Shes gone, p.24
She's Gone, page 24
I try the first one and enter it. 0-4-0-4.
The knob turns easily. And we’re in.
Eighty
Basher closes the door behind us.
There’s one window on the back wall of the garage that lets in a little light. It’s even darker inside the garage than outside. The air smells like oil and grease and rubber. I sense more than I see the Mustang in front of us—a dark, sleek presence in the enclosed space.
Basher speaks in a hissing whisper. “Okay, do your thing, Gifford. You said the car came at you from the driver’s side, so that means any damage would be on the passenger side of the Mustang.”
The front of the car faces the large garage door, so we squeeze our bodies around the front bumper and reach the far side of the Mustang. We both crouch down next to the fender.
“I can’t see a thing,” Basher says.
“I’ll use my phone’s flashlight.”
“They’ll see us.”
“No. The window’s in the back. And this light isn’t that bright.”
The flashlight beam passes slowly over the fender. I know nothing about cars, nothing about body work. The fender looks clean and unblemished to me.
“Well?” I say.
“I’m not an expert,” Mike says. “But I don’t see any damage.”
“Could he have fixed the damage?”
“Of course. But the whole car’s been worked on. Just about every inch. It’s hard to tell when any one part was restored. Maybe a professional could.”
“Okay, let’s look at the side.”
“No, put that out first.” He nods at my phone. “They’ll see.”
“Just look here first,” I say, moving the light down the side of the Mustang. “Any part of the car could have hit us.”
We crouch along the side of the car with my light glowing the whole way. Some small dings and scratches, but nothing big. Nothing that would have come from a collision. But the police haven’t said that they know the other car hit us or just came close enough to force us into the tree.
I straighten up and click off the light. It feels darker now than ever.
“Okay,” Basher says. “That’s it. You did what you came to do. Now let’s get out of here. If I get arrested, Coach won’t let me start on Saturday. And there are going to be some college scouts there. I have to play.”
But I don’t move and wait for my eyes to readjust.
Basher puts his hand on my arm. “Come on.”
“What about the trunk?” I ask.
“You think Chloe’s in the trunk? It’s been almost two weeks. It would stink. Come on, Gifford. We need to go.”
Something has to be there, something we haven’t thought of. But Basher’s right—every moment we’re in the garage is another moment of greater risk. And if we get caught…it’s not going to be good. Not for me anyway…
But my eyes are seeing more. Tools on the wall. Shelves and cabinets. Saws and hammers.
And something in the corner, something I didn’t know was in the garage…
“Hunter,” Basher says, pleading. “Now.”
“Wait,” I say.
My mind hears the door opening but doesn’t process it fast enough.
“Shit,” Basher says. “Holy shit.”
The overhead lights come on, freezing us in place like a couple of scared kids.
Eighty-One
The light is blinding.
Laura stands in the entrance to the garage, her eyes moving from Mike to me and back again. I can’t tell if she looks calm or angry about finding two people in her garage who aren’t supposed to be there.
“Laura,” Mike says, “let me explain what we’re doing here. We were walking by, and we thought we saw someone trying to break in—”
Laura reaches behind her and eases the door shut. We’re still standing at the rear of the car, its entire body a buffer between Laura and us.
“Don’t lie to me, Michael,” she says. “You’re not very good at it.”
“Don’t blame him,” I say. “This was all my doing. I brought Mike into this. I’m the one who wanted to come here.”
Laura takes a step forward. “Why?”
Would a lie do us any good?
“We wanted—I wanted to look at the car. To see if it had damage on it. Mike said Scott didn’t want to work on the car, but I overheard the two of you talking about how much time Scott’s been spending out here. So I thought…I’m just trying to figure out where Chloe is.”
“What did you see when you looked at the car?” She lifts her chin as she continues. “Did you see anything?”
“Nothing,” Mike says. “I mean, Scott’s still restoring it, but the fender on the passenger side looks great. No damage. Nothing.”
“And does that satisfy you, Hunter?” she asks. “Do you now believe that Scott isn’t the guy who ran you off the road?”
