Chapter 16. Reed
Reed
We spend our next days scouring the estate, determined to locate any clues that might uncover the circumstances of our deaths. Tessa insists on a methodical approach, from a grid pattern to search the grounds to assigned rooms to inspect. She really has watched a lot of CSI.
But, so far, the only things our investigation has unearthed are a lavender bra someone left draped over a statue of Adonis in the garden, a vape pen forgotten on a mantel, and a partially ripped love note crushed into the dirt.
When we peek behind the last of the closed doors on the third floor—finally accessible now that we’ve mastered traveling through barriers—we discover a used condom lying in a corner.
Tessa mumbles something incoherent while I make a retching noise, and we both hightail it to her bedroom to recover.
In our short time at the mansion, we’ve each found the nooks we like to retreat to for a moment of quiet.
Tessa has her room, while I’ve discovered a secret spot on the roof.
But suddenly, here we are together on the moth-eaten coverlet of her circular bed.
Early evening sunlight catches the silver thread lacing through the curtains, sending a scattering of sparkles across the ceiling. It’s like sitting inside a disco ball.
I stretch my legs out and fiddle with the phone. My fingers glide along the slick gray casing as I inspect it for the hundredth time.
“It’s kind of weird having you in my room. Like, I keep expecting my dad to poke his head in to check if you’re staying for dinner.” Her eyes take in the cavernous space. “That is, if my dad and I lived in a creepy, desolate mansion.”
I softly chuckle. “Yeah, I know. We never really hung out like this before.” It’s an unexpected kind of intimacy to sit here beside her. On her bed. The one she’s not-sleeping on at night. Her shoulder brushes lightly against mine.
I clear my throat. Get your head out of the gutter.
“So, what now?” Defeat creeps into her voice. “Seems like we’ve hit a dead end.”
“I don’t know.” I flip the phone open and closed again. “All my life I’ve had projects: Science fair entries, BattleBot competition builds, band practice with Kira and Santiago. I’m no good without direction.” That’s when the big feelings creep in.
What will the world look like with a Reed-sized hole in it? What’s the statute of limitations on forgetting someone?
I push my palms against my eyes, stopping that train of thought fast. You haven’t forgotten your father. People won’t forget you.
“Hey.” Tessa shakes me gently. “Earth to Reed. What’s going on over there?”
“It’s just … does it ever become too much sometimes … imagining them all moving on without you?” Thinking of my mom sends a guilty jolt through me. How’s she holding up?
Tessa’s hands drop to her lap. “Sometimes,” she whispers, then shifts to face me on the bed. “It might help to visit them. I did. With my family.”
I jerk back. “What? When?”
“Last night.” She says it like it was nothing more than walking to the corner store. “I’ve been meaning to tell you all day. I just wasn’t sure how.”
I stare, stunned.
“Once I realized it was as easy as closing your eyes and—” She snaps her fingers. “I guess I decided to … confront it, you know? Face my grief. And my father’s.” Her voice breaks at the memory. “But …”
“But what, Tessa? Jesus.” I jump off the bed, agitation coursing through my limbs.
“What if something happened to you, and I had no idea where you were?” It’s embarrassing how much it stings that she’d leave without me.
I mean, there’s no rule that says we have to tell each other everything, but this seems …
big. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Though I try to mask the accusation in my voice, I know she hears it, how pathetic, lost, and lonely I feel.
“I thought about coming to find you, maybe going together. Honestly. But in the end, it felt like something I had to do alone.” She closes her eyes tight, resting against the headboard behind her. “Are you pissed?” She peeks at me.
“I don’t—maybe.” Crap.
My heart picks up speed.
I need to know my mom’s okay. Laws of physics be damned. “I’m going.”
“Reed, I don’t know if—”
I bring the full force of my concentration to the living room with its sleek gray paint and posh leather couches—finance-douche chic.
When I open my eyes, I’m there, among the expensive abstract art my stepdad never gave a shit about but thought would impress people.
