Jake

“Shhh,” I hiss to Otis as he follows me to the back door. “Be very, very quiet.” He cocks his head, and I laugh and bump into the wall. “Where’d you come from?” I ask the wall. I have to bite my hand to keep from giggling. Otis whines as I shut the door on his face.

Outside, I toss the empty vodka bottle into the garbage. “Steal that,” I mutter, addressing the cop, who has either stopped following me or has gotten better at hiding it.

The fresh air flows through my nostrils and chills my good humor. Jess never answered my text: r u mad at me. It’s pretty damn obvious we’re done. I’m probably wanted for murder. The police have my truck. And I might have an STD. I’m royally fucked.

I fix Brendon Reed’s image in my head. All that matters is wiping his stupid smile off his face. Where the fuck is Jess’s bike? I kick around the weeds until I find it where I left it Tuesday night. One tire got knocked loose when I went looking for Shawna, and now it wobbles as I board the seat and pedal out of my neighborhood.

After a mile of fresh air and pumping blood, my head starts to clear, but the ankle I injured while climbing the bluffs on Wednesday throbs, and I have a huge shiner around my left eye, compliments of Chase Waters at the gym. My life is falling apart, but I’m just drunk enough not to care. It’s been almost a week since Tegan went missing—and Crystal Cove is asleep. It’s the perfect time to have a little chat with the Cameraman.

Brendon lives in the Cherish Heights neighborhood off Blood Alley, the same dangerous road where Tegan lives. I haven’t biked it since I got my driver’s license, and never in the dark and never after drinking screwdrivers. The edges of my vision fuzz, my muscles are loose, and I’m pedaling in flip-flops, but I’m sober enough to ride in a mostly straight line.

The pavement unfurls beneath my tires, black and shiny with a bright yellow stripe down its center, like a poisonous snake. This unlighted road kills people with its blind curves and deep, nearly invisible ditches, and I keep looking back to make sure no car is coming. My legs burn with a buildup of lactic acid, my throat is parched, and my tires hum on the road like engines.

When I arrive at Brendon’s house, I’m damp with sweat and out of breath. After laying down Jess’s bike, I wait for my breathing to settle, then walk straight up to Brendon’s double front doors and ring the bell.

It’s after midnight and there’s no porch light on, so when his mom finally answers, she looks confused. “Did you forget your keys— Oh, you’re not Brendon.” Mrs. Reed has known me since kindergarten, but she doesn’t recognize me, maybe because I shaved my head, or maybe because she’s never paid much attention to anyone besides her precious son.

“Is Brendon home?”

Her forehead wrinkles. “Are you his friend?”

A lopsided smile curves my lips. The fact that you don’t know if I’m your son’s friend, lady, probably means I’m not his fucking friend. But I can kiss ass as well as any other teen, so I smile wider. “Not really. Is he home?”

She gives a rusty laugh, as if I’m joking. “Brendon’s working the late shift at the theater. Why don’t you come back tomorrow?”

I sway slightly on my feet. Beyond Mrs. Reed, the pungent tang of fried fish wafts from the kitchen. “Sure, okay.” It’s a lie; I’m not leaving.

The sound of Mr. Reed’s nasally voice drifts from between the house’s cracked siding. “Who’s here? Is it the police again?” His wife murmurs something as she closes the sun-damaged front door.

The police again?

There’s a worn spot outside their home where Brendon parks his car. I wander over to it and lean against the trunk of a cypress. There are no streetlights here and there’s not much noise, just the calming breath of the ocean. I’m warm in my sweatshirt, so I close my eyes, thinking about Tegan and her friends and the video.

Brendon not only filmed Jessica’s reaction. He edited, titled, and posted the video on YouTube to try to get more popular. I’ve been distracted, and this won’t bring Jessica back to me, but it’s time for a reckoning.

Sometime later, Brendon’s car appears and drives up the long gravel driveway, plunking over potholes. I don’t bother getting up, just watch him park, check himself out in the rearview mirror, and then get out of his car. He stretches, slides his keys into his pocket.

