Jessica

“Jessica!” Mom calls from downstairs.

“What?” I mumble from beneath my covers. It’s Saturday morning, and my head is swirling with everything that happened last night—unlocking Tegan’s phone, running into Marcus, making out with Jake, getting ambushed by the police, and learning that Tegan’s been found. I had nightmares about Blood Alley too, the screeching tires and that flash of eyeball. Did they find Tegan near the road? Is she dead? Did I kill her?

When I wasn’t having nightmares, I was plagued by visions of a cave filling with blood instead of seawater. And when I cleared my mind of that, I remembered Jake’s blissful expression when we kissed, and then the horror on his face when the police took him away. I want to help him but not for the reason he thinks. I was so shocked he cheated with Tegan that I suppressed my part in it, but now my guilt has roared to life.

I text Chloe: Did you hear they found Tegan?

She responds in seconds: What do you mean found her? Where!!!!

Me: That’s all I know.

Chloe: Is she alive? omg

Me: I don’t know

“JESSICA!” Mom shouts.

“WHAT?” The crackle of the television and the sound of Dad noisily clearing his throat drifts toward me from downstairs. Did I forget to unload the dishwasher or something?

“Come here!” Mom calls.

Whatever she wants, it’s not good. I pull on a pair of sweats and a clean University of Colorado Buffaloes T-shirt and skip downstairs. “Why are you yelling at me?”

“Sit down,” she says. Dad is dressed for golf, and Mom’s robe hangs listlessly off her shoulders, but they’re like two frightened horses, jumpy and wide-eyed. Dad points to the television. “They’re going to repeat the story in a minute.”

My pulse flutters. This has to be about Jake and Brendon’s fight or about the police finding Marcus and Tegan’s phone. I face the screen, my fingernails tapping my hips.

A male newscaster stationed outside the police station speaks. “More information is coming from Crystal Cove’s police department this morning about the dramatic hunt for Jacob Healy that led to his arrest. It began around one o’clock this morning when officers responded to a nine-one-one call in the elite Cherish Heights neighborhood about an assault in progress on a local teen.

“The police released the alleged attacker’s identity this morning because he’s now the lead suspect in Tegan Sheffield’s missing-person case. His name is Jacob Healy, and he’s a local Crystal Cove twelfth grader. Healy fled on foot into the woods. The police apprehended him at an abandoned shed near the Russian River where he’d met up with another teen from Crystal Cove.”

I grunt, grateful they didn’t mention my name.

As the man reports, photos of our high school, Brendon’s neighborhood, the river, and Jake’s handsome eleventh-grade photo flash across the screen.

“As reported earlier, Tegan Sheffield vanished during a party at her home last Sunday morning after allegedly recording a sexually explicit video with Healy that went viral online. Evidence discovered in the girl’s bedroom indicates a violent struggle occurred.”

The reporter takes a breath, briefly consults his notes. “The Sheffield case heated up last night when search-and-rescue dogs led detectives to Tegan’s location—a five-foot-long poolside storage bench on her family’s property. The popular eighteen-year-old student was discovered inside beneath a pile of seat cushions, comatose but breathing. The officer who initially searched the bench has been put on administrative leave. The missing teen has been transported to Saint Joseph’s intensive care unit, where she remains in a coma. Should she regain consciousness, Tegan faces possible criminal charges regarding the illicit video.”

The reporter’s words slowly sink into my brain. “Tegan’s been home this entire time?” I ask Mom. “How could she survive a week without food or water?”

“The coma protected her,” Mom answers.

Drone images of the Sheffield home and swimming pool fill the screen, and there is the dirty old storage bench, tucked near a supply shed. It’s as if whoever hid her there wanted her to be found, or didn’t have time to hide her somewhere better. But she was too close, it seems. The searches have been focused on the beach and the woods, and on her friends’ homes and properties—not her own backyard, not since the first day.

The pool footage is followed by charming images of Tegan herself, posing with her volleyball, riding a horse in Lake Tahoe, and hugging Grady on her balcony.

