39. Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Rye
Shut the fuck up. Stop talking. Keep your mouth shut.
Stupid child.
Stupid fuckin’ child.
Rye shuddered and closed his eyes against the rush of emotions. His heart was racing. Still unsteady. Still making him feel lightheaded and weak and dizzy. And he’d only said about half of what he’d planned.
Shut the fuck up, stupid fuckin’ child.
He covered his ears with his hands, wishing he could stop himself from hearing that voice, those rotten, harsh words that had been repeated to him so many times. It was awful. Those words were awful.
The only thing holding him there, keeping his mind from jumping away from reality again, was Jake. Jake and his kindness, his soft words helping Rye fight against the awful ones.
“You’re so, so brave, Rye. You’re so incredibly brave.”
Brave.
He could be brave.
He had more to say. And he could say it.
He shifted, lifting his head up from the table, and he wiped fresh tears from his cheeks. When had he even started crying?
Stupid fuckin’—
No!
Rye swallowed hard, and he found some way to make the words come. “The night I escaped... I ran. I... don’t know how far. But it w-was just starting to get dark when I... when I left the man’s house. And—and then, when I made it to your beach... y-you were on the phone, outside on your patio.” Rye gripped the soft fabric of his sweatpants, closing both hands tightly into fists. “He... lives... nearby. A-and I want you to know.” So maybe you can help me tell the police .
His heart thrummed harder, and he pushed both hands down into his thighs, hard. He wasn’t sure he was breathing anymore, and the burning weight on his chest wasn’t helping. He scrunched his eyes closed and forced himself to take a breath and then another and another.
It was dark and cold. Dark and cold and lonely and terrifying.
But then the softness came again. Settling on his upper back. Rubbing gently. Words surrounded him, reassuring him, even if he didn’t know what they were at first.
Slowly, they came into focus through the haze. “Shh, shh, you’re safe. It’s okay.” They repeated, over and over. Soft. Kind.
Jake.
Rye nodded. He nodded, and then he inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. And he said the final words this time. “I want you to know... a-and I want you to... help me t-tell the police.”
Exhaustion set in then. A deep, heavy exhaustion that pulled at him. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to go to his bedroom and climb under the covers and close his eyes. But he couldn’t do that yet.
Rye moved his hands to the table, folded his arms, and rested his head down in the crook of his elbow, hiding his face. “Can you help me?” He had to force out the words, his voice unsure and barely audible. But he’d said them. And then he held his breath, waiting.
The hand on his back continued its light movement, and Jake answered quietly, “Of course I can.”
The feeling of relief that hit him only added to his lightheadedness, and he was glad he already had his head resting on his arm.
“Thank you,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he’d managed to be loud enough for Jake to hear him. He didn’t try saying it again, though, and instead, he just took another deep breath in and out.
“Do you want me to do that right now?” Jake’s hand stilled on Rye’s back.
He nodded.
“You’re okay with me sharing everything you’ve told me today?”
Rye nodded again, even as his stomach twisted.
“And with your mom?”
He forced himself to nod one more time, though it almost hurt. God, his mom...
“T-tell her... tell her I-I’m sorry,” he mumbled, and he pressed his closed eyes harder against his arm, willing the tears not to fall. “Please tell her.”
“Shh, shh, Rye. You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jake said .
But Rye shook his head this time because Jake was wrong. “It was my fault!” he blurted out. “I got lost. I couldn’t find home, and I got lost. And—and—and the man s-said he’d give me a ride. And—and I agreed. And he drove right past Sycamore and—”
He was crying now, sobbing, because it was all too painful to think about—the fact that it was all his fault; the fact that he’d been so close to home all that time; the fact that his mistake, his stupid, childish mistake, had hurt so much. And it hadn’t just hurt him. No, his stupid, childish mistake had hurt his friends and the town and his aunt and uncle. And it’d hurt his mom. So, so much.
He clamped his mouth shut, trying to hold back his sobs, but he was still crying, still pressing his face into his arm, still trying to hide. Because it was an awful truth—to know that he’d hurt the people he loved so much.
It was an awful truth, and it only made him hate himself all over again.
“Shirley?”
Sounds came from down the hallway. A light knock. Then his mom’s voice, muffled through the door. Then Jake again.
“Hi, Shirley. Can we talk for a bit?”
A door opening. Quiet words whispered. And two sets of footsteps heading his way—one lighter and one heavier, uneven but familiar and almost comforting.
Rye pulled his feet up onto the couch and wrapped his arms tightly around his knees. Jake said a few more words to Rye’s mom, directing her to sit. The couch shifted. Rye didn’t look up. He felt too sick.
His mom’s hand set lightly on his arm, and she squeezed him gently. Then Jake started talking, his voice quiet but clear as he explained everything Rye had told him.
Rye felt an odd sort of detachment from it, and he didn’t really listen to any of the words. He just sat there, hearing the comforting sound of Jake’s voice and feeling the warmth from his mom’s hand on his arm. It didn’t take too long, but well before Jake was done, his mom had moved closer, and by the time Jake had finished, his mom was crying, her arm now wrapped around Rye’s shoulders, holding him tight.
And he was glad, then, for that odd detachment, because it allowed him to not cry for once .