“Hey,” I call.

He leaps like a startled cat. “Who’s there?”

I push myself up, stretch my shoulders. The sight of him kicks my adrenaline into high gear and flushes out the last of the alcohol. “It’s Jake.”

Brendon’s eyes flit to his house. “What’re you doing here?”

I circle him, blocking his path to the front door. The sky is bright with stars, and the moon is a sharp band of silver, illuminating the Cameraman—his sweaty spikes of hair, his bleary eyes. The scent of movie theater popcorn permeates his designer clothes. “I’m here because of what you did to my girlfriend.”

His mouth twitches. “I made her famous.”

“Fuck you.” I snatch Brendon by the throat and drag him into the dark shadow of the cypress. He’s taller, but I pin him against the scraggy trunk. He owes me answers. “Where’s Tegan?”

He tries to slug me and I knee him in the groin. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know,” he wheezes. “She took off, I guess. Why can’t anyone take a joke?”

“Because it wasn’t funny.”

He laughs. “But it was!”

“Shawna’s dead, Brendon.” I punch him in the mouth, and his smile vanishes. He breaks free and knocks me sideways. I twist, crack him in the jaw. “You know what’s going on. You have to tell me!”

“Get the fuck off me!” he screeches. His knuckles slam into my injured left eye socket, and hot tingles splay across my skin. My fist smashes into his chest, then his face again. There’s a snap when his nose breaks. Blood gushes, soaking his sweatshirt. My knuckles graze his teeth. Saliva spray floats in the air.

“Stop!” he screams.

I shove against him, my face an inch from his. “Tell me the truth—where’s Tegan? What happened in her bedroom? I can’t remember anything.”

Brendon reels back and laughs, blood dripping from his lips. “You’re so fucking stupid. You still have no idea, do you?”

I shake him. “No idea about what? Tell me!”

He taunts me, laughing. “Jake and Tegan sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

My skin turns cold; these are almost the exact words Tegan said to me at the party. The sudden roar of the ocean drowns him out—but no, that’s my voice, screaming obscenities and questions at Brendon with each punch and kick to his body. “Where’s Tegan? What don’t I know? Stop laughing!”

But he’s not laughing anymore; he’s covering his head and crying, “Go away!”

I cock my fist. “Tell me or I’ll fucking kill you. Did I do something to Tegan? What do you know?”

His tears shift to hysteria. Blood leaks onto the soil as he starts singing, “First comes love, then comes marriage—”

My fist launches, catching him again across the jaw.

His mom and dad fly out of the house, and Mr. Reed knocks me to the cold ground. I flail, still screaming and cursing.

Brendon sinks to his knees, dazed.

“Stop it!” Mr. Reed snarls as he pins me to the gravel driveway. His breath stinks. “Leave my son alone!”

Precious, perfect Brendon. Fuck. I watch the stars wink overhead, impassive, aloof. I can’t believe my life has come to this. I don’t like beating people up; I like to have fun. But I guess fun can lead to trouble.

“I’m calling the police. You—” Mrs. Reed points at me, crying, her mouth a red slash. “You said you were his friend.”

I don’t bother to correct her. I want to give up, give in.

Mrs. Reed snatches Brendon’s phone from his back pocket and presses three buttons. She’s using speaker, and I hear a voice on the other end of the line say, “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

My heart wallops and before I know it, I shove Mr. Reed away and I’m off, running.

“Get back here!” screams Mr. Reed.

I stumble down the gravel lane and into the redwood forest. Why the fuck did I ride here in flip-flops? Rocks and tree needles stab my feet, and the gash I got in Tegan’s bedroom threatens to reopen, but I keep running. These woods go on for miles and miles, meet up with a state park, and continue for miles more. There are bears, mountain lions, and illegal-marijuana growers, but none of that scares me more than the cops.

I don’t want to run from them, but I don’t want to face them either. Not tonight, not ever. If I get killed out here, maybe it won’t be the worst thing.

I sprint faster.