（twenty-two days ago）
Los Angeles
T he day after Summer returned from Rhonda’s, I accompanied her to the Sheriff’s Department to make a report. We’d both spent the night at Wendy’s and hadn’t slept a wink for searching desperately online for clues, coming up with alternatives to what might have happened to Eric. I’d taken the task of sweeping his social media, stealthily deleting all the comments and likes between us, though I did leave our WhatsApp thread, knowing it was encrypted. I messaged him again and again through it, hoping against hope that he’d respond to me. But as the hours wore on, my hope evaporated and guilt for having doubted Summer began to creep in.
At the precinct, I let her do the talking. I tried my best to act like a normal supportive friend, but my facade was gossamer-thin, the tears I couldn’t shed in front of her threatening to breach the flimsy barrier at any moment. Given how gutted I felt, I had to accept I’d cared more about Eric than I’d ever allowed myself to understand. But I pushed the thoughts away. It was too late now. Anyway, if nothing else, the events of the past few days had made it painfully clear it was Summer he’d loved after all. I was a fool for ever believing otherwise.
We sat uneasily in the antiseptic pale-green-and-gray lobby with the other unfortunates who found themselves in the waiting room of a police station on a Tuesday afternoon. A woman in the corner wouldn’t stop muttering to herself about God and the laws of karma, the chairs were uncomfortable, and I felt like my heart was made of lead. After what seemed like an eternity, the desk agent called Summer’s name, and I waited for another eternity while she made her report to an officer in a room down the hall.
By the time Summer emerged puffy-eyed, it was getting dark.
“Can you stay with me at the beach house?” she implored. “John doesn’t come back until Friday, and I don’t want to be alone.”
I did want to be alone. But she needed me, and after everything, I felt I owed it to her. Plus, maybe it would be good to have to hide the depths of my distress for a few more days. “Of course,” I agreed.
She’d picked me up on the way to the station, but after making the report, she was tired and asked me to drive the convertible Porsche she’d borrowed from John’s garage out to Malibu. She put the top down and leaned her head back, letting the wind whip her hair as we cruised through the canyon and up the coast to the house. When we arrived, she withdrew to her room immediately and closed the door behind her. So much for needing my company.
I trudged up the stairs to the guest room, where I finally undammed the tears I’d been holding back for twenty-four hours. I couldn’t imagine the pain Eric must have been in to do what he did, but I still didn’t believe that pain had anything to do with his relationship with Summer, regardless of what he may or may not have told her about his mother’s suicide. So, what then? Was he suffering from depression? Or had he been diagnosed with some terrible disease I didn’t know about? I kept thinking that if I’d known what he was dealing with, I could have done something. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. I wanted to press rewind, go back and save him somehow—but that was impossible.
When I finally slept, my dreams were disrupted by horrific images of Eric killing himself in violent ways: a shotgun under his chin, brains splattered on the shower wall; a silent fall from the Golden Gate Bridge, his imperceptible splash into the frigid water beneath; a handful of pills and a bottle of Jack, vomit foaming from his mouth.
I woke panting and lay staring at the ceiling, wishing the past few days had only been a dream. I revisited the hour we spent together on the roof the night I first met him, then the rainy winter day in his loft, remembering the light in his eyes, imagining different outcomes. If Summer had never come into the picture, what might have happened? Would he still be alive?
Again I cried myself to sleep, plunging into nightmares that he was drowning while I swam after him in the ocean, pulled farther and farther out to sea by the riptide. Summer waved at us from the shore, then turned her back and walked away.
The next morning, I woke up late to find a voice mail from Dylan saying to call him as soon as possible. My throat was tight as I dialed the number, but it only rang and rang. Downstairs, I poured myself a cup of coffee and joined Summer out on the deck.
The day was still, the sea like glass. She stood at the railing, staring out at the waves lapping at the shore, oddly calm. “I really like it here,” she said.
“It’s beautiful,” I agreed.
She turned to me, and I saw she was as hollowed out as I was, her emotions exhausted. “I’ve cried so much I don’t have any tears left.”
Me too , I wanted to say. “It’s okay.” I squeezed her hand. “I understand.”
“No you don’t,” she muttered. And then quickly, “I’m sorry. I’m just emotional. Thank you for being so supportive.”
“I’m here for you.”
“My mom’s gonna come out today,” she continued. “I’d like to spend some time with her before John gets here Friday. I ordered a car to take you back to the city.”
“Okay.” I didn’t mind the dismissal, relieved to be able to go home without making up an excuse. “When will it be here?”
“It’s here,” she said. “Waiting in front. I didn’t want to wake you.”
In the car, I gazed out the window at the sea, unsettled. I was upset about Eric, yes, horribly. But underneath it all was the sense that something still didn’t feel right about all of this. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it all seemed a little too easy. Too…anticlimactic or something.
Probably just a symptom of my anguish. Disbelief. Wasn’t that one of the stages of grief?
I tried to reach Dylan again, to no avail.
