and I had never broken the rules. Not like this. And now here I was, standing in Ellie’s bedroom, cataloging her life.
I stared at some of the photographs she had taped to the wall. Pictures of her with Jake, both smaller than the huge pumpkin behind them; with Sarah at her sweet-sixteen party; and with her dad, when she was about seven.
I picked up that photo and stared at it more closely. I had never seen her look so animated. I flipped it over. On the back, scrawled in masculine handwriting, was Me and my little Lee-Lee . I had never met her father, but I knew on rare occasions Ellie disappeared to Florida for long-weekend visits with his new family.
“What’s going on in there, Black Hawk?” Lola’s voice burst through my receiver, calling me by the stupid code name she insisted on using.
“Nothing.” I put the photo back and shifted my attention to the closet.
“Did you find anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, hurry up.”
“Okay,” I muttered, already lost in Ellie’s clothes—the soft fabrics, her favorite blue sweater. I found a scarf I’d seen her wear several times but not often enough to note its disappearance and slipped it into my backpack.
Then I stepped away from the closet, my foot connecting with something near her bed. I glanced down and saw them—a heap of black spiral notebooks now scattered on the floor. I sat eagerly on my heels and aimed my flashlight at notebook after notebook. They were all the same: dozens of sketches in charcoal, ink, and pencil. One, marked 2009, was of the creepy house on the corner, its telltale overgrown yard filling the page. Another was of the weird kid four houses over, the one with the big head and too-small eyes. One notebook had a series featuring Mr. Lumpnick’s dog as he transitioned from puppy to adult.
I went to grab the next one in the stack, but it skidded beneaththe bed. I flipped up the bed skirt and aimed my flashlight into the darkness: The notebook rested against an old shoe box that was about as far beneath Ellie’s bed as you could get. It took a few tries, but finally with the tips of my fingers I was able to pull it out. The shoe box—somehow caught on the slightly bent edge of the spiral—came with it. I unlatched the two and then, mostly out of curiosity, slid the lid off the box.
“Black Hawk, car lights approaching the end of the block. Over.”
Paper. Dozens of strips of paper torn haphazardly from a variety of sources, each with a cryptic message addressed to no one specific.
“Did you hear me, over?”
I rifled through the box, hands shaking. Was everything I wanted to know about Ellie here for the taking?
“The car is parking now . Are you effing deaf? Over.”
I debated stealing the box and spending the entire night in the basement, reading each strip, trying to figure out its meaning.
“Getting out of the car. What the fuck are you doing?”
But if I stole the thing she held most private, would she ever forgive me?
“Jessie? Are you sh-shitting me? Are you n-nuts?” Lola was stuttering now. “They’re a-at the door!”
I shoved the box under the bed and arranged the sketch pads—except for the one with this year’s date—in a neat stack. That one I tossed into my bag, telling myself that I would find a way to return it in the morning, before Ellie noticed, and that it wasn’t the same thing as taking her box. It was more like the scarf. It was only drawings, after all. But I knew I was lying to myself.
I raised Ellie’s bedroom window just as the front door squeaked ajar. A woman’s shaky voice said, “Well, we can just catch an early flight tomorrow. It’s not a big deal, Gary. We should have just never stopped at the bar, okay? Can we just drop it now, okay?”
“Fine. I was just saying—” a deeper voice responded.
“I heard you the first, second, fourth, fifth—”
“Fine, consider it dropped,” he snapped. They were silent then. I worked quietly at removing Ellie’s
I stared at some of the photographs she had taped to the wall. Pictures of her with Jake, both smaller than the huge pumpkin behind them; with Sarah at her sweet-sixteen party; and with her dad, when she was about seven.
I picked up that photo and stared at it more closely. I had never seen her look so animated. I flipped it over. On the back, scrawled in masculine handwriting, was Me and my little Lee-Lee . I had never met her father, but I knew on rare occasions Ellie disappeared to Florida for long-weekend visits with his new family.
“What’s going on in there, Black Hawk?” Lola’s voice burst through my receiver, calling me by the stupid code name she insisted on using.
“Nothing.” I put the photo back and shifted my attention to the closet.
“Did you find anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, hurry up.”
“Okay,” I muttered, already lost in Ellie’s clothes—the soft fabrics, her favorite blue sweater. I found a scarf I’d seen her wear several times but not often enough to note its disappearance and slipped it into my backpack.
Then I stepped away from the closet, my foot connecting with something near her bed. I glanced down and saw them—a heap of black spiral notebooks now scattered on the floor. I sat eagerly on my heels and aimed my flashlight at notebook after notebook. They were all the same: dozens of sketches in charcoal, ink, and pencil. One, marked 2009, was of the creepy house on the corner, its telltale overgrown yard filling the page. Another was of the weird kid four houses over, the one with the big head and too-small eyes. One notebook had a series featuring Mr. Lumpnick’s dog as he transitioned from puppy to adult.
I went to grab the next one in the stack, but it skidded beneaththe bed. I flipped up the bed skirt and aimed my flashlight into the darkness: The notebook rested against an old shoe box that was about as far beneath Ellie’s bed as you could get. It took a few tries, but finally with the tips of my fingers I was able to pull it out. The shoe box—somehow caught on the slightly bent edge of the spiral—came with it. I unlatched the two and then, mostly out of curiosity, slid the lid off the box.
“Black Hawk, car lights approaching the end of the block. Over.”
Paper. Dozens of strips of paper torn haphazardly from a variety of sources, each with a cryptic message addressed to no one specific.
“Did you hear me, over?”
I rifled through the box, hands shaking. Was everything I wanted to know about Ellie here for the taking?
“The car is parking now . Are you effing deaf? Over.”
I debated stealing the box and spending the entire night in the basement, reading each strip, trying to figure out its meaning.
“Getting out of the car. What the fuck are you doing?”
But if I stole the thing she held most private, would she ever forgive me?
“Jessie? Are you sh-shitting me? Are you n-nuts?” Lola was stuttering now. “They’re a-at the door!”
I shoved the box under the bed and arranged the sketch pads—except for the one with this year’s date—in a neat stack. That one I tossed into my bag, telling myself that I would find a way to return it in the morning, before Ellie noticed, and that it wasn’t the same thing as taking her box. It was more like the scarf. It was only drawings, after all. But I knew I was lying to myself.
I raised Ellie’s bedroom window just as the front door squeaked ajar. A woman’s shaky voice said, “Well, we can just catch an early flight tomorrow. It’s not a big deal, Gary. We should have just never stopped at the bar, okay? Can we just drop it now, okay?”
“Fine. I was just saying—” a deeper voice responded.
“I heard you the first, second, fourth, fifth—”
“Fine, consider it dropped,” he snapped. They were silent then. I worked quietly at removing Ellie’s
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