His mom held him and talked to him, saying simple things like “I love you” and “I’m so sorry” and “I’m so happy you’re home.” And then Rye heard Jake’s voice, and his mom’s again, and he let himself drift away from the words so he could just feel that warmth and comfort surrounding him.
It was probably several minutes later when Jake addressed him.
“Rye, I’m going to give Wayne a call now. Is that still what you want me to do?”
His throat felt tight and raw, but he nodded and said, “Yeah.” And his mom squeezed his shoulders.
Rye opened his eyes, blinking away the blurriness in his vision, and then he looked up for the first time since he’d moved to the couch. Jake sat on one of the cushy chairs positioned on either side of the couch, his cell phone out and his brow furrowed as he scrolled and tapped the screen.
When he glanced up and met Rye’s gaze, his expression softened, and he smiled and gave Rye the most gentle, encouraging nod.
It’ll be okay.
How many times had Jake told him that? He could hear Jake’s voice now, deep and low and kind, even though Jake wasn’t speaking.
It’ll be okay.
A muffled sound came from the phone, and Jake cleared his throat, lifted the phone up to his ear, and lowered his eyes to his free hand. “Hi, Wayne, it’s Jake... Yeah, that rain was wild, huh?... Ah, no, that’s not why I’m calling.” Jake chuckled softly. “Gosh, I hope I can get home later. They just fixed that road, I’d hate it if they had to do it again. No, actually, I’m calling to share some information with you.”
Jake paused and looked back up at Rye. And Rye could see the question in his eyes—the silent ask for permission.
You can say no.
You can always say no.
It’s your choice.
Rye closed his eyes. “Please... tell him for me.” He let himself lean into his mom as Jake coughed lightly to clear his throat.
“So, Rye asked me to give you a call. He was able to tell me a few things about... Yeah, and he wants me to share it with you...” There was a pause, and Rye’s chest burned as he held his breath. “Yeah, makes sense. Sure... Yeah, I’ll see you soon... Okay, Wayne. Bye.”
The urge to go curl up under the blankets on his bed tugged at Rye, but he didn’t move .
There was some quiet rustling from Jake, and then Rye’s mom asked, “Wayne wants to talk to you in person?”
“Yeah, says that’d be best. Easier than on the phone.”
“He’s probably right. But does Ryan have to come with you? I’m not sure if that would be a good idea.”
“Only if he wants to,” Jake said. Then his voice seemed to soften, low and warm and reassuring again. “Rye, you can stay here. You don’t have to come. Only if you want to. I can handle it for you, okay?”
Rye didn’t know what was best, so he shook his head, but then nodded, but then shook his head again.
His mom laughed quietly. “Well, sweetie, that’s a real clear response if ever I saw one.” She rubbed his arm lightly and pressed a kiss against the side of his head. “Do you want to go?”
Want to? No. Feel like he should? Probably. Wish, yet again, that he could just go climb under the covers in his bedroom and fall asleep and forget about the whole fucking—
A sharp pain lanced through his chest at the curse, and he sucked in a breath.
He . . . should go. He should go.
With all the courage he could muster, he looked back up. His mom was watching him, her eyes filled with love and concern, her smile not quite there. And Jake, too... Rye met his worried gaze and felt a mixture of warmth and friendship and compassion.
He should go. For his mom. For Jake. He should go and be brave again. Be that person Jake said he was. Be that person his mom needed him to be.
Closing his eyes, Rye managed a short nod. “I’ll go,” he said, though the words nearly stuck in his throat.
His mom let out a short breath and said something like “Okay, sweetie.” And from his spot in the cushy chair to Rye’s left, Jake said something too. Something about running home for a few minutes to get changed.
Then, everyone was moving. His mom gave him a light hug and stood up. And Jake stood up, too, and said something else to Rye. Jake and his mom walked over to the front door, and it opened and closed. And his mom came back and said something about getting ready and how she’d need a few minutes.
It was all a blur. A big, long, scary blur.
Once Jake returned sometime later, Rye finally pushed himself off the couch, and after his mom’s reminder, he slipped on his shoes and a dry, heavy coat. And they left. The drive was short, and no one talked, which was probably best.
At the police station, the big, scary blur seemed to thicken, the voices around him growing distant and indistinct. Strangely, he didn’t feel panicked, especially when Jake’s hand settled on his back to help guide him to Rachel’s office. Rachel was there, waiting for them, and Wayne was there too, but he was in his own office on the phone.
Rye mostly just sat there for however long it was. Jake recounted what Rye had told him as Rachel scribbled notes on a notepad. The few questions she had, she directed at Jake, who was able to answer easily enough.
Which was good.
Rye’s voice was definitely gone for the day.
Lots of words he didn’t know were thrown around the room. And Wayne joined them in Rachel’s office. Then more phone calls were made.
Nancy. They called Nancy .
And apparently she had something very, very interesting to say because Rye’s mom reached over and took his hand right after that and Wayne disappeared back into his office, muttering something about getting a search warrant.
And Rye heard a name.
A name he’d never known and never really wanted to know.
A name that made bile rise up in his throat.
A name he instantly wanted to forget.
Raymond Hirsh.