The only thing the room ever communicated to me was a cold, unwelcoming austerity.
Or maybe I was confusing that with the man whose house we’d moved into.
Except the view. That was impressive. Sitting high on a ridgeline with a sea of pines and red oaks laid out before us, and the occasional hawk circling overhead—it was peaceful.
It’s peaceful still. All the lights are off. They must be out.
I beeline to the music room, the only place besides my bedroom I ever felt comfortable.
It had been more like a corner office, but my mom took it over to showcase my dad’s guitar-building paraphernalia in a glass case along with his family portraits.
I dissolve through the door and am greeted by the lush red rug, a basket of castanets, and the drum set and mic stand from our Undeniables band days.
The sun is arcing toward the tree line, but its evening rays softly illuminate a picture of my father and grandfather.
My dad must not be older than six. They’re proudly standing beside the cypress trees they cut down to age the wood.
My family’s long tradition of working as luthiers, making flamenco guitars, meant working with thirty-year-old cypress for the best sound.
I lean closer. My dad’s mischievous smile and mop of black hair look so much like mine as a child, before that childhood was stolen from under me.
I trace my finger over his impish grin. I hope I made him proud in the time I had here.
What kills me is that this summer in Seville, my uncle was going to teach me how to craft a guitar out of wood my father and grandfather had chosen—maybe even the wood in this photo.
It was going to be my guitar, but it would have had their fingerprints all over it.
It’s not until this moment that I realize how much that meant to me.
My stomach tightens around the thought. I was going to be able to hold something that wasn’t just mine but ours. Only now I’ll never get to.
Just as I’m wishing I could pluck the strings of the nearest guitar to hear the sound reverberate through the hollow room, my attention snags on a commotion down the hall.
I guess my stepdad is here after all. I send myself to his office in a flash, worried he and my mom are fighting.
But Steven Walker—with a phone to his ear—sits alone in a dark room, backlit by the sun seeping through closed blinds.
He’s decked out in a full tuxedo, blond hair disheveled, with his bow tie loose around his neck.
And he’s livid.
“Listen to me, you piece of shit. I’m onto you and so are the police. You call and threaten me again and I’ll have your fucking balls on a platter.”
I can just make out the angry cadence of the voice on the other end of the line.
“Oh, fuck me? Well, fuck you! You and that worthless factory.” He slams his cell down on the desk.
Whoa. Is he still getting death threats?
I stagger back as the thought slices through me: Could this be the same person who came after Tessa and me at the party?
No, no, no. Was this always about getting revenge on my stepdad?
You sell out people’s livelihoods to make a buck, they’re going to be pissed.
But would they kill over it? I know Tessa and I considered this theory, but I’d never put much stock in it. Until now.
Shit. Is my mom in trouble?
She got some seriously disturbing texts after someone doxxed us. And it’s his fault she’s even in this position. Dammit. What’s he done?
My stepdad yanks open his lower desk drawer on a loud sigh and pulls out a glass and a bottle of scotch. He promised my mom he wasn’t drinking anymore.
The liar.
He’s supposed to be here for her right now. She just lost her son for Chrissake. Not only is he not taking care of her, wherever she is, he’s secretly drinking again. And he’s quite possibly put her in serious danger.
What a waste of space.
He tilts the bottle in a hefty pour, then swirls the amber liquid under his nose before taking a long drink. His eyes almost roll back in his head at the taste. Great. How long has this been going on? He’s never hurt her, but he’s definitely an angry drunk. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I pace in the small office feeling helpless to do anything but worry. I let out a frustrated scream and smack my hand against the bookcase, but it only travels through the wall and back.
My stepdad leans his forehead against the glass and, in a sight I’ve never witnessed before in my life—not even when he accidently slammed his fingers in the car door on our one trip to Disney World—Steven Walker tears up.
His shoulders quietly shake, his breath coming in tiny choking gasps.
