It’s ten p.m.
I try to open my eyes wider but my vision is bleary, my head pounding. I think back to my trip to Daniel’s home—his mother in that dilapidated old shack, the newspaper clipping stuck between the pages of that book. Suddenly, I feel nauseated, and I drag myself from the bed and run into the bathroom, throwing open the toilet seat before heaving into the bowl. Nothing comes up but bile, acid yellow and burning my tongue. A skinny string of spit dangles from the back of my throat, making me gag. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and walk into the bedroom, perching on the edge of the bed. I reach for the glass of water on the table, but I see that it’s on its side, the water dripping from the rim and onto the carpet. My phone must have knocked it over. Instead, I reach down and grab my phone, pressing the side to illuminate the screen.
There are a few missed calls from Aaron, some messages checking in. In an instant, I remember the feeling of his body on top of mine. His hands on my wrists, his lips on my neck. That was a mistake, what we did, but I’ll have to deal with that later. I have to scroll to get through the rest of the missed calls and text messages—mostly, they’re from Shannon, with a few from Daniel thrown in. How do I have this many missed calls? I wonder. It’s only ten o’clock—I’ve been asleep for four hours, tops. Then I notice the date on the screen.
It’s ten p.m. on Friday.
I’ve been asleep for an entire day.
I unlock my phone and look at my text messages, alarm starting to creep in as I skim each one.
Chloe, call me please. This is important.
Chloe, where are you?
Chloe, call me NOW.
Shit, I think, rubbing my temples. They’re still throbbing, still screaming at me in protest. Taking two Xanax on an empty stomach was clearly a mistake, but I knew that as I was doing it. All I wanted was to sleep. To forget. After all, I’ve barely slept in a week with Daniel pushed up against me. Clearly, it caught up with me.
I scroll to Shannon’s name and hit Call, holding the phone to my ear as it rings. They’ve obviously discovered my lie. Daniel must have texted her like he said he would, even though I asked him not to. Then, once they realized that I was lying to them both, that I was missing without a valid explanation as to where I had gone and who I was with, panic must have set in. But right now, I don’t really care. I’m not going home to Daniel. I’m still not convinced that I can go to the police, either—Detective Thomas made it clear that I am to stay out of the investigation. But between the newspaper article and the engagement ring, the Angola receipts and my conversation with Daniel’s mother, maybe I can get their attention this time. Maybe I can get them to listen.
Then it hits me: the engagement ring. I had pulled it off my finger in Aaron’s car, thrown it to the floor. I don’t think I ever picked it back up. I look down at my empty hand before twisting around and moving my fingers through the rumpled comforter on the bed. My palm hits something hard and I flip the blanket back—but it’s not the ring. It’s Aaron’s press badge, hidden in the sheets. In a flash, I see myself unbuttoning his shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders. I pick it up, bring it close. I stare at his picture and I let myself wonder, for a minute, if maybe last night wasn’t a mistake. If maybe, in some strange twist of fate, this was how we were meant to find each other.
The phone stops ringing, and when Shannon answers, I can immediately tell that something is wrong. She sniffles.
“Chloe, where the hell are you?”
Her voice is croaky, like she’s been gargling nails.
“Shannon,” I say, sitting up straighter. I stick Aaron’s badge in my pocket. “Is everything okay?”
“No, everything is not okay,” she snaps. A little sob erupts from her throat. “Where are you?”
“I’m … in town. I just needed to clear my head for a little bit. What’s going on?”
Another sob bursts through the speaker—this time, louder—and the noise makes me physically recoil, like it slapped me through the phone. I hold my arm out, listening to the wails on the other side of the line as she tries to string enough words together to form a complete thought.
“It’s … Riley…” she says, and immediately, I feel like I’m going to be sick again. I already know what she’s going to say before she has the chance to say it. “She’s … she’s gone.”
“What do you mean, ‘she’s gone’？” I ask, although I know what she means. I know it in my gut. I picture Riley at our engagement party, slouched down in our living room, her skinny legs crossed. Her sneakered feet kicking against the leg of the chair. Her phone in one hand, her hair twirling in the other.