actually she’s right here with me.”
Me? Why is she talking about me?
“Just a moment,” Marissa says. Her hands are shaking and she offers her phone to me. “It’s the police department back home. They want to talk to you.”
“Is this about Chase?” I whisper. The same heart that was slamming against my bones in sadness and in passion for Chase is now jumping double time in terror.
“No,” she says. She looks at me with bleak eyes. I haven’t seen eyes like that since Mom died. “No, Allie,” she says. “It’s about Jeff.”
“Jeff?” I gasp.
She shoves the phone in my hand. “Talk to them,” she says in a hushed tone. One of her hands flies to her forehead while the other rests on her hip. She closes her eyes and bites her lower lip as I pull the phone up to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Allison Boden?”
“Yes? Yes, it is.”
“This is Detective Knowles from the Carson Police Department.”
“Detective Knowles... are you Sammy Knowles’s dad?” My mind is a blender of details and worries right now, and that’s the first thing that comes to mind.
He makes a funny sound. “Um, yes, actually.”
“I went to school with Sammy. He graduated with me last May.” Again my mind jumps.
“I’m not calling to talk about that, Allie.” He lets his firm tone take over the conversation. “We’re pleased, though, to locate you.”
A chill fills my spine like someone’s poured ice from the base of my neck all the way down to my tailbone. “Locate me? Did Jeff file a missing persons report on me, sir?”
“No.”
The way the detective says that one word—no—makes my entire body go numb.
“Allie? Miss Boden, are you there?” The detective’s voice echoes like it’s a million miles away.
“Sir, what’s happened?” I ask. This is about Chase. Maybe it involves Jeff, but somethings wrong with Chase. I knew it. Something’s gone south back home, and Chase had to go back. But why? Is he hurt? Did Galt do something to him? Was there another fight between Jeff and the Atlas motorcycle gang? I have a million questions, but I can’t ask any of them. This is a detective with the police, after all. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and get someone in trouble.
“Allie, I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but...” The world stops. Everything I know fades away. The trees in front of me, with thick palm fronds climbing into the sky. My sister, standing there and watching my face intently. The women who walk past in five-inch high heels, dressed in fashionable clothes, carrying iced coffees. The mom pushing a double stroller with an infant in the front and a toddler in the back screaming for a lollipop. The bright LA sunshine streaming over us.
All of it fades. Everything I know about life disappears with those words: I’m very sorry to have to tell you.
And then.
And then he says, “Your stepfather is dead.”
A combination of relief and horror floods my veins. “Jeff is dead?” I want to say to him, Chase isn’t dead, right? But of course I can’t.
“Yes,” the detective confirms. “Jeff Wakefield was found dead in his bar late last night.”
“Oh, my God,” I shout. A couple walking past us, the woman holding three or four shopping bags with logos I recognize—expensive logos—stop cold and look at us. Their faces are twisted into expressions of annoyance, as if we’re bothering them.
“How? What? Where?” I ask. The idea begins to sink in. “Jeff’s dead?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Something about the way Detective Knowles is talking to me makes my throat go dry.
“Uh,” I stammer. “Can you tell me more? What—oh, my God!”
“I can tell you this, Allie. We need you to come back. We need you to come back and identify the body, but we also have questions for you.”
“Questions for me? What kind of questions?”
“Allie, we need you to come back. We need you to come home. You’re his next of kin.”
“Well, so is
Me? Why is she talking about me?
“Just a moment,” Marissa says. Her hands are shaking and she offers her phone to me. “It’s the police department back home. They want to talk to you.”
“Is this about Chase?” I whisper. The same heart that was slamming against my bones in sadness and in passion for Chase is now jumping double time in terror.
“No,” she says. She looks at me with bleak eyes. I haven’t seen eyes like that since Mom died. “No, Allie,” she says. “It’s about Jeff.”
“Jeff?” I gasp.
She shoves the phone in my hand. “Talk to them,” she says in a hushed tone. One of her hands flies to her forehead while the other rests on her hip. She closes her eyes and bites her lower lip as I pull the phone up to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Allison Boden?”
“Yes? Yes, it is.”
“This is Detective Knowles from the Carson Police Department.”
“Detective Knowles... are you Sammy Knowles’s dad?” My mind is a blender of details and worries right now, and that’s the first thing that comes to mind.
He makes a funny sound. “Um, yes, actually.”
“I went to school with Sammy. He graduated with me last May.” Again my mind jumps.
“I’m not calling to talk about that, Allie.” He lets his firm tone take over the conversation. “We’re pleased, though, to locate you.”
A chill fills my spine like someone’s poured ice from the base of my neck all the way down to my tailbone. “Locate me? Did Jeff file a missing persons report on me, sir?”
“No.”
The way the detective says that one word—no—makes my entire body go numb.
“Allie? Miss Boden, are you there?” The detective’s voice echoes like it’s a million miles away.
“Sir, what’s happened?” I ask. This is about Chase. Maybe it involves Jeff, but somethings wrong with Chase. I knew it. Something’s gone south back home, and Chase had to go back. But why? Is he hurt? Did Galt do something to him? Was there another fight between Jeff and the Atlas motorcycle gang? I have a million questions, but I can’t ask any of them. This is a detective with the police, after all. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and get someone in trouble.
“Allie, I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but...” The world stops. Everything I know fades away. The trees in front of me, with thick palm fronds climbing into the sky. My sister, standing there and watching my face intently. The women who walk past in five-inch high heels, dressed in fashionable clothes, carrying iced coffees. The mom pushing a double stroller with an infant in the front and a toddler in the back screaming for a lollipop. The bright LA sunshine streaming over us.
All of it fades. Everything I know about life disappears with those words: I’m very sorry to have to tell you.
And then.
And then he says, “Your stepfather is dead.”
A combination of relief and horror floods my veins. “Jeff is dead?” I want to say to him, Chase isn’t dead, right? But of course I can’t.
“Yes,” the detective confirms. “Jeff Wakefield was found dead in his bar late last night.”
“Oh, my God,” I shout. A couple walking past us, the woman holding three or four shopping bags with logos I recognize—expensive logos—stop cold and look at us. Their faces are twisted into expressions of annoyance, as if we’re bothering them.
“How? What? Where?” I ask. The idea begins to sink in. “Jeff’s dead?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Something about the way Detective Knowles is talking to me makes my throat go dry.
“Uh,” I stammer. “Can you tell me more? What—oh, my God!”
“I can tell you this, Allie. We need you to come back. We need you to come back and identify the body, but we also have questions for you.”
“Questions for me? What kind of questions?”
“Allie, we need you to come back. We need you to come home. You’re his next of kin.”
“Well, so is
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