retreated into my bedroom, pulling the door shut behind me, grateful for the warm air swirling through the house.
Chapter 9
“Megan, would you kindly explain what this is doing next to your bed?” My voice had an accusing tone as I pushed aside the miniature globe on her nightstand, revealing a wrinkled newspaper article cut from the Santa Barbara News Press . The title had caught my eye.
Sleepwalking Teen Vanishes into Thin Air
I scanned the article, feeling faintly nauseous. About fifteen-year-old Ashley Lacroix, her increasingly frequent episodes of sleepwalking, and how on the morning of July first, her family had found her bed empty, covers thrown aside.
She was never seen again.
“Why is this here?” I asked again.
Megan ignored me, doodling in the corner of her math book.
“Megan . . .”
“ What? ” she snapped, looking up.
I held up the article. “We talked about this.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Why do you have this? Were you her friend? Was she in one of your classes? Did you know her? When the cops come and ask why this is sitting on your desk, what are you going to tell them?”
She glared at me.
“You need to get rid of it.” My patience was wearing thin. “We talked about this. No articles, no mementos, no journaling about it, no looking for details on the internet . . . because that’s what guilty people do.”
“It’s still a weird story.”
“Not to other people, Megan. Other people don’t cut out articles like this, only criminals do. They become obsessed, and that’s how they give themselves away. It’s psychology.”
“Kind of like how you’re obsessed with Emory?” she said.
“That’s not the same,” I said hotly, feeling heat rush to my cheeks.
“You’re blushing.”
I bit off my next words. “Just get rid of it, okay?”
“Okay,” she sighed, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it into the trash. This probably wasn’t the first time she’d thrown it away. The cutout already had signs of being crumpled. As soon as I was gone, the urge would come over her, and she would rescue the article from the trash, flatten it, and put it by her bed again.
To remind her of what we’d done.
Then she would get paranoid and throw it away. Then right before her mom came to empty the trash, she would fetch it again, not wanting to lose it.
I knew the cycle, but said nothing.
She was right. I was blaming her for my own slipup, taking my frustrations out on her. I was the one who had screwed up. Soon Emory Lacroix would come asking for more information, and now that he knew what I knew, he would never give up.
Our homework lay before us, all blank. Megan and I had the same AP Calculus class, and this week we had a huge problem set. I’d gotten halfway through reading the first problem and given up.
We were both going to fail every class this semester. That was obvious. I hardly cared.
“I looked up his dad again,” Megan said quietly.
My skin bristled. “What part of They can track our browser history don’t you understand?”
“Just thought you’d want to know I looked him up again.”
“Mr. Lacoix?”
“ Doctor Lacroix. He has a PhD.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I found something weird,” she said. “But you don’t care at all, so fine. I won’t tell you.”
“Good,” I said. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Good, because I don’t want to tell you.”
“You just said that.”
“Why are we still talking about this?”
“Because you’re a butthead.” On my graph paper, I focused hard on outlining the individual letters of my name, brows tugged together in concentration. The silence wore on.
I found something weird.
It nagged at my brain.
Finally I could bear it no longer and exhaled loudly. “Fine. What did you find, Megan?”
“Oh, you do care?”
“Don’t be patronizing.”
With a smug smile, she woke up her laptop and navigated to an open tab. “So I looked up that defense contractor he
Chapter 9
“Megan, would you kindly explain what this is doing next to your bed?” My voice had an accusing tone as I pushed aside the miniature globe on her nightstand, revealing a wrinkled newspaper article cut from the Santa Barbara News Press . The title had caught my eye.
Sleepwalking Teen Vanishes into Thin Air
I scanned the article, feeling faintly nauseous. About fifteen-year-old Ashley Lacroix, her increasingly frequent episodes of sleepwalking, and how on the morning of July first, her family had found her bed empty, covers thrown aside.
She was never seen again.
“Why is this here?” I asked again.
Megan ignored me, doodling in the corner of her math book.
“Megan . . .”
“ What? ” she snapped, looking up.
I held up the article. “We talked about this.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Why do you have this? Were you her friend? Was she in one of your classes? Did you know her? When the cops come and ask why this is sitting on your desk, what are you going to tell them?”
She glared at me.
“You need to get rid of it.” My patience was wearing thin. “We talked about this. No articles, no mementos, no journaling about it, no looking for details on the internet . . . because that’s what guilty people do.”
“It’s still a weird story.”
“Not to other people, Megan. Other people don’t cut out articles like this, only criminals do. They become obsessed, and that’s how they give themselves away. It’s psychology.”
“Kind of like how you’re obsessed with Emory?” she said.
“That’s not the same,” I said hotly, feeling heat rush to my cheeks.
“You’re blushing.”
I bit off my next words. “Just get rid of it, okay?”
“Okay,” she sighed, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it into the trash. This probably wasn’t the first time she’d thrown it away. The cutout already had signs of being crumpled. As soon as I was gone, the urge would come over her, and she would rescue the article from the trash, flatten it, and put it by her bed again.
To remind her of what we’d done.
Then she would get paranoid and throw it away. Then right before her mom came to empty the trash, she would fetch it again, not wanting to lose it.
I knew the cycle, but said nothing.
She was right. I was blaming her for my own slipup, taking my frustrations out on her. I was the one who had screwed up. Soon Emory Lacroix would come asking for more information, and now that he knew what I knew, he would never give up.
Our homework lay before us, all blank. Megan and I had the same AP Calculus class, and this week we had a huge problem set. I’d gotten halfway through reading the first problem and given up.
We were both going to fail every class this semester. That was obvious. I hardly cared.
“I looked up his dad again,” Megan said quietly.
My skin bristled. “What part of They can track our browser history don’t you understand?”
“Just thought you’d want to know I looked him up again.”
“Mr. Lacoix?”
“ Doctor Lacroix. He has a PhD.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I found something weird,” she said. “But you don’t care at all, so fine. I won’t tell you.”
“Good,” I said. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Good, because I don’t want to tell you.”
“You just said that.”
“Why are we still talking about this?”
“Because you’re a butthead.” On my graph paper, I focused hard on outlining the individual letters of my name, brows tugged together in concentration. The silence wore on.
I found something weird.
It nagged at my brain.
Finally I could bear it no longer and exhaled loudly. “Fine. What did you find, Megan?”
“Oh, you do care?”
“Don’t be patronizing.”
With a smug smile, she woke up her laptop and navigated to an open tab. “So I looked up that defense contractor he
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