Where You'll Find Me (16 page)

She’s right, but I can’t stop. It’s not a confession, but it’s close enough. The cops were right. Nate killed Jeremy.

Heather pries the phone from my fingers and plays the message for herself. “Ohmygod,” she gasps halfway through. When it’s over, she says, “Ohmygod, Hanley, I’m…”

“Don’t,” I say, jumping up from the couch. “Don’t say anything. Don’t…” My words are cut off by a sob that tears its way through my lungs. It’s so forceful that I think I’ll never breathe again, but when I do, it’s only to fuel another sob of equal intensity. I bury my face in my hands and drop to my knees while hot tears spill between my fingertips.

“Hanley,” Heather says again, dropping down and putting a hand on my knee. But I shake her off and run upstairs. Once I’m alone, I fall on my bed and let the grief swallow me whole. This is even worse than before, because this grief is compound. It’s losing Kayla all over again. It’s losing Jeremy and Nate. It’s losing too many pieces of myself. It’s falling apart and having no one to hold me together.

When the tears stop, it’s more a result of biology than the easing of pain. I’m physically exhausted. Heather knocks, and I’m too tired to tell her to stay out.

“You probably don’t want to see me right now, but I want to show you something,” she says as she sits on the edge of my bed. Her hands are full. She hands over a box of tissues and a bottle of water first.

“So, I know what you’re thinking right now. You’re lumping Jeremy and Kayla into the same category. You’re angry at Nate just like you were angry with yourself.”

“It’s worse,” I say. “I would have done
anything
to help Kayla.” Somehow, another tear slides down my cheek. “But Nate did the complete opposite to Jeremy.”

“I get that,” Heather says, “but look. There’s a difference.” She holds out a piece of paper she brought with her. It takes me a second to recognize that it’s the bulletin from Kayla’s funeral.

“Why are you showing me that?” I ask.

“Just trust me and look,” she says, green eyes pleading.

With a sigh, I do. This page has a picture of Kayla and me at a pool party, arms wrapped around each other, wide grins on our faces, hair half-dry in the sun.

“When was that taken?” Heather asks.

It’s a struggle to bring back the memories I’ve blocked out for so long. “I don’t know…a couple of weeks before she died, I guess.”

“That’s what I thought. Now look at this.” She opens my laptop and turns it so I can see. The Web browser is open to the blog I found about Jeremy earlier. Like the picture of me and Kayla, the picture displayed has a younger version of Nate and Jeremy with their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, smiling and holding a fifteenth birthday cake. I’m not sure I’d be able to tell them apart if it wasn’t for Nate’s crooked tooth.

When Heather clicks, the next picture is of Jeremy in a hospital bed. Even though illness is evident, he’s got two thumbs up and a smile on his face. Nate is right by his side. The following pictures are more of the same—Jeremy smiling at home with a giant “get well” card. Jeremy and Nate wearing matching “Cancer Sucks” T-shirts. Back in the hospital, Jeremy and Nate pretending to ride an IV pole like a horse.

But as the pictures progress, Jeremy’s smile isn’t quite so wide. Instead of thumbs up, his hands are tucked under blankets. Eyes that were bright are dull and full of pain. The change from fighter to victim is blatantly obvious.

The final picture is in black and white. Jeremy is asleep in a hospital bed, IV in his arm and oxygen tube under his nose. His head is turned slightly to the right, where Nate sits in a chair next to the bed. He’s leaning forward with elbows on knees, hands folded under his chin like he’s praying. Like he’d rather be the one lying in that hospital bed instead. It’s not a picture of a murderer. It’s a picture of someone who’d do
anything
his brother asked.

“The date on the picture is two weeks before the date on Jeremy’s obituary,” Heather says gently. She holds the picture of me and Kayla up next to the picture of Nate and Jeremy while tears roll down my cheeks. “There’s a difference. There weren’t warning signs for Kayla. The only reason you didn’t help her is because you didn’t know. And based on these pictures, I think the definition of ‘help’ for Jeremy was something completely different from what it might have been for her. Maybe there’s more to this than we think.” She gets up and sets the laptop, screen open to that last picture, on my desk. “Just think about it, okay?”