I’m about to step onto a tightrope, and I’m not sure there’s a net to catch me.
“I guess I’m just wondering…”
“Easy, dude,” Basher whispers. “Chill.”
“I’m just wondering if Scott found the journal and read it when he went to fix the wall. Maybe he saw what Chloe wrote.”
“You found it when you broke into our house,” Laura says.
“But there were pages missing, especially at the end,” I say. “Maybe Scott tore them out to cover up what happened. Maybe he learned what was really going on with Chloe.” I swallow hard and say it. “Maybe he found out Chloe was pregnant.”
Laura’s shaking her head. “She wasn’t pregnant.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
Laura shakes her head with more force. “Because I’m her damn mother. And I helped her dress for homecoming. And I know what time of the month it was. She wasn’t pregnant. You claim to know Chloe so well. You know she was a perfectionist. We saw the journal. She said she ripped out pages when she didn’t like the writing.”
“Yeah, I know. But maybe there was stuff about Ron. Maybe she named him. And when Scott went to fix the hole, he found it. And read it.” I take a step forward. I feel like I’m on firmer ground now. “Laura, what would Scott do if he found out someone was sexually harassing his daughter? Would he just let it go?”
Basher’s staring back at me, his eyes as big around as grapefruits. But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move a muscle.
“Or would he confront the person?” I ask. “Would he go after the guy?”
“He’d absolutely have the right to,” Laura says.
“Yes, he would.”
“So is that what you think he did?” Laura asks. “You think Scott found the journal, read about Hartman, and went off to the school to confront him? And instead of confronting Ron Hartman, he decided to run you and Chloe off the road? Does that make any sense?”
When she says it like that, it doesn’t. It’s like being in school when I give a wrong answer.
“Unless…” Mike says next to me.
His voice makes me jump. He hasn’t said much yet, but…
“Unless he didn’t know what Hartman’s car looked like. And he was so pissed off he went flying up to the school, and he saw Chloe’s car leaving…and he just thought…or assumed…if he was really pissed off.”
I jump in and finish where Basher leaves off. “He’d just read the journal, so maybe he assumed it was Chloe and Ron in the car going off somewhere. To do who knows what. And he wanted to stop them and…”
Laura starts to move.
I turn back to her.
She has a gun out, and it’s leveled right at Mike and me.
“I don’t think I can let you boys leave,” she says.
Eighty-Two
The black metal of the barrel shines under the bright garage lights.
Mike and I lift our hands, and as he does, Mike says, “Laura, you don’t have to do this. We don’t really know what happened.”
She turns to me. “Have you shared this theory with anyone else?”
“No, I haven’t. We literally just figured it out.”
“We’re moving, you know,” she says. “Too many bad memories here. Too many good memories as well. Everywhere we turn we’re reminded of Chloe. It’s too much. Scott went to talk to his boss today about a transfer. People will understand. They’ll think it was just too painful to stay—and that’s true. Just not for the exact reasons people think.”
Laura starts walking down the driver’s side of the Mustang, the gun in front of her. Mike and I shuffle down the passenger side, keeping the car between us.
“We won’t tell,” Mike says.
“Tell what?” she asks.
“Whatever happened,” Mike says. “Shit, I don’t even know what happened, Laura. But we won’t say anything. I promise.”
She stops directly across from us, raising the gun above the roof of the car. “A man has to protect his family. That’s what a man does. If someone threatens his family, if someone harasses his daughter, he has to do something about it. And if things go too far when he protects that family, then he has to clean up that mess, too.”
“Did you do something to Chloe?” I ask. “Were you the one driving the car that night?”
She closes her eyes. I’d charge her, but the distance is too great. When she opens them again, she says, “I wasn’t, but I might as well have been. Whatever Scott did, he did for me. And for Chloe. He was trying to protect us, but he drove too fast. His emotions got the better of him. That happens, right? He didn’t tell me the truth right away because he wanted to protect me. She’s our only child, one we tried so hard to have.”
“But it was an accident then,” Basher says. “Why not just tell the cops?”
