Chapter 16
Sixteen
The Beaumonts killed Nate? The idea makes me feel like an elevator’s safety cable has snapped. All my insides have jumped
up to my throat and I’m in free fall.
How could they? And why? I shake my head. “They’re a nice family. They’re genuinely happy to have Nate back. I don’t think
people who killed their own son would invite more scrutiny.”
“No, you’re removing scrutiny. People have suspected Nate was murdered for almost ten years. Now that you’re here, it’s case
closed. You said yourself that Valencia refused the DNA test. Why would she refuse to find out the truth after nearly a decade?
That doesn’t seem suspicious to you?”
Well, yeah, now that he mentions it. Still, I shake my head.
“Why would they kill him? They need a motive, right?”
Miles shrugs. “I mean, that’s kinda the reason I’m asking you to do the investigation. Find out what might have made them
snap. Hold on.” He turns around and unlocks his computer again. He pulls up a document and waves me over.
It’s a timeline of events from the day before the disappearance to the day after. Wow, Miles really was hyperfocusing on this. Every event has a time and date next to it.
“So, look, the night before, Valencia and Marcus have friends over for a dinner party. They sit outside on the deck until
two a.m. drinking.” He turns to me and lowers his voice. “My mom provided that intel. Their room is on that side of the house
and she remembers looking at her phone at 2:03 a.m. when the noise woke her up. So the next day, Valencia apparently has a
hangover and takes a nap. Marcus goes to town. The police checked his story, and there’s security camera footage of him at
the grocery store and the ice cream place picking up dessert for later. He gets home around two in the afternoon, notices
Nate and Easton aren’t home, but assumes they’re out playing somewhere. Meanwhile Easton is at a friend’s house from one until
he comes home at four p.m. Marcus and Valencia say they were home the whole time, but they’re the only two people who can
confirm that.”
Easton’s friend. “I read an article that says Easton was with his friend John. Is that JT?”
“Yeah. The two of them are inseparable. Wherever JT goes, Easton follows. We were all in school together until they graduated
last year, and Easton was only mildly popular because he hangs with JT. That stoner can make friends with a cantaloupe.” Again
he lowers his voice to a mutter. “Probably has.”
So Easton left Nate to hang out with JT. Then there’s a blank time between two and four when only the Beaumont parents were
home.
“So you think the parents had something to do with it?”
“I don’t not think it. But it’s a theory. That’s why I want your help. You’re the closest to them. You can figure out what went on during that unaccounted-for time.” He points to the two-hour period on his timeline.
“Do you really think Valencia and Marcus are the type of people who would kill someone?”
Miles puffs out his cheeks and blows the air between his lips before answering. “I don’t want to cloud your investigation,
but Marcus has a temper. Nate and I played peewee soccer together and Marcus yelled at him so hard for missing a goal that
it made Nate cry and he quit playing.”
Heat creeps up my neck to my ears and the tendons in my throat tighten. Maybe I’m relating too closely to Nate, but I’ve been
on the other end of parental rage, too. I never played soccer, but there were plenty of times when my dad screamed at me for
saying something he didn’t like or being too antsy in church.
Marcus was supposed to be at work today, but he could have come home early, knocked off the camera, and used his key to go
through the front door.
Especially if he got the notification that the alarm system was off.
Or it could have been Valencia.
“No.” I back away from the computer. “I’m not getting into this investigation for you. If they really did kill their kid and
I start looking into it, who’s to say I’m not going to disappear next?”
“Then I’ll tell them the truth.” He stands to confront me with a steely gaze. “Maybe Valencia won’t believe me, but I can
easily call David Grant and say, ‘Hey, I have a lead for you and would gladly trade it for you coming on my podcast.’”
My heart rate skyrockets. We’re back to the beginning of this conversation.
There really is no way out of this. I’m trapped with the Beaumonts; I’m trapped with Miles.
But at least I know Miles won’t kill me when I tell him no.
Also, he was faking before, so maybe he’s doing it again.
And maybe it’s my turn to do some bluffing.
So I shake my head. “Go ahead. If you think they killed Nate, maybe it’s better I come clean and tell the police what really
happened.”
His face softens as his shoulders slump. “Dude, I was bluffing again. I’m not going to rat you out and send you back to your
asshole parents. Or jail. Can you think about it? Please? I won’t tell.”
I stare at him; the steely, self-assured gaze he was giving me moments ago is gone and he seems genuine. Then my eyes flit
to the computer. I’m still not sure I trust him. He’s been investigating Nate’s disappearance for so long, why would he give
up so easily?
Miles seems to read my mind and holds out his pinky. “I promise to keep your secret either way. I mean, as long as you’re
not planning to rob them or do anything illegal.”
I arch an eyebrow and he nods, realizing his mistake.
“Okay, anything else illegal.”
