter Twenty-Seven

PHEE

Phee lays a clean white cover over the instruments she’s working on and puts her tools away. Everything as usual, everything in its place, except for her thoughts. She’s thoroughly at war with herself, not that this is anything new.

“Obsessed,” “incorrigible,” “obstinate”—these are words that have woven themselves into her being from the time she was a very small child. Every lecture that came her way from her parents or her teachers involved the word “too.” Too loud, too excited, too bossy, too opinionated, too much.

Somewhere along the line, she’s made peace with that, has turned the words into an inside joke for her own private amusement. Her business cards read: Ophelia MacPhee, Luthier

Your instrument is my obsession

She has to make a decision and make it soon. A vacation rental cabin somewhere in the woods or the cabin she has in mind. Just because Braden’s sister didn’t want to talk to her doesn’t mean she can’t figure out where it is. Does she proceed? Or take a step back. Let Braden and Allie find their footing with each other. At least the cello is in a place where she can keep an eye on it.

She’s just getting ready to climb into bed and let go of the day when her phone rings.

Braden.

Her hand moves toward the phone in slow motion, and her voice sounds dry and tight when she answers.

“Phee. Thank God you picked up. It’s Allie. She’s tried to kill herself and she’s taken the car and—”

“Oh God. Oh, Braden. Keep talking. I’m already moving.”

Adrenaline floods her as she squeezes the phone between her shoulder and her ear and puts on her shoes and jacket.

“She’s at the Sunset Motel. The cops are on their way. I’ve booked an Uber, but it’s going to be a bit and you’re closer than I am. I can’t bear the waiting. Go there, Phee, don’t come here.”

“All right.” She can hear his panicked breathing, the sound of him pacing. “Easy, Braden. Maybe she’s okay. How do you know—”

“I was worried. Had a bad feeling. I looked at her laptop. She always takes it with her, she never leaves it here. There was an IM conversation between her and Ethan . . .” His voice breaks on a wrenching sob that threatens to turn her inside out.

She grabs her keys and runs to her car.

Braden manages a quavering breath, and goes on. “They made a pact, Phee. And they were meeting hours ago. If she’s . . .” He breaks off again, unable to say the words.

“I’m on my way. Give me an address.”

He rattles off the number and street, and she enters it into her phone. “That’s not far from here. Stay with me, Braden. I’m in the car. Moving.”

“Oh God. I should have done something, Phee. Taken her to a counselor. Sent her off with Alexandra. All of this is my fault.”

“Sounds like Ethan has some blame in this.”

“Lilian would never have let her date that boy.”

“Did you?”

“No, but—”

“She’s a seventeen-year-old girl. You can’t just stop a kid that age from doing shit unless you physically lock her in a room. Maybe not even then. I speak from the voice of experience.”

She sees flashing lights ahead. Dread writhes in her belly. The seedy motel is garishly lit, on again, off again, by the red and blue lights. Two cop cars. An ambulance. A group of people huddles beside the ambulance watching the show.

“Phee?” Braden’s voice asks. “Where are you? What do you see?”

“I’m here. There are cop cars. An ambulance.”

“Oh God.” It’s a groan, a prayer.

“I’m going to see what I can find out. I’ll call you back.” Phee disconnects. If it’s bad news, she doesn’t want him to hear it live.

The motel has two floors, all of the doors opening out toward the parking lot. Up the stairs, to the right, one of the doors is open. A uniformed officer stands outside.

“Hey,” she says, approaching the bystanders. “What’s going on?”

“Suicide. That’s what the cop told the EMT,” a girl says. She can’t be much older than Allie, but the high boots, short skirt, and amount of makeup hint that her presence in the motel is more professional than recreational.