Chapter 74

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out, check it under the table.

Jonah.

If I were at Knox Heights, I'd have no problem leaving the room to answer it, but I'm in the middle of my college class, and since that behavior is frowned upon here, I reject the call and blindly send a text instead.

Jace

In class. What's up?

Jonah

Call me when you get out.

I pocket my phone again and do my best to pay attention. As soon as class is over, I make my way to my van and call Jonah on the way. "What's up?" he answers.

"You asked me to call you."

"Oh yeah. I can probably assume your answer, but I thought I'd ask anyway…"

"Yeah?"

"Do you know if Harlow's okay?"

My heart falters a beat. So do my steps. "I don't really speak to her, so… no? Why?"

"Yeah, I figured you'd say that. She called in sick to work yesterday, and she wasn't at school today, so I was just checking."

"Is her car at her house?"

"I don't know. I'm still ten minutes away, but I'll drive by and check. Thanks." He hangs up, and I wait until I'm behind the steering wheel to send him a text.

Jace

Let me know if she's there.

Ten minutes later, I get a response.

Jonah

No car. Weird.

I try not to let Harlow's absence eat away at me, but it's hard not to keep looking out my bedroom window to see if anything has changed. I try to remember the last time I saw her car, but honestly, I haven't really been paying attention. The last time I saw her was at the rink, which is the last time Jonah saw her too.

Surely, if Jonah was really worried, he'd ask those cult cousin friends of hers, and if they didn't know where Harlow was, then I don't know how I'm supposed to. It's night now, light has turned to dark, revealing the lamp on in her bedroom—the one on her desk, I think. For a long time, I sit on the roof, and I watch the world as I used to know it. And just like all those times I'd stare at the house pre-Harlow, nothing changes. Nothing but the darkness that looms over it.

I'm running on hopes and dreams the next day because I barely slept. Not because I spent the entire night looking out my window for any signs of life, but because I spent the whole night in bed, tossing and turning and thinking about her.

Worrying about her.

And now her friends are standing in front of me, both looking to me for answers, and I don't know what to tell them. Then again, they haven't actually asked me anything… yet. "Listen," Sammy says, void of the usual sass she throws my way. "I know that you and Harlow broke up, and you might not be on the best terms, but… do you know if she's okay? We've tried calling, but her phone's off."

Good to know. Last night, at around four in the morning, I was tempted to call her. I picked up my phone, pulled up her number, and almost hit dial. Almost. But I pussied out at the last second, because I didn't know what to say if she actually answered.

The quiet cousin speaks next, and I have to strain to hear her. "We're just worried is all," she says. "Especially because it's the, um…"

I raise my eyebrows. "The what?"

Sammy sighs. "It's the one-year anniversary of her brother's death."

My chest tightens at the thought, my stomach twisting, and I shake my head, unable to look at the desperate faces in front of me. "Sorry," I murmur. "I don't know where she is."

I know the half-court better than I know myself. Even in the darkness, I know every crack in the concrete, every dip, every spot where the hand-painted lines have faded. I'd spent so many hours here that I could paint a picture of the back of Harlow's house with my eyes closed.

Fifteen minutes ago, I drove my van into her backyard for the first time since we broke up, took out my ball, and played on the half-court. It had always felt like home—the court—but there's something different now.

Something's missing.

Something's wrong.

It's not as if I expect Harlow to immediately open her back door and watch me like she used to whenever she heard me out here. But… I don't know. I expect something. Anything. And the longer I play, the more out of tune I become with my body, with the court, with my home.

I stop dribbling, hold the ball to my side, and look over at the house. Earlier, I'd considered calling her dad, but I didn't know what to say to him. He'd either tell me she was fine and that he knew where she was, or he'd worry and beg me to check the house.

I still have a key, after all.

