Then You Were Gone (8 page)

Julian jumps, exhaling smoke. Then he reaches over and pops the lock.

“What’re you doing here?”

I get in. “You’re missing lit.”

“So are you.”

He offers me his cigarette. I take it, dragging on the damp, hot filter. “So you’ve just . . . been
here
this whole time? Watching the house?”

He shrugs.

“What about school?”

“What about it?”

I pass the cig back. “Well . . . have you seen anything?”

He shifts around. “You think I’m crazy, right? Sitting here? Expecting her to just . . . show up?”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” I say, and it’s true, I don’t. I settle against the broken leather headrest, relaxing finally after days of creepy jitters. I pull the cookie from my knapsack.

“Holy shit,” Julian croaks.

It’s Emmett.
Emmett
, headed toward his Ford sedan with a vinyl computer bag slung over one shoulder. We slump in our seats.

“Can he see us?”

“I don’t know,” I squeak. “Can he?” He looks so normal: skinny, shaggy, serious, sullen. “What the hell, where’s he going?”

“Work?”

“How can he work? How can he work when his kid’s missing?”

“Not his kid,” Julian says, and he’s right. Emmett’s the fake parent. Default dad. The guy who took over when Dakota’s mom left, long ago.

“There he goes,” I say, sitting up. He’s off. We watch the car disappear down Mohawk.

We’re quiet for a bit. Julian messes with the stereo. I watch Dakota’s sad Jeep, parked at an angle in front of the garage, and wonder how long it’s been back. How these things work. How long it takes to dust for fingerprints or search for bodily fluids or strands of hair. “Hungry?” I offer, passing him some crumpled cookie.

Dingaling.

“Crap.” My cell. I grab at it, thinking it’s Griffin in Guidance or maybe Murphy or Kate, wondering where the hell I’m at, but—“Christ”—it’s that private number again. I pick up, overeager. “Hello?”

Dead air.

“Hello, hello?”

Another hang-up.

“What?” he says. “What’s with your face?”

I must look insane. I
feel
insane—manic, mistrustful—but also, I’m antsy. I can’t sit still. I’m just so sick of all this hopelessness. “Let’s break in,” I suggest.

His mouth clicks open. “What?”

“Come on, let’s. Emmett used to keep a spare key inside a fake rock by the back door.”

“What do you expect to find? The cops . . . I mean, I’m sure anything good is already gone.”

“Well, what do you expect to find sitting
here
?” I push the car door open and climb out. “I’ll go on my own.” I feel reckless and high. I stalk toward the house. Halfway up the drive, I hear this:

“Adrienne!” It’s the first time he’s said my name. “Wait, okay? Please, wait? I’m coming, just—gimme a sec.”

•    •    •

I spot it instantly. “Fake rocks look so fake.” Wedged between the watering can and a strategically placed pile of real rocks. I grab at it, brush off the dirt, and shake out the key. “Voilà.”

Julian’s face is green.

“You okay?”

No response.

I wiggle the key in the lock. “Open sesame.” The door pops.

“You sure you wanna do this?”

Where’s his daring dark side? His wild streak? The cool criminal within? “We’re not gonna get caught.”

“That’s not what . . .” He trails off. What’s he so scared of? Booby traps? Alarm bells? Dakota’s lifeless body? “Okay,” he continues, pushing past me. “Let’s go, then.”

•    •    •

It’s the dank smell that hits first: musty and stuck. Then something else: something waxy and sweet and warm underneath. Dakota smell. Her perfume, maybe? I clutch the kitchen counter for support.

“You all right?”

This.
This
is what he meant. Did I really want to
smell her
? Or see her wallpapered walls or her bed?

“Come on,” Julian says, pulling me forward by the elbow. “Let’s go upstairs.”

It’s been two years since I’ve been here last, but it all looks exactly the same: mismatched furniture; heavy blinds; clean, dark wood floors. Dakota’s room is black and blue, with a four-poster bed, a record player, an electronic keyboard, and a Bowie poster. For a minute or two, Julian and I just stand there. Then he starts searching. He picks through a stack of papers on her bureau, pulls a few books off the shelf.

I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. A Klonopin prescription? A notebook with my name scrawled in the margins? I start under the bed, where all her CDs are stored in big plastic bins. I pull out two discs, look inside, place them back in their jewel cases. I look at Julian. I look at the Bowie poster. I think about my old navy shift dress. The one I loaned Dakota the day I got ditched. I get up and go to the closet.

