Come Find Me(59)

The residential area of town we’re in is just a scattering of streets in a grid. As we drive, the homes give way to brick buildings set farther back from the road. In the distance, a plume of smoke rises from the large chimney of a factory.

There are very few people, or stores, or restaurants. The sidewalks are half crumbled, the pavement buckling in sections. Beyond the residential area, this feels like a town of decaying buildings, with weeds pushing back through the concrete squares, like the earth is reclaiming it. There doesn’t seem to be much in the way of food, just large, nondescript buildings with empty parking lots. But eventually we find a fast-food place with a drive-through on a corner next to a gas station, surrounded by nothing but empty space.

    There are three other people inside the restaurant, all spread out, sitting at the farthest corners. No one looks up as I pass with the tray of food to join Nolan at the booth. Out the window facing away from the road is a ballfield surrounded by a chain link fence. But even the dirt has become overgrown with grass, like no one’s used it in ages.

I’m suddenly queasy, unsure of what we’ll find—unsure of what exactly I’m hoping for.

“You’re quiet,” Nolan says.

I guess I’m worried that everything means nothing. That there is no reason for anything, other than chance encounters, and chaos. The universe, heading toward more disorder.

But I smile at him instead. “Thought you could use the break,” I say.

He smiles back, but it’s like he knows I’m lying.



* * *



—

Two coffees and three breakfast sandwiches later, we head back to the house.

Both cars are gone. We linger at the curb, staring at the house. “I’m going to ring the bell,” I say, since neither of us appears to have a plan. “Go park somewhere else in the meantime. If someone’s home, I’ll meet you around that corner.”

Nolan leaves me at the sidewalk, and I enter the gate of their white picket fence, easing it shut behind me. It’s a modest home—two stories, older, but kept up nicely. There are brightly colored flowers on either side of the porch. When I ring the bell, it echoes inside. No one appears after a few moments, so I use the brass knocker, just in case.

    Still nothing.

I look over my shoulder to see if anyone’s watching. It’s a residential street, but the homes are hidden behind larger oak trees, and I hope that obscures the view of me, if any of the neighbors are watching. Eventually, I hear someone walking up the driveway, and I prepare to come up with some excuse—selling something; looking for directions—but it’s only Nolan.

I shrug one shoulder at him and then check the obvious places for keys: under the flowerpots and the doormat. Out of luck, we circle around to the backyard. Here the curtains are pulled open, and I can see the darkened kitchen, the laminate surfaces, cleaned and orderly. Except for a coffee cup in the center. I freeze, wondering if someone’s there, or whether someone has just forgotten it.

Nolan knocks this time, and I stare him down. “And what exactly will you say to explain why you’re knocking on the back door?” I whisper.

He shrugs. “Lost Frisbee?”

Oh my God, I think, looking at the sky. He’s serious.

Thankfully, no one comes to the door, and I resume my search, checking the downspouts and around the patio furniture. There’s a metal planter on the patio, and tipping it to the side, I find a metal key, lined with dirt. “Hallelujah,” I mutter, wiping it off on the side of my shorts.

The back door creaks when I push it open, and the downstairs smells like syrup and coffee. It reminds me, suddenly, of home. And I can hear my mother and Elliot talking at the table—only now I can’t remember whether they sounded happy, or whether there was tension underneath. I remember Elliot saying, “You don’t see the other side of him, Mom,” but when I walked into the room, they stopped talking. I remember entering the room, my mother tucking her dark hair behind her ear, her smile when she saw me, the steaming mug in her hands—

    “Kennedy?”

Stop. I have to stop. But I wonder if, even then, they were discussing Hunter Long.

“Coming,” I say.

The first floor doesn’t appear large—a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, maybe a bathroom out of sight. There’s a family photo on the mantel of the fireplace—a mother, a teenage daughter, and a younger version of Hunter, without his hair bleached white. He looks just like the image hanging on Nolan’s wall. There are other photos surrounding it, including a man, but Hunter isn’t in any of those pictures.

Nolan completes a circuit of the downstairs. “Come on,” he says, waiting for me at the base of a staircase. I follow him up the carpeted steps, the wood underneath our feet squeaking with every shift in weight.

There appear to be three bedrooms upstairs, all off a single hall—two with their doors open, which Nolan walks right by.

“It will be that one,” he whispers, pointing to the closed door. Still, I peek in the other two doorways we pass—a room in purple and gray, clothes strewn across the floor, which must belong to the teenage girl in the family photo; the other room has a queen bed and an ornate headboard.

    Pushing open the closed door, Nolan holds his breath, as if expecting to see something waiting for us.