“Scott thought it was better if I believed Chloe had disappeared or been kidnapped than to think her own…”
Her eyes glisten with tears under the overhead lights. She uses her free hand to wipe them away.
“Scott planned to tell me someday when everything calmed down. When Chloe was presumed dead. But he couldn’t wait once Hartman got arrested. You see, Scott was afraid Hartman would identify his car and then it would all come out. That’s why he tore out the pages of the journal that mentioned Hartman. If people saw those, they might put it together that Scott went after him the night of homecoming. But he couldn’t bear to get rid of the whole journal. Not when Chloe was gone. We wanted to cling to anything that belonged to her. And Scott wanted me to hear it from him and not the police. That’s why he told me earlier today.” She closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. “Let me tell you boys something. I was angry. Very, very angry. This is my child we’re talking about. My only child.”
“We hear you,” Mike says.
“And it’s been very hard for me to learn what happened. To accept Scott’s role in it. I came very close to calling the police myself. And he knows it. In fact, he told me I could if I wanted to.” She sniffles. “But I’ve had to accept it. And understand. He’s my husband. He’s my life, too. It was an accident. Just an accident. We’ve got a long road to travel together. But I couldn’t lose everything. Not my husband on top of my daughter. Do you know how much worse it is for Scott? He has to live with what he did to Chloe for the rest of his life. Causing her death was an accident. And he also has to live with what he did to that boy who made the movie.”
“Why did he do that?” I say, my words just above a whisper. “Why would he hurt Daniel? That movie pointed the finger at Ron. Not Scott.”
“Scott knew that if the police talked to Ron, they’d find out there was another car,” Laura says. “That boy, Daniel, kept calling here, trying to interview us. He wouldn’t stop looking, and it would eventually lead to Scott. So Scott had to silence him.”
“He needs to go to prison for all of this,” I say.
“This has been worse than prison, knowing he caused his daughter’s death.”
“Where is Chloe? Where’s her body?”
“We’ll take Chloe with us,” she says. Her eyes dart to the corner of the garage. “Don’t worry. We’re a family. We’ll always be together, like we are now.”
My eyes follow Laura’s to the rectangular object I’d seen earlier. I can hear it humming. One of those giant freezers.
“Oh, God,” I say.
Basher moves. He grabs a metal gas can from the floor and throws it over the Mustang at Laura. It flies right at her head, and she ducks and fires the gun at the same time.
Eighty-Three
Mike grunts as I drop to the floor.
My face presses against the smooth cement. Mike falls to the floor next to me, moaning in pain. I can see underneath the car to the other side. Laura is on the floor, too.
The gun is out of her hand. It slid under the car about two feet, leaving it closer to her but not too far from me.
I scuttle crablike, slipping my body under the car. My left hand extends as far as it will go, reaching for the gun. Laura grabs for it from the other side, but I get it first.
Laura’s hand clamps over mine. I try to pull away, but she’s surprisingly strong. I pull and pull and can’t seem to shake her. Laura uses her free hand to start clawing at my face. Her nails rake against my skin like talons, and I tuck my head down to protect my eyes. Blood trickles down my face.
I almost let go. Almost lose my grip.
She’ll use the gun. I know.
She’ll use it again.
Footsteps slap against the concrete floor of the garage. Shoes move toward Laura.
Is it Basher, up off the ground? They’re not his shoes, not his legs.
“Stop it. Stop it.”
It’s Scott. He’s down on the floor now, wrapping his hands around her waist and pulling her back. My hand comes free, and I slide out from under the car, holding the gun.
I’ve never held one before. It’s heavy. Dense. I’m afraid if I move, even the tiniest bit, it will go off.
But I have to go to Mike. He’s on his back. His left hand is clamped against his right bicep, which is gushing blood. He’s been shot. He looks ghostly pale, and I set the gun carefully on the floor next to him, removing my jacket and using it as a tourniquet.
“My right arm,” he says, his voice faint. “I won’t be able to throw. For the college recruiters…”
“Maybe you’ll throw better,” I say.
One side of his