Racks of silky, witchy dresses, dark linen tops, thin band T-shirts, no navy shift. I touch everything. I dig to the back and tug loose my favorite: sheer black chiffon, similar to the one I bought with Kate at the flea market. Dakota wore this one weekly. I look over my shoulder at Julian. He’s got his back to me. He’s jiggling a loose floorboard. I quickly shove the dress in my purse (an eye for an eye, a dress for a dress), then mindlessly turn my attention to an army jacket with Sharpie scrawl splattered all over its sleeves.

“Oh, wow.” Julian’s eyeing the coat. It lies in a ball by my feet.

“What?” I ask, picking it up. “What is it?”

“Her favorite. Lemme see?”

I toss it. He shakes out the wrinkles, holds up both sleeves. “Show dates,” he says, proudly, pointing at the sloppy print. “Dark Star dates.”

I go and sit beside him on the floor. I stare. That’s her handwriting—messy, slanted, small. “You guys played out a lot, huh?” Tons of dates, all arranged in skinny, crooked columns.

“I guess.”

I feel spacey, shaky, and worn-out. I think about the dress in my purse and get a quick pang of shame. “Feels weird here.”

“Does it?”

“Doesn’t it?” I roll my knees to one side. Rest my head
against the purple bed skirt. “She used to get really pissed at me.” I flash back to the last time we were here. Dakota and me, shit-show drunk and fighting.

“Over what?”

“Dunno. Everything. She thought I was, like, judgey and smug. That I didn’t approve of the things she liked. I used to do stupid stuff to prove I was cool.” I laugh to offset my embarrassment.

“Like?”

“Like . . . drink a lot. I dunno. That’s what made me think—” I stop, gesturing vaguely around the room. “Last time I was here, we fought.”

“About?”

“We were drunk, I don’t know.”

“Was that the last time . . . ?” He lets the sentence dangle. “I mean, was that when you two stopped . . . ?”

“No, no,” I’m quick to say, although it’s possible that fight was all part of some larger lead-up. “We still hung out for a while after that.” I pause to laugh. “She spit in my face.”

“What?”

“She spit ice at me. Right here.” I tap the bed. “Ice and schnapps.”

Julian snorts. An unexpected, utterly uncool little grunt. “Not surprised. We used to have epic, gnarly, crazy fights. We’d be in the car and she’d be screaming, swearing, skidding sideways off the road, and then she’d stop the Jeep and
make me get out. Happened twice, super late. Got to jog home in the dark.”

I’m smiling. So is he. He looks down at the jacket. The smiling stops.

“What?”

He’s touching two dates. “We haven’t—we’ve only been playing together a year and a half.”

“So?”

“So, this date? This was, like, two years ago.” He shakes his head, four fast motions. “We hadn’t even met yet.”

We were friends still.

Julian slides backward, away from the coat.

“It ain’t alive,” I quip.

No laugh back. I feel idiotic. I rack my brain for explanations. “Maybe she was singing on her own somewhere? Open mics, maybe?”

“Did she play out, back then?”

“I don’t—” No? Maybe? “It’s possible. She didn’t always tell me stuff.”

“And, okay—here?” He’s pointing at new numbers. “I’d sprained my wrist. Couldn’t drum.” He smoothes out both sleeves. “These aren’t show dates.” He looks up, panicked. “She told me they were show dates. Why would she lie about that?”

My belly flops.

“I mean, some of them
are
show dates.” He sighs, rolling
the bed sideways. “Jesus, I dunno, ya know?” He’s fumbling with the floorboard again. “Help me with this?”

I grab a nail file off the nightstand and use it to jimmy one corner free. A satisfying
pop
. Julian wiggles the board back and forth. The whole thing comes loose. Inside, arranged neatly, a manila envelope folded lengthwise. An old photo of a pretty blonde holding a squirmy child. Three plastic Baggies wrapped tightly with tape and Saran wrap.

“How’d you know?”

“Saw her screwing with it once.” He grabs the plastic bags first. Pockets those.

“Hey.”

“Candy.” He picks up the picture. “Her mother,” he says, and on closer inspection I see it: same saucer eyes and wispy hair. Same bird bones and big boobs.

“And baby Dakota?”

“Looks like.” He passes the pic and goes for the envelope. Unfolds it. Out slide three shiny sheets of photo paper.

“Proofs.”

Dozens of tiny black-and-white images arranged side by side in neat little rows. I squint at a naked blonde rolling around on a bare mattress.

