Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
JACK
“Again, darling.”
“M-Mom…” I mumble, looking down at my bed. The dinosaurs on my blanket stare back at me. Mom sits in front of me, smiling the way she does when she wants me to try again.
“Come on, Jack,” she says, her hands on my cheeks. “You can do this. Just one more time, okay?”
“It d-d-doesn’t w-w-work,” I complain. The word breaks in the middle, and it makes my eyes sting.
“It will, honey,” she says. “You just have to keep trying.” She’s wearing Dad’s sweater, the blue one. He’d always give it to her when she was cold. Her eyes are shiny now. I don’t like it. Mom’s so pretty when she smiles.
“I…I m-miss d-d-dad.”
Her chin shakes. “Me too, sweetheart. We all do.” Then she looks up at my glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.
“If he was here, he’d tell you to keep going, Jack.
He’d want you to be brave. And he’d be so proud of you.
I am too.” Her hand wraps around mine. It’s soft and makes me feel safe again.
Mom has the best smell in the entire world. Apple pie and cinnamon.
“Okay,” I whisper. I take a big breath like she showed me. “A m-m-mouse w-was m-mounting a m-mountain when, when sh-she s-saw a sh-sh-shark sink in the s-s-sea.”
Mom’s smile gets big. “That’s my boy.” She leans forward and kisses my forehead.
“Good job, Jack. You did so great.” She pulls the blanket up to my chin and smooths my hair.
“Goodnight, love.” The light goes off. I hear Annie crying and Mom’s voice coming from her room.
She’s so tiny. Tinier than Maya. After a while, I hear mom’s steps coming back to her and dad’s bedroom.
But I can’t sleep. How can I be a hero if I can’t even speak?
I try the sentence again, and again, until the sky turns light and a thick tear falls on my face.
I didn’t succeed.
Not even once.
Present Day
“My-my name is Ja-Jack and, and I-I,” my hands fall on the edge of the sink, my reflection slapping me with my inability to deliver even the simplest sentence.
“My name is Ja-Ja-Jack,” I repeat, this time smoother.
I’ve had better moments since I arrived; a few times when I didn’t stumble over my words, especially when I was with Alaska and the flow of our conversation took hold of my speech.
I wasn’t too focused on it and it seemed to make things easier.
At no point did I feel that she was about to burst into laughter or finish my sentences.
She still left without saying a word after our fingers touched though.
Why did she leave? I wish I could see her and apologise.
Anything to remove the guilt building inside me for something I cannot really grasp.
Remembering the exercise my mom used to make me do before going to bed, I close my eyes and talk to myself in this small wooden house, where the smell of oatmeal still fills the air after my breakfast.
“A m-mouse,” I start, “was mounting a moun-mountain when she s-s-saw a shark sink in the s-sea.” Not even close.
I know I have to find a way to improve my speech, or this will turn into a much bigger problem.
I’m done with professionals, though. I tried for years, and nothing ever stuck.
Maybe I could try on my own. At home. Without the weight of other people listening.
Maybe that’s the missing piece. I could practice talking out loud more often.
Aside from startling a neighbor or two, I don’t see how it could hurt.
I sigh and splash water on my face. Six thirty. Time to put on my uniform and focus on something other than the woman who ran away from me.
“Lasagna, pork pie, pineapple pizza,” Jared lists, hands on the wheel. I glance at him.
“Your f-favorite meal is pineapple p-p-pizza?” He grins.
“There’s nothing like it.”
“Wrong on every level.”
“Judge me now, huh?” He chuckles. “I’ll grab us one for lunch. You’ll regret saying that.”
“I d-doubt it. Really.”
“Nah, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shoots me a look. “And you?”
“Sweet st-stuff, cookie dough, cherry p-pie, anything with chocolate.”
“The good stuff.” He nods approvingly. Then his smile turns knowing. “Speaking of sweet stuff…”
“Um?”
“So?” Jared draws it out, eyes on the road, smug grin firmly in place.
“So?” I frown.
“Heard somebody had a visitor at the station last Sunday?” It’s been a few days since I last saw her, heard her voice, or even crossed paths.
Days spent turning over every detail in my head, trying to figure out what I did wrong.
Why she left. Why she hasn’t come back. The worst part being that I still can't get her out of my system.
Warning signs flash above me in huge capital letters, but she still haunts me.
Just from that single touch, our hands barely brushing.