As she leaves and closes the door, thoughts swirl at a dizzying rate. Jeremy is dead. Nate might have killed him. The pictures say no, but the cops and the voice mail say yes. Is it still murder if Jeremy wanted to die? Could Jeremy’s parents really ignore the fact that he didn’t want to live? What did Nate do? What do I do?

There’s not enough room in my mind to think about everything.

…

A hand on my shoulder startles me awake. It takes only a second for me to realize I slept through the evening and into the middle of the night.

When I roll over, I freeze. The person touching my shoulder is not Mom. Not Dad. Not Heather. I have to blink a few times to make sure I’m not seeing things.

It’s Nate.

When I remember how to breathe, I ask, “Nate?”

He doesn’t say a word, just uses a barely there touch to wipe away a tear I didn’t realize had fallen.

“You shouldn’t be here. If my parents find you, or if the cops see you—”

“I tried to stay away.” His voice is a low whisper. “I had to see you, Hanley. If it means I go to jail, it’s worth it.”

These words send my heart to the vicinity of my throat, cutting off anything I want to say.

“If we get caught, it’s going to be bad for you, too,” he says. “But we need to talk.”

Ignoring the warning, I slide over to make room for him. “So talk.”

Nate sits on the edge of my bed, coat rustling. “I couldn’t tell you the whole story over the phone, but Jeremy was so weak by the end, there was no way he could have killed himself. He couldn’t even open his own pill bottles.” Even in the darkness, his sadness is visible. “My parents think I killed him, and I guess I did, but there’s a fine line between helping and hurting, and that line was blurred. I helped him. And maybe I’m the only one who believes that, but—”

“You’re not,” I whisper.

“I’m not?”

“I believe you, too.”

He brushes his thumb against my chin. “Even after what happened to Kayla?”

“It’s different.”

“It is, but it’s not. That’s why I’m here.”

“What do you mean?” Before Nate can answer, there’s a noise, and he freezes, muscles tensing, ready to run. “It’s okay,” I whisper quickly. “Just the furnace kicking on.”

When he glances over at my blinds, swaying gently above the vent, most of the tension leaves his body in a sigh. He turns back to me and toys with a few strands of hair resting against my pillow. “I picked your house because of your garage. It was easy to come and go. But then as I got to know you, it became a lot harder to go. Even before I knew your story or you knew mine, you understood.” He runs a hand over his head and stares down at my comforter. “I’m really sorry about the cops. The danger I put you in. I should have left long before now, but I couldn’t.”

I use one finger to tip his chin up, so his blue eyes meet mine. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you found me, and I’m glad you stayed.”

He leans in and kisses me, soft and sweet. When he pulls back, he says, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He runs his fingers through my hair. “I’m going to fix this.”

“How?”

“I keep hoping my parents will come around. Realize I didn’t have a choice. Forgive me and let me come home.”

“And if they don’t?”

There’s a pause, and my stomach twists when it’s clear in his eyes that he doesn’t know.

“I’ll come back for you,” he says.

“When?”

Another question without an answer. A month? A year? Five years?

“At least stay with me until I fall asleep?” I whisper.

He hesitates for a second, then nods. He tugs off his shoes and coat and crawls into my bed. He presses his lips against each one of my eyelids. My cheeks. My lips. Each kiss is as sad as it is passionate. Each touch lingers. When he holds me, it’s almost tight enough to believe he won’t let go, but I know he will.

I fight sleep for as long as I can, but Nate is too warm and I’m too exhausted and it’s a battle that can’t be won.

I let myself fall.

Chapter Twenty-one

The next morning, it takes me less than five seconds to remember what happened last night, be devastated all over again, and decide that I
have
to do something.

I creep quietly across the hall and knock on Heather’s door. When she tells me to come in, I sneak in and close the door behind me. Heather is sitting on her bed, textbook open. Must have some kind of test today.