I sink onto the sofa, and my parents sit next to me as the news continues.

“Local authorities have been tight-lipped about this investigation until today, but embattled teen Jacob Healy has been a suspect from the beginning. Multiple search warrants were served on the teen yesterday after officers collected evidence from Healy’s garbage can that revealed blood on his clothing and broken fragments of a dresser mirror, believed to be from Tegan’s bedroom.

“The Crystal Cove Police Department continues to investigate the suspicious death of Tegan’s best friend, Shawna Moore, but an arrest in either case won’t be forthcoming until all the evidence is reviewed and processed. Back to you, Teresa.”

My breath leaves my body. “I don’t believe it,” I say.

Mom grips my hand. “I know, honey, it’s terrible. I’m sorry.”

“No—someone set Jake up. Shawna told him everyone at the party is lying.”

Dad curses, and Mom’s expression goes blank with surprise. Then her eyes shift to Dad. They believe I’m blind to Jake’s faults, but they don’t know what I saw last night. “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” I explain, wondering why the newscaster didn’t mention Marcus. Didn’t the police find him after I reported his location? And what about Tegan’s cell?

“What makes sense is the evidence,” Dad grouses.

The anchorwoman asks the reporter a follow-up question. “Have the police indicated a motive for these horrible attacks, Alan?”

The reporter grimaces after a short video delay. “No, they haven’t, Teresa, but it appears the attacks are related to the illegal recording we reported on earlier in the week. The FBI has since removed the footage from the internet, but Healy’s alleged assault victims—Tegan Sheffield, Brendon Reed, and possibly Shawna Moore—have each been implicated or questioned in the video’s production. Apparently, it was a prank against Healy that some students say got out of hand. He’ll be arraigned in juvenile court on Monday.”

The news anchor nods. “This type of behavior is not uncommon—drinking, pranks, and sexting—but this case really highlights the criminality of it when a student is underage, turning what might have begun as a fun evening into jail time.”

“It sure does, Teresa. It’s a caution to teens across America.”

“Thank you, Alan.” The anchor turns to the people at home, and the split screen vanishes. “We’ll keep you updated as further details develop in this shocking case that, for many high school students, hits too close to home.”

Dad gets up to turn off the TV. “Do you see Jake for who he is now?” An angry tear slips from his eye that he quickly wipes away. “I’m changing the locks on our doors and getting an alarm system.” The skin beneath his jaw quivers as he lays down the law. “You are to drive straight home from school and work, and no more runs to Blind Beach alone. You hear me?”

I rise from the sofa and back away. “Why are you punishing me?”

“It’s not—that’s not what I’m doing. If Jake posts bail, he’ll be out while the authorities investigate.”

“But—”

Dad inhales, and his body grows larger. “Do you think he’s attacking these kids for you, Jessica? Because it’s not romantic; it’s dangerous.”

I cross my arms. I don’t know what to think. Jake beat up Brendon. That’s all I know for sure, and I can’t say I feel bad about it. And why didn’t the news mention Marcus? Didn’t the police find him?

Dad pushes harder. “A girl is dead, and Tegan is close to it. Brendon is in the hospital with a broken face. Jake did that!” He grips my shoulders. “Snap out of it.”

“He would never hurt me, Dad.”

“Just because he hasn’t bitten you yet doesn’t mean he won’t.”

“You’re comparing him to an animal? That’s low. I’m going back to bed.” But I don’t feel as calm as I sound. My entire body trembles as my brain slowly begins to comprehend that Tegan is in a coma.

Upstairs, I check my phone. I have an unread message from Chloe: call me

A second later she answers and I start talking. “Can you believe someone put Tegan inside a bench? How is that even possible?”

Chloe is silent a long moment. Then she asks: “By someone, don’t you mean Jake?”

My spine contracts. “No, it was Shawna’s boyfriend. Look at the party photos people posted; check out the way Marcus was glaring at Tegan. He doesn’t like her. Didn’t Grady say he threatened her—that’s why they searched for Tegan at Cow Mountain? I think he attacked her and planted her phone in Jake’s truck—”

“Wait, what? Jake has her phone? The police didn’t mention that.”

