CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SHAY
M oving back and forth across the foyer of our house, I try and keep some sort of handle on myself as I keep digging through the last hour, trying to really process what the fuck has happened—what hasn’t happened.
Every time my gaze flicks down the hallway, I know Sylvia is down there in her room, hunting for the old yearbook she mentioned, but the waiting is unbearable.
I want answers. I need answers. I clench my hands at my sides, my knuckles turning white, and try to remain as calm as I can.
The image of the church is still so fresh in my mind.
My phone just lying there, the blood. Everything.
The image replays on a flicker, over and over, and it’s all I can think about.
I look over at my dad, who is pacing the same way I am, phone pressed to his ear. His voice is steady, but there’s a sharp edge to it that’s hard to ignore.
“Yeah, I understand,” he says into the phone. “Get me everything you can anyway… Richard Slane, yes. I don’t care how old it is. If there is anything in the system, I want it. Who signed the death certificate, cause of death, everything.”
He listens for a moment, and I can see the lines in his face deepen.
“Slane,” he repeats himself. “Yeah. Aliases, too, if there are any. He didn’t just disappear. I’ll take whatever you can find.”
I’m too angry—too worried—to just keep lingering beside him, hoping some Hail Mary comes about. I move over to the window and pry apart the blinds. It’s so dark.
“What?” My dad’s voice suddenly rises, pulling my attention back to him. “You’re sure? No record at all?”
His eyes flick to me, but he doesn’t break from his call. His fingers tap on the side of his phone, and it sounds like a ticking clock as he mutters something else into the receiver.
“Yeah. I’ll follow up with you later.”
He finally hands up and exhales sharply. “Damn it,” he mutters, defeated, then looks at me. “I’m not letting this go, Shay. I’m calling in every favor I have. We’ll figure this out.”
I don’t doubt him. My dad’s a damn good lawyer, but right now, not even his best efforts feel like enough. Nothing does.
I turn back from the window and start pacing again as my dad dials another number. This time, his voice is more controlled, more level.
“I need to talk to Judge Matthews.”
He continues to speak, but it fades into the background.
Suddenly, the sound of sirens squeals in the distance. Fucking took them long enough . I turn toward the door, my feet already moving before I even realize it. Without saying anything to my dad, I rush out the door.
Flashing lights from the patrol cars slice through the night, and in a weird way, it brings me some comfort. The officers step out of their vehicles and adjust their belts, moving across the drive toward me.
“Good evening,” the first speaks.
“Not a good fucking evening, Officer,” I bite back.
The cop’s face hardens, and his tone comes out more sharp. “We’ll handle this, kid.”
I open my mouth to speak again, but my dad steps up behind me and clamps me on the shoulder. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I’m Henry Cornell. I made the call…”
I drown out the rest of their conversation as my dad starts giving them a rundown of what I feel I’ve already repeated a million times.
The wedding, the texts, Richard Slane, the blood.
My brain is short-circuiting with every passing second, but I still don’t feel we’ve gotten any sort of answers—any leads.
The front door opens again, and I turn around. My dad is huddled with the officers at the foot of the steps, still explaining all he knows, as Sylvia steps out with a yearbook in her hands. Before she can reach my dad, though, I jog back up the steps and stop her.
“Let me see.”
Her face is red and puffy, and tears still stain her cheeks, but she doesn’t put up a fight. She hands the book over, then moves to where the cops are.
I start flipping through it in my hands, going down the alphabetized names of every class, hunting for Slane. The photos are old and faded, and every page is fraying along the edges, but I keep turning, keep scanning every face and every name.
Richard Slane .
The name practically jumps off the page when I see it. I run my finger over it, then drag it across the page, finding the corresponding picture.
It hits me like a punch in the gut. My mind scrambles to process, but it doesn’t take long for the truth to settle in. The name isn’t just some distant figure anymore. It’s Blake. It’s always been Blake.
The sick realization eats me whole. All the pieces that didn’t make sense before—him showing up out of nowhere, taking an interest in me—it all clicks into place.
A surge of new anger floods me. It was him.
Blake has been behind all of this. I should have seen it sooner, but the promise of something exciting clouded all of it. I want to scream.
My hands grip the book tighter as I continue to stare at his picture. I guess some part of me wishes the picture would morph into something else, someone else, but I know it won’t. I am partially responsible for this bullshit.
Slamming it shut, I let it fall to the ground. My hands tremble, and I feel like I’m suffocating in my own skin. Whoosh , whoosh , whoosh . The familiar sound of blood rushing in my ears meets me, and I know there is only one thing to do.
I can’t just stand here.
I can’t wait.
I hear my dad calling behind me as I push past him and the cops and start running across the driveway, but I don’t look back. My body is moving on instinct, and that alone is fucking deadly. I reach my Jeep and yank the door open.
Wasting no time, I hurry and start the car, then slam my foot into the pedal. The tires screech across the pavement as I go, and the lights from the house fade into the distance of my rearview mirror.
I won’t stop until she’s safe.