Frankie was supposed to keep my secret, too. But what are my options?
I link my pinky with his. “Okay. Then yes, I’ll think about it.”
But I have no intention of thinking about it. In fact, now I need to figure out my escape plan so much sooner. Especially
with the police watching the house. Another thought comes to me.
“Wait, was that cop out there this afternoon?” I ask. “When we first met?”
Miles shrugs. “I think so. I walked past him on the way home from school. Why?”
“I think someone broke into the house today.” So, yeah, guess I’m trusting him. “When we were talking. I went back inside,
and the front door was open and the doorbell camera was knocked off the house.”
He becomes very interested again. “You think it was whoever killed Nate.”
“What do you think?” I genuinely want to know. Because if it was the person who killed Nate, why didn’t they try to kill me?
He nods and thinks for a second. “Yes. I get what you’re asking about the cops, but no, they wouldn’t break in. There’s no
reason.”
“I was hoping they saw who broke in.”
“But wouldn’t they tell the Beaumonts if they saw someone shady around? And how do you ask without looking suspicious?” I
can tell he’s just speaking aloud to work through his thoughts, so I don’t answer. Then he snaps his fingers. “They didn’t
come to the house after.”
“No.”
“So whoever it was didn’t look suspicious to them.” He widens his eyes at me. “Like someone who lives in the house?”
“Or a neighbor who knew the cop was there and when the coast would be clear.” Cops have to pee or get lunch at some point,
right? I don’t know why I’m giving the Beaumonts the benefit of the doubt—I think I just don’t want it to be true. “But if
someone was going to break in, why not kill me?”
Again Miles thinks it over. “Maybe they know they can’t yet. Cops outside, family on high alert. So they’re toying with you. Whoever it is knows you’re not Nate because they killed him. And they want you to know they’re watching.”
My mouth goes dry because, yes, that’s what I was afraid of.
My phone alarm goes off, making me jump. Miles lets out a startled cry, then laughs. It’s almost ten.
“I should get back home. Valencia is still anxious about me being away from the house.” Another reason I don’t think she could
be responsible for Nate’s disappearance. Miles nods and walks me out.
He follows me into the yard, past the viewing area of his own doorbell camera. I look over his shoulder to see the car is
still there. The person inside still sitting in the driver’s seat.
“Oh.” Miles’s eyes light up. “If you decide to help me out, I can help you get away.”
My eyes drift over his shoulder to the cop car again. “How?”
“I have my driver’s license. I’ll borrow my mom’s car—if you’re ducked down in the back seat I can sneak you right by them.”
“Wouldn’t you get in trouble for helping me evade the police?”
He shrugs. “Not if you don’t rat me out.”
It would be the easiest way, sneaking out right under their noses. But Miles will only do it if I help him get information
for his podcast. And I don’t want my escape to be dependent on him deciding what I give him is good enough.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll think about it.”
“Listen. A tip while you’re thinking it all over. Don’t let them take your picture.”
“Why?”
“Because right now all they have is that age-progressed picture of Nate they made with a computer. When you need to run again, they’re going to go looking for you.
And if the Beaumonts have a 4K picture of your smiling face, that’s what they’re going to put on the new posters. You won’t be able to hide.”
My stomach drops as I look back toward the house. “I’m already on their doorbell camera.”
Miles shrugs. “Those things are shit usually. It only stores a few days of footage in the cloud. And the videos get compressed
and they lower the bit rate to— Oh my God I sound like a complete lunatic nerd. Sorry. Point is, you’ll be grainy, but you
won’t be exposed if they use that footage. Be careful of still photos.”
I nod. “Thank you.” I want to ask why he’s helping me, but maybe he really does feel bad for me.
Miles looks uncomfortable for a second as he squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t make it weird, but . . . do you want a hug?”
I don’t know how to answer that without making it weird, because I kind of think it already is. “How do I not make this weird?”
He sighs and shakes his hands in front of him like they’re dirty. “Calling attention to the weirdness makes it weird, man!”
“You’re asking if I want a hug with no context!”
Miles gestures to the space between us like it is the context. Then he lowers his voice as his eyes flit nervously around to make sure no one is nearby.
“Your parents tried to send you to conversion therapy, you’ve been homeless for eight months, and now you’re trapped in a
house with potential killers. I thought you might need a hug. I know I would need a hug. But getting one from said potential killers may not provide the emotional support a hug is supposed to, so . . .” He opens his arms wide. “You want it or not?”
I do. But asking like that definitely made it weird. Still, I remember the way Valencia’s hug made me feel in the hospital—and consider how
one from her in the future may not feel the same. So I step forward and let Miles wrap his arms around me and squeeze gently.
I rest my chin on his shoulder and squeeze him back.
Miles’s warm body against mine. It does feel nice.