She removes a pencil from between her teeth and says, “Hey. You crashed pretty hard last night. Doing okay?”

I ignore the question and sit on her neatly made bed. “Can you find Nate’s parents’ address for me?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Why?”

With a deep breath and hushed tones, I tell her what happened last night. About Nate’s visit. What he told me.

“Holy shit,” she says, tapping her pencil against her textbook. “I can’t believe he showed up here. But wait, why do you need his parents’ address?”

“I want to go talk to them.” I bite my lip. “I think you were right last night. Maybe I couldn’t do anything to save Kayla. But I have to at least try to save Nate.”

It takes a few seconds, but Heather nods and grabs her laptop. “Okay. Give me a minute to find the address. We can head out like we’re going to school. He said his dad works from home, right? So when we get there—”

“Wait, ‘we’?” I ask.

She doesn’t look up from her computer screen. “How are you planning on getting there? Walking?”

“I thought I’d convince Rosalinda or Misty to drive.”

Heather shrugs. “Bring them, too. If there was ever a time for moral support, this is it.”

“Are you saying you’re going to skip school to drive me to the house of the fugitive who lived in our garage?”

“Well, when you say it like
that
, it sounds bad.” She turns the computer screen in my direction and points to a map with a red star which I assume represents Nate’s house. “I assume you don’t want to do this in the clothes you slept in? Go get changed.”

But I don’t get up. Instead, I throw my arms around Heather in a hug. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“Yeah, yeah.” She pats my back twice. “Best sister ever. Brush your teeth, too.”

…

Less than an hour later, we pull out of Rosalinda’s driveway. We all agree to let Heather drive because none of us trust Misty’s van to get us all the way across the state. Rosalinda’s in the passenger seat because carsickness and pregnancy don’t mix well. Misty’s behind Rosalinda, and I’m behind Heather.

“So, where exactly are we going?” Misty asks.

I love the fact that even though Rosalinda must have called and told her something to the effect of “I don’t have a clue where we’re going, but skip school and come with us,” the girl still showed up.

“It’s kind of a long story,” I say. And it is. By the time I finish explaining everything to Misty, Heather is pulling onto the expressway, heading northwest.

“Holy shit,” Misty says.

“Right?” Rosalinda asks, spinning in her seat. “Makes pregnancy seem pretty boring.”

“What I don’t get is the murder part,” Heather says. “Why would Nate’s parents jump to that conclusion?”

“Blame,” I say immediately. “It’s easier to point fingers than it is to feel pain.” Even when you’re pointing fingers at yourself. It took me two years to learn that blame doesn’t help. Unfortunately, a lesson learned over time isn’t a luxury Nate has.

“So, what’s the plan?” Misty asks, tugging on her ponytail. “What are you going to say to Nate’s parents when we get to his house?”

“Honestly,” I say, “I don’t know. I just have to try to convince them that Nate isn’t as guilty as they think.”

…

Four hours later, we’ve listened to three full playlists, stopped for gas once, and talked enough to successfully take Rosalinda’s mind off her pregnancy, but I’m no closer to knowing what to say to Nate’s parents.

Now that we’re off the expressway and onto some of Traverse City’s side streets, my stomach is queasy and my palms are sweaty. It’s taking most of my energy not to voice the
turn around turn around turn around
echoing through my mind.

All too soon, the GPS indicates that our destination is on our right. I see a white house with pale blue shutters and a pale blue door. It’s domestic and nonintimidating, but I’m still beyond freaked. The two car garage looks small, and I understand why Nate chose our garage. We pull up against the curb behind a car covered in several inches of snow. The tall mounds around it suggest that it has been plowed in for weeks. Nate’s car.

Heather slides her car into park near the mailbox painted with “The Bradfords.” Then all eyes are on me. “You can do this,” she says, as if she heard the “I can’t do this” that I’m positive I didn’t say out loud. “Just go talk to them. We’ll be right here if you need us.”

“Shit,” Misty says. “We really should have thought to bring you a shot of tequila, shouldn’t we?”

