“So, you’re Sarah’s roommate?” he asked, nudging me along. “We know each other from class.”
“Yeah,” I said, glancing over at my friend, who had now partially vanished into the crowd. I shot her a silent apology in my mind for automatically assuming the worst. “I’m Chloe.”
“Ethan,” he said, thrusting a drink in my direction as opposed to a handshake. I took it, slipping the heavy cup into my empty one and drinking from the double-stacked lip. “Sarah mentioned that you’re pre-med?”
“Psychology,” I said. “I’m hoping to pursue my PhD here next fall—then, eventually, my master’s.”
“Wow,” he said. “That’s amazing. Hey, it’s kind of loud in here—do you want to find somewhere quiet to talk?”
I remember the distinct drop of my chest in that moment; the realization that he was just like the rest. I felt like I couldn’t judge him, though. I had done it, too. Used people. Used their bodies to feel less alone. But this time, it felt different. I was on the receiving end.
“I was actually just about to leave—”
“That came out weird,” he interrupted, holding up his hand. “I know guys probably say that a lot. Somewhere quiet, like my bedroom, right? That’s not what I meant.”
He smiled sheepishly as I chewed on the side of my lip, trying to decipher what it was that he did mean. He didn’t fit my checklist, that tried-and-true system I had used to keep myself safe for so long, physically and emotionally. He was hard to pin down, with his picture-perfect smile and tousled blonde surfer’s hair. Chiseled forearms that seemed effortless, like he had never actually stepped foot inside of a gym. Talking to him somehow seemed both safe and dangerous, like strapping into a roller coaster and feeling your chest lurch back as the clicking of the chains starts to move your body forward, too late to turn back.
“How about in there?”
He gestured over to the kitchen, dirty with old, sticky cups and empty cases of Natural Light beer stacked on the counters, the door removed clean from the hinges. It was empty, though. Quiet enough to talk, but visible enough to feel safe. I nodded, and let him trail me down the crowded hallway and into the fluorescently lit room. He grabbed a towel and wiped down a counter, patting it twice with a grin. I walked over and leaned against it, placing my hands on the surface and hoisting myself up until I was sitting on the edge, my feet dangling in the air. He sat down next to me and tipped his old plastic cup against mine. We each took a sip, staring at each other from above the plastic.
And that’s where we sat for the next four hours.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Doctor Davis, can you answer the question, please?”
I look up at Detective Thomas and attempt to blink away the memory. I can still feel the stickiness on my hands from the spilt drinks on the counter, the tingling in my legs from sitting there, motionless, for so many hours. So deep in conversation. Oblivious to the world outside of that dilapidated old kitchen. The buzz of the party around us evaporating until suddenly, we were the last ones left. The quiet walk home in the dark, Ethan’s finger hooked gently around mine as the fall wind trickled through the trees on campus. The way he led me up the sidewalk to my apartment, waited on the street corner until I unlocked my front door and waved him good night.
“Yes,” I say quietly, the knot in my throat tightening. “Yes, I know Ethan Walker. But it sounds like you know that already.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“He was my boyfriend in college. We dated for eight months.”
“And why did you split up?”
“We were in college,” I repeat. “It wasn’t that serious. It just didn’t work out.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
I’m glaring at him now, a hatred boiling in my chest that momentarily startles me. Clearly, he knows the answer already. He just wants to hear me say it.
“Why don’t you tell me the whole story, in your words,” Detective Thomas says. “Start from the top.”
I sigh, glancing at the clock hanging above my office door. Fifteen minutes before my first appointment is supposed to arrive. I’ve told my version of this story a hundred times before—I know he can just look at the department records, probably listen to a recording of me recounting the exact same thing—but I desperately want this man out of my office by the time my appointment arrives.
“Ethan and I dated for eight months, like I said. He was my first real boyfriend, and we got close fast. Too fast for a couple of kids. He was over at our apartment all the time, almost every night. But at the start of that summer, right after classes ended, he started to distance himself. It was also right around that time that my roommate, Sarah, went missing.”