“Wow,” Julian croaks.

It’s her. She’s clutching a comforter. A few of the shots have
X
s and checks next to them. A man’s name, Mark Mills, is
scribbled in blue ink along the side of each sheet. “Photographer?”

“Manager,” Julian says, his face contorting.

“Yours?”

“No. Just, this, like, sketch guy that was always sniffing around after shows. He manages another Smell band.” Then: “
Christ
. What the hell
is
this? Were they together?”

He’s near tears.

“This dude is so sleazy.”

My heart pretty much explodes in my chest. “Hey, it’s okay,” I say, trying to touch him. He flinches. “Why not . . .” I scooch back a bit, giving him room to breathe. “I mean, do you know him? Could you call him? Let’s just call the guy and see what he knows.”

“No, this dude—” He’s looking at me like I’m bat-shit insane. “Adrienne,
no
.” He shuffles through the proofs again. “August eighteenth.”

“Hmm?”

He points at some tiny lettering beneath the manager’s name. “August eighteenth.” Then grabs the jacket and points at the same date written on Dakota’s coat cuff. “They match.”

I pick up the proofs. Look closely. Typed in diminutive print in the margins of each page is
8/18
. “No show that night?”

“No show.”

I scan the photos. Where the hell was she? Someone’s
bedroom? A loft? The space looks industrial and bare.

Then: one candid shot. Last image. Dakota: nude, no blanket, smoking. Her hips, hollow and pointy. I inhale and catch a whiff of something sad. “Can we go?”

“Right now?”

I sit up. Shove everything back in the envelope. “Yeah, you mind?” And, “Can I keep these?”

“Wait,
why
?”

“Just for a few days. Please? I just—I want to see if there’s something we’re missing.”

He sucks his upper lip. “Fine.” Slides the floorboard back into place.

We stand. I scan the room one last time. Why no evidence of Julian, of band mates, of
me
?

“You ready?”

“Yep.”

Too typical. Her not needing anyone but needing everyone to need her.

“Shit, Knox, you’re blitzed.”

True. Drank a quarter of Sam’s smoky scotch before I boarded the bus for Kate’s place.

“What’s in the bag?” she asks, prying the soggy brown sack from my fingertips.

“Blueberry pie.”

She peeks inside. “You sit on it?”

I laugh. Kate laughs. Purple filling oozes onto her dry, white hands.

Walker, Yates, and Reed huddle around their supper plates, staring. And Lee? Lee’s at my side, peeling my coat off my body, yanking me into the kitchen.

“You’re drunk?”

“I’m hungry.” I pull myself up onto the sticky countertop. “When do we eat?”

“What the hell happened to you? We
ate
already.”

I dig into some leftover congealed artichoke dip with my pinkie. “Yum.”

“Knox, look at me.” He grabs my chin. “You smell.”

“That’s the scotch.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

“Because of
her
?”

“Because of
her
?” I mimic.

Kate appears, carrying a stack of crusty plates. Lee turns, says, “Take care of this?”

Now Kate’s in my face with a bowl of cold chicken and roasted beets. “Eat, drunkles.” I let her feed me. The beets are sweet and tangy and I swing my legs back and forth while I chew.

I tell Sam I’m sick. He knows I’m hungover. I skip school, go to the Italian deli on Alpine, buy an eggplant sub and a liter of Pellegrino, and walk home. I eat my sandwich, lie on my lawn, mess around with my phone. I google “Mark Mills.”

Up pops his website, along with a few tangential mentions on music sites and rock blogs. I click MarkMills.com. One page only. Stark blue, looks homemade. Bands he reps. Contact info. I cut and paste his studio information into my cell. Ridiculous. So easy. Who the hell is this guy? How did he get with D. Webb?

August 18. Roughly a month before she went missing. I scroll through Gmail trying to sort out where I was the day she was posing for those pictures. A few nonsense emails from Lee (“Blow me.” And, “Come over. Come sit on my face.”). A forward from my mother. A Zappos receipt. Nothing noteworthy. I try text next—clicking Kate’s name,
reading backward, to August 18: “Bitch, you late. Hurry up. Want pie.” So, supper club. Thursday. School day. Dakota was living, breathing, getting naked with sketch music managers, scribbling dates down on old army jackets.

Back to Contacts. Mark Mills. I tap his name with two fingers. Consider emailing. Stop myself. Toss my phone into the purple bougainvillea. Roll face-first into dry grass.