I stumble over my words. “It—it doesn’t matter. The point is, Marcus set him up.”

“How involved in this are you, Jessica?” When I don’t answer right away, Chloe gets angry. “Jake is dragging you down, Jess. He doesn’t want you to go to college, he suffocates you, he attacked you in the woods….”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“He threw you into a tree, Jess!”

“Why are you mad at me?”

“Because you’re letting him do this to you. You’re better than he is. Can’t you see it? Even if he didn’t hurt Tegan, Jake’s going nowhere. You need to stay focused, like me, if you want to get anywhere in life.”

My mouth falls open. Tears sting my eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I care about you,” she says, softening. “I’m on your side, not his. I’m sorry if that upsets you.”

“You sound like my dad.”

She laughs softly. “Absolutely not my intention, but it’s probably because he loves you too.”

Tears skid down my cheeks. “I’m so confused.”

“I know. It’s okay. I’m sorry I’ve been wrapped up in the college showcase, but I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks, Clo. What are you doing later?”

“Beam, then bars. What else would I be doing on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon?”

We talk a few more minutes before hanging up. All that’s certain is that Tegan’s alive, which means Jake didn’t kill her. And neither did I. Whatever I hit on Blood Alley, it wasn’t her. Maybe now the nightmares will stop.

During dinner the following evening, Dad notices the Band-Aid on my forehead from my cave injury. “You’re getting clumsy,” he says, forcing a smile.

“I’m fine.” I offer no explanation, and Dad lets it go. He’s trying to keep the peace since our last fight about Jake. Besides, he thinks I’m safe, with the new security cameras he installed and Jake still incarcerated at the Justice Center. It’s Sunday evening, Jake’s arraignment is tomorrow.

Mom sips her wine, one sharp eye on me. The school sent home a letter telling parents to watch their children for signs of mental distress. The letter is taped to our refrigerator door with the mental health hotline highlighted in pink.

Doctors are keeping Tegan in a medical coma so her body can heal without the accompanying mental stress of what happened to her—attempted murder, it appears—and what she did—recorded herself having sex with a minor. It’s a lot to wake up to. Also, they had to rebreak her arm for it to heal properly, and they’re monitoring her brain activity because of her concussion. It’ll be at least a few more days before they let her wake up, and she might have brain damage.

All this is tumbling through my mind when colored lights swirl through the front window and across our walls in shades of red and blue, jolting me to the present. “Oh no.” I drop my fork and rush to the window. My parents stand behind me as a police cruiser pulls up to the curb. Two officers step out, clean and polished, badges gleaming.

“What’s he done now?” Dad mutters, glancing at Jake’s house even though he’s not home.

But the officers ignore Jake’s walkway and walk up ours. My spine tightens. The grilled chicken rolls over in my stomach. There’s a knock at our front door.

“What in blazes?” Mom says.

Dad opens the door, and a blast of wind ruffles my hair. The officers lean back on their heels. “We’re looking for Jessica Sanchez,” says one.

Dad’s mouth falls open and I step forward, trembling. “I’m Jessica.”

“You’ve been identified as a person of interest in the Tegan Sheffield case. We need you to come with us for formal questioning. You have the right to remain silent and to refuse to answer these questions. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning, and if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided. Do you understand?”

Chills sweep my skin. “Yes, I think so.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez, you can follow in your own vehicle.”

The officers take hold of my upper arms, and I scamper to keep up with them as they walk me toward the squad car, my thoughts pulsing. I need a jacket, my purse. I have nothing with me but my phone. A few neighbors are watching, so I stare at my feet as the officers march me toward their car, usher me into the back seat, and drive away from the curb.

I let out a shaky breath. This must be about Tegan’s phone and the texts I deleted—maybe the police recovered the messages.

Maybe they know what I did at the bonfire.