“She doesn’t need it,” Rosalinda says. “She’s got mental tequila.”

“Mental tequila?” I ask.

“Bravery,” she says. “It’s a simile. Go with it.”

They wish me luck, and I get out of the car. I can’t hear the snow crunching under my feet over the blood rushing in my ears.

When I reach the front porch, I ring the doorbell before I can lose my nerve. A faint dinging is followed by muffled barking. It’s hard to imagine Nate with a dog. It’s hard to imagine Nate living in a place that is not my garage.

For a second, I let myself hope that no one is home. But then the door opens.

There’s no doubt the woman in front of me is Nate’s mom. They have the same facial structure. The same blue eyes. The same light hair. I half expect her to smile and reveal a crooked front tooth. I try to smile, but my face feels like it’s made of cement.

She opens the storm door a crack. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. Um…” I spin my ring on my thumb. “I’m Hanley Helton. I know your son. Nate.”

The flash of emotion across her face is too fast for me to decipher.

A man appears, holding the collar attached to a beautiful golden retriever. “Who is it?” he asks. Though Nate doesn’t share as many features with his father, it’s obvious where he gets his height and build.

“This is Hanley Helton. The girl the police told us about.”

His dad studies me, and my cold cheeks warm. Shit. Why was I so worried about what I was going to say to Nate’s parents and not at all worried about what they might do to me?

“What do you want?” Mr. Bradford asks.

“I…um…” Somehow, underneath blankets of nerves, a bit of politeness finds its way to my brain. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry. About Jeremy.”

This time, the emotion in their expressions doesn’t disappear as quickly. It’s pain. Raw. Fresh.

“Thank you.” The words are cold and tight.

“Do you think I could…come in? I’d love to talk to you.”

The couple exchanges a look. The dog struggles against his collar and whimpers at me.

“Please,” I say. “Just for a minute.”

Neither one of them says a word, but Nate’s mom pushes the door open far enough for me to squeeze through. The dog gives an impatient bark and escapes from his collar, making a mad dash for my hand, and begins licking the exposed skin.

“Leave her alone, Bosco,” Mr. Bradford says.

“He’s fine,” I say. Once I relax a little, I use my other hand to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“We can talk in the kitchen,” Mrs. Bradford says.

I follow them, and Mr. Bradford motions to a table. I take the seat across from him. Bosco curls up at my feet. Mrs. Bradford takes the seat next to her husband. Uncomfortable silence fills the room. They’re waiting for me to talk, but I have no clue what to say.

“I know what happened must have been awful, but…”

Mrs. Bradford gives a forced, fake laugh. “Yes, when one of your sons murders the other, ‘awful’ is certainly one way to describe it.”

I tug at the necklace around my neck, like it’s the reason I’m struggling to speak or breathe. “Actually, that’s the reason why I came. It just doesn’t seem to me like Nate would do anything to hurt anyone. Especially not his brother.”

“He was living
in your garage
,” Mr. Bradford says. “Proof that he stopped making good choices a long time ago.”

“I let him stay,” I say. “He didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“That’s his fault,” Mrs. Bradford says. “He has to deal with the consequences of his actions.”

I take a deep breath. “Have you considered that there might be another explanation?”

“If you’re suggesting that Jeremy committed suicide, you can stop right there.” Mrs. Bradford’s voice shakes with anger. Frustration. “Jeremy was a fighter. He wouldn’t have given up.”

“I’m sure he was.” It takes a lot of effort to keep my voice calm in light of the waves of anger rolling off the couple sitting across from me. “But if he wanted to quit fighting—”

“There was no reason for him to quit fighting!” Mr. Bradford yells. “There was another treatment to try! He could have gone into remission!”

Bosco whimpers and leaves my feet in favor of his owner.

I bite my lip, thinking about the last blog post I read, the pictures I saw, and the conclusion I started to draw. We didn’t drive three hours for me to be polite and hold anything back. “You mean the treatment on another continent? Half the world away from his family and friends? With the horrible side effects and no guarantee it would work?”