When I got home, I took a hot shower to clear my head, letting the almost scalding water run down my body, breathing in the steam. I made myself another cup of coffee and settled at the table in my cheery yellow kitchen, looking out at the palm trees and the mountains, then opened my laptop and typed “missing persons California.”
A website popped up that listed all of the missing persons in California, with their photographs and information, organized by date. Two yesterday, one three days ago, one four days ago, two six days ago, all from different counties. I was astounded by the number of missing people, but none of them was Eric.
So I looked up the coroner’s office, did a search with his name and age. Nothing. But then, maybe he wasn’t in the system yet. We had only reported it yesterday.
I dialed Dylan’s number again. This time he answered, his voice hoarse.
“Belle, I’m sorry, I’ll have to make it quick. I’m getting on a plane.”
“Okay,” I said.
He took a deep breath. “They found his rental car at a park in Ventura. They’re searching the park now.”
My heart sank. “Oh.” Then, “Was there anything in it? His personal stuff? A note?”
“No note,” Dylan said. “No wallet or phone.”
“Do you really think he killed himself?” I asked.
He paused. “Maybe.”
“What makes you unsure?” I asked, hopeful.
He sighed. “That email. It wasn’t the way he writes.” So I wasn’t crazy. He’d picked up on it, too. “And no offense to your friend. I’m sure she’s a lovely girl—”
“Summer,” I said.
“Yeah, Summer—but he wasn’t in love with her. Sure, he and I hadn’t talked much recently, but still—I’ve seen him in love before. This is not what it looks like.” I stifled the impulse to ask what it did look like. “So it’s really fucking hard to imagine he would kill himself over her,” he concluded.
“I know,” I agreed. “I didn’t know him nearly as well as you obviously, but their relationship always seemed—casual. On his end, anyway.”
“But I don’t like any of the alternatives, either.”
“What alternatives?” I asked.
“There were things—he may have gotten mixed up in.…” He paused, catching himself. “I don’t know. I’m trying to find out as much as I can.”
Mixed up in? Again I was reminded of how little I actually knew of Eric. “Like what?” I asked.
“I can’t…I’m sorry. It’s probably nothing. Forget I said anything.”
“I thought the email was strange, too,” I said. “If you need help—”
“No,” he cut in. “I don’t want you anywhere near this. And like I said, it’s probably nothing. I just wish I knew better what was going on with him. If he hadn’t been so damn stubborn about our dad…”
“But that’s just him, right? Full of ideals, principles—”
“Yeah,” he scoffed. “And I’ve always been the one in the real world.”
I floundered for words, taken aback by his cynicism. But of course he was feeling bad; he’d just lost his brother. His brother, who was nothing if not defined by his ideals and principles. My instinct was to defend Eric, but I knew that would do no good. And so I simply said, “I’m sorry you’re going through this, Dylan.”
I heard voices in the background. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too. I have to go. I’ll let you know when I hear anything.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
I hung up the phone, suddenly feeling very alone. The kitchen darkened; I looked out the window to see thunderheads converging above the mountains, blocking the sun. I knew the fact that Dylan was suspicious, too, should make me feel better about my own doubts, but it only aggravated my sense of helplessness. What could he have meant by Eric getting mixed up in something? Drugs? But Eric wasn’t a druggie, and he didn’t seem to be in need of the money he might make dealing them. I wondered if Summer had knowledge of whatever it was.…Perhaps this thing he was mixed up in was what she’d been hiding at the beach house when she was fighting with him. A part of me wanted to call her and tell her what Dylan said, perhaps give her a reason to hope, too. But I still didn’t trust her. Whatever was going on, she already knew more than she was letting on, and she’d chosen not to share it with me.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, slathered a piece of bread in peanut butter, and placed it in the toaster oven, watching through the glass door as it bubbled. But when the oven dinged, I found I had no appetite.
I could almost see Eric lingering in my doorway, the morning sun in his eyes, not two months ago. He was so full of life.
I blinked away the vision and forced myself to eat the damn toast. Casting about for a distraction, I addressed the heap of mail on my kitchen table. Circulars, bills, political mailers, a wedding invitation…and a parking ticket. Strange. I hadn’t gotten a parking ticket lately, at least that I was aware of. After once getting the boot on my car for failing to pay a pile of tickets during college, I’d become a meticulous sign reader.
I opened the envelope and read the citation: ninety-seven dollars for failure to display a valid parking pass at California State Park number 24476 on July 22 at 1:42 p.m.
It had to be a mistake. I hadn’t been to any state parks lately. But the license plate and car description matched mine.
I opened my laptop and entered the park number. A map popped up, showing a park about two miles inland from the beach in Ventura County. My heart dropped.
July 22. I had a sinking feeling about what day that was, but pulled up my calendar to be sure. I was right: July 22 was this past Saturday. The day Summer borrowed my car to go to her mother’s house in the desert, the opposite direction of Ventura. The day Eric went missing.