Resignation outweighing my worries, my fears, I grab my keys from the van's ignition and enter the house through the back door. "Harlow?" I call out. "It's Jace." I wait a beat for a response that never comes, and then I flick on a light, and then another, as I make my way through her house. It's different now. There's less furniture and decorations, and I wonder if her mom's been to take some of it to her new house. Or maybe Harlow has. Maybe she's moved out? Moved on? And just… didn't bother telling anyone. Or…

Maybe she's in her bathroom, surrounded by days-old pools of blood because?—

I don't even want to think about that. Not again. Not anymore. I spent all last night drowning in those thoughts, and my only saving grace is that her dad would know. If it's been days since her phone's been off and he hasn't been able to contact her, he would've called me. And then he would've come home.

"Harlow?" I try once more before climbing the stairs two at a time.

Her bedroom door is open, the light from the lamp on her desk enough to illuminate the entire room. The first thing I notice is that her room is clean and her bed is made. "Harlow?" I don't know why I keep saying her name, as if she'll magically appear if I do it enough times.

I shift my gaze, just enough to note her bathroom door wide open. Fear and panic swirl through my veins as my heart races, pumping harder with each step I take toward it. I try to breathe through the agony, the image of her standing at her sink, her underwear lowered to reveal her hip, and the glint… the shine of the razor caused by the lights as it pierces her flesh, and I gasp. Hold my breath. Take one more step until I can peer into the room.

It's empty.

I enter the space, move the shower curtain aside to check in the bathtub.

Empty.

I release all the air in my lungs and then retrieve it just as fast. I step into her bedroom again, looking around, trying to find clues as to where she might be. Her dresser's the same, though it's not as if I counted all the stuff that was there before. She has these mini-Polaroid photos wedged between the mirror and the wood behind it. They're of her and her friends, Sammy and Jeannie, and some of her and Jonah at work. There used to be ones of me too. Of us together. They're not there anymore.

I look around some more, and I notice that the sneakers she usually wears are gone. So is her school bag. Her desk is clear of the laptop that's usually there, but there's a sheet of paper in its place—what looks to be a handwritten note folded in thirds.

If this is a letter to her dad, letting him know where she is, I should read it, right? So I can pass on the message? So he doesn't have to worry?

I realize I'm making excuses for my actions, but I…

I care about the girl.

Still.

And I'm allowed to be worried about her.

I pick up the note, unfold it carefully, and immediately choke on a gasp when I don't recognize the handwriting. The letter isn't written by Harlow.

It's for Harlow.

Harlow,

Since you have me blocked in every possible way I could reach you, writing you this letter was my only option.

I hope it gets to you because what I have to tell you is important, even if you don't think so yourself. Before I go on, I just need you to know that I care about you, and I hope you understand that I'm not telling you this to hurt you.

It is not now, nor has it ever been, my intention to cause you pain.

Your mom got in contact with me a few weeks after you left and told me where you'd moved to, and where, when, and how to find you. She also told me that you missed me. That you had spent all summer crying over me, wishing to be with me.

That's why I drove to see you that day, but you wouldn't speak to me, and then those guys came out with the baseball bat, and well… the rest doesn't matter, I guess.

I was heartbroken, and I got halfway home and called her to tell her what happened. She begged me to go back and try again. And I could tell that something was off. So, I pushed, and I finally got the truth out of her…

She said we were the same—she and I. That we were both stuck in loveless marriages and wanted more. Deserved more. That's why we stepped out to be with other people.

She lied about how you felt, but she was sure you would've left with me if I'd given you the chance. Turns out, she was the one who wanted me to find you. She wanted you to run away with me so she could leave your dad sooner, and there'd be nothing left to tie them together.

She used you. And me. All for her own personal agenda.

I'm so sorry, Harlow.

I'm sorry for the way I treated you that day. I went there excited, thinking I was getting you back, only for the absolute opposite to happen, but that wasn't your fault.

I'm sorry for the way things ended between us.

I'm sorry for the trouble it has caused you since.

But I can't lie and tell you I'm sorry it ever happened. When I told you I loved you, I meant it.

I still think about you every day.

I still love you every day.

My door is always open for you, and so is my heart.

- Christian.