“It was Nate who didn’t want to go,” Mrs. Bradford says, tears in her eyes. “He
begged
us not to go. He was tired of his whole life revolving around hospitals.”

It makes sense. Did Nate really kill his brother so he could have an easier life?

The second the thought crosses my mind, guilt strikes hard and fast. I know Nate. There’s no way he could be that heartless.

My voice catches when I speak again. “Or maybe he was just the only one of the two who could speak up. Maybe he was willing to take the blame to keep Jeremy from looking weak.”

Mr. Bradford pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know why we’re arguing about this with you. It’s not up for debate.” He folds his hands on the table and leans forward. “Hanley, did the officers tell you whose fingerprints they found on the bottles of pills used to cause the overdose that killed our son?”

Goose bumps lift on my arms. It’s hard sitting here in front of them to remind myself that even if what he’s implying is true, Nate isn’t a murderer. I struggle to maintain that in a world of black and white, this is gray.

Before I can respond, a cell phone ringtone sounds from down the hall. For a second, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Bradford moves to answer it. Then Mr. Bradford stands. “Excuse me.”

Once Mrs. Bradford and I are alone, she stares at the table. In the silence, I study the desk along the wall. There’s a bulletin board with a calendar still set to December. I’ve been there. I’ve watched time move forward for everyone else while it stood still for me.

“Lisa,” Mr. Bradford calls from down the hall. There’s a sense of urgency to the word, and Mrs. Bradford stands immediately, mumbling something before hurrying down the hall.

With each passing minute, the muffled voices pick up intensity and volume. Though I can’t hear what they’re saying, it must be about Nate. To distract myself, I sneak into the living room, over to a framed picture on the wall. The boys are young here—maybe seven or eight—and their smiles are closed lipped so I can’t tell which twin is which.

On the ground near the picture is a row of boxes. The lids are open, so the contents are easily visible: T-shirts, high school yearbooks, a soccer ball. It’s surprising that Nate’s parents are getting rid of Jeremy’s stuff so soon. It took months for Kayla’s parents to clean out her room. When they did, they offered to give me whatever I wanted. Clothes. Pictures. Her movie collection. But the only thing I wanted was the ring I wear around my thumb. Kayla was never without it, and I never want to be without her.

I spin the ring once and check over my shoulder for Nate’s parents. I’m about to dive into one of the yearbooks when something beneath it catches my eye. A novel with a lime green cover.
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
. My breath catches in my throat.

This isn’t Jeremy’s stuff. It’s Nate’s. This is the copy Jeremy gave to him but didn’t make it into Nate’s backpack. My heart sinks. There’s no way Nate’s parents are going to forgive him. They’re tossing his stuff. Getting rid of his memory. Throwing him away.

“You need to leave.”

Mr. Bradford’s voice makes me jump. I shove the book under my jacket before turning around.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just wanted to see this picture…”

But Mr. Bradford isn’t listening. He runs into the kitchen, and I follow.

“Lisa, your purse is right here,” he calls before turning back to me. “You need to leave. Now.”

Mrs. Bradford rushes into the kitchen and grabs her purse from him. Her blue eyes are wet with tears. “The keys. Where are the keys?”

He reaches in his pocket and hands them over. “Start the car. I’ll walk her out.”

“What’s going on?” I ask as we head down the hall.

Mr. Bradford opens the front door and all but pushes me through it. He hesitates, then says, “That was the police. They have Nate.”

My stomach sinks. “Wait,” I yell, sticking my arm in the door. I fight for something,
anything
to say. “You already lost one son. Are you sure you want to lose them both?”

Mr. Bradford’s expression falls. After a few seconds, he swallows hard and nudges my arm out of the way. “Good-bye, Hanley.”

After the door closes, it takes me a long minute to move or even breathe. An SUV backs out of the garage and pulls away. Inside the house, Bosco barks. I feel his pain.

I slip the book out of my jacket and run a finger across the well-loved pages. I have to believe I’ll see Nate again so I can give it to him.