I assume it’s the stress from that ominous phone call, but then he pulls a framed photo toward him on his desk—my senior class portrait.
I thought he kept it there for the appearance of family, like it was something he was supposed to do, even though he never came to my Little League games or birthday parties or ever made me feel like I was welcome here. But he really does seem upset.
Over me.
He raises his glass to my picture. “You could have gone far, Reed.” He knocks another one back. “I was damn proud of you.”
So many confusing emotions tumble through me.
I walk right up to his desk and lean over him.
“First of all, screw you for drinking and lying to my mom about it.” I wave my hand toward the bottle and raise my voice, though of course he has no idea I’m here.
“And screw you for never being there. For icing me out and making me feel like you wished my mom hadn’t come with strings attached.
” My throat tightens around all the words I never said, only buried deep inside.
“And … screw you for mourning me and making me feel like you care. You’re not supposed to do that. You’re proud?”
I wanted to hear that from a different man.
A better man.
And yet I don’t know what to do with these feelings.
I needed him as a father. To be loved, seen.
Acknowledged. Now he shows up, after I’m dead, pretending he cares.
“Dammit.” I smack my hand against the desk.
“I can’t think you’re an asshole when you say shit like that, and I want …
I need”—I sink down against his desk—“to think you’re an asshole. ”
All the fight leaks out of me like a deflating party balloon until all that’s left are the two of us, him on one side of the desk and me on the other.
We’re straddling some great abyss that’s always existed between us, only the chasm is even wider now.
There’s no getting across this divide—the living and the dead.
There’s no mending what was broken, as if that’s even possible.
Why did I come here?
Steven checks the time on his cell. “Where is she?” he mumbles before downing the rest of his drink, then tucking the bottle in his desk drawer. He heads out of the office, calling for my mother. “Beatrice, we have to go.”
Is she here?
I follow him down the hallway, through the living room to the sliding glass door to the porch. He opens it, sighing. “You’re not dressed?” He leans unsteadily against the side of the house and begins tying his bowtie.
I travel through the glass door to find my mom sitting silently on the far side of the porch.
There’s a chill in the air now that the sun has dipped below the ridgeline, but she remains in a T-shirt and sweatpants, goose bumps rising on her arms. She never turns to look at my stepdad, only staring off into the distance. “I told you, I’m not going.”
“And I told you we have to. We talked about this. This deal could be huge for us. They’re expecting us both there.”
“People will understand.” Her eyes remain on the treetops as their shadows creep ever closer.
“You can’t let grief rule your life.” There’s a bite in his voice now, and I bristle. He should be looking after her. She’s not well. Who cares about his event? It can wait. It can all wait.
“Well, you can’t schedule grief, either, Steven. It doesn’t turn on and off. I’m not like you, penciling it in,” she snaps, turning to him. “Go if you want. I don’t care.”
They fume at each other for a long moment. “Fine. I’ll make your excuses.”
She doesn’t say anything else, and he storms off.
I cross and kneel beside her. Her face is blotchy from crying, and her hair is a tangle. I did this to her. Me. She lost her husband and now she’s lost her son.
“I’m so sorry, Mom,” I whisper as guilt gnaws at my insides.
The doorbell rings, making me jump, but my mom’s unfazed.
I can hear my stepdad mumble down the hall, “Good luck with her,” before the door snaps shut behind him.
A moment later my mom’s best friend, Dahlia, steps outside onto the porch, a throw blanket in hand.
She gently lays it over my mom’s shoulders and gives her a tender squeeze before pulling up an adjoining chair to sit beside her.
An immense wave of relief breaks over me—just knowing someone is looking out for her—but it’s coupled with a crippling sense of helplessness that that person can’t be me.
It should be me.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, though it will do little good. “I wish …” What? I’d never gone to the party? I’d told her I loved her more? “I never meant …” I try again, but seeing her so broken, the guilt becomes too much.
I shudder against the weight of it and send myself back to the mansion as fast as my imagination will take me.