I clenched my fist so hard afterward, my knuckles turned white. Thought I might break something.
"Earth to Jack?" I roll my eyes and look away, toward the quiet street where the local school and clinic sit. Nothing to report. All clear. It’s a change from the bar brawls and pickpockets I dealt with in Minneapolis.
"You’re seriously grilling me like a teenage g-g-girl?"
He looks over, completely blank. “Yeah.”
"Ever heard of pri-privacy?"
"Nope. Don’t think it exists here." I chuckle because even though he's prying, I can tell it comes from a good place. Jared's not the backstabbing type. Just nosy, maybe. In a town like Lakeside, the smallest bit of drama becomes everyone’s business.
"She’s a good one, you know," he says.
I turn to look at him as the radio crackles with updates.
"All units: standby for incoming storm. Expect county fire support.
Possible blackouts and fallen trees. All hands on deck.
" We listen in silence. Jared keys the mic, "Copy that.
" Then he continues, "Alaska's a great person, Jack.
She's just... She’s got baggage. Heavy stuff.
" The idea that he knows more about her than I do needles at me. I want to know her. All about her.
"If you g-got something to say," I cough, "then say it."
His grip tightens on the wheel. "Told you. Not my place." We take a left toward the front porch of a man named Patton Hallow, a witness in one of the cold cases Jared and I reopened. Hallow was the last person to see a woman before she vanished two decades ago. His statement wasn’t detailed enough. I want to talk to him, maybe get something he didn’t say back then.
He’s eighty-five now, terminal cancer, wheelchair-bound.
But people facing the end tend to open up. Anyway, cold cases duties.
"You keep s-saying that, and still won’t talk 'bout it," I mutter.
"Yeah, you're right. Sorry. It’s just... I’ve known her forever.
Bella and Alaska were always glued together.
You should've seen them as kids, always laughing, always getting into trouble.
I remember one time, they put pots and pans on their heads, pretending they were royalty or something.
Put on a whole show after dinner. Music, dancing, all the works.
Took a whole hour. My parents made me sit through the entire thing.
" He chuckles, eyes in the rearview. "They were so carefree back then.
.. before the incident." His tone shifts. "Point is, she’s a good person. Like a little sister to me. So...just be careful, alright? Don’t wanna see her get hurt again.
" I remain silent, but I commit every word to memory.
Carefree. Laughing. Silly.
Is he talking about the same Alaska?
"What about her b-brother? What’s he like?" I ask. Jared starts to answer, but another radio alert cuts him off. "Roger that," he replies. The moment passes. "It’s..." I clear my throat. "It’s kind of one step f-forward, two steps back anyway."
He lets the silence hang as he kills the engine and unbuckles.
"That’s probably how it has to be if you want a real shot with her.
But...if you can't handle that, you won't be able to handle her story either.
" He winces. Regret crosses his face like he’s said too much.
We both step out of the car, heading toward the porch.
"Patton’s an old-timer. Might be best if I do the talking," Jared murmurs.
"Why?"
"'Cause you’re an outsider. That’s why."
"Noted." Cracking my neck, I follow him up the steps to the small cabin-like home. White porch, two windows, quiet street. Looks like a set in a Hallmark movie. As our boots hit the wood, the door swings open.
"Jared," a woman greets, maybe mid-sixties, wrapped in a thick brown cardigan. Gray hair cropped short, kind face. It must be his daughter. Hopefully, the man can still talk.
“Ma’am,” I say, running a hand in my hair.
“Nice seeing you, Ginny,” Jared says with a forced smile. “Is your dad around? We’ve got a few questions we’d like to ask him.”
“Um…what’s this about?” she asks, her eyes flicking to me. “He’s very tired. I don’t know if he’ll have the energy to speak with both of you.”
“He’s fine, Ginny,” Jared reassures her.
“This is Jack, he’s new to our department.
We won’t take much of your dad’s time. It’s about the disappearance of Mila Grey twenty years ago.
Just following up, seeing if anything new comes to mind.
” Her fingers tighten on the doorframe, her mouth pulling to the side.
“He hasn’t talked about it in years. I doubt he even remembers.”
“Still, if he has a few minutes, we’d really appreciate it,” Jared pleads, flashing his easy, local-boy charm.
I stay quiet, watching him work. His approach is the polar opposite of what I’m used to back in Minneapolis; there, people either cooperate or we get a warrant.
You get a lot more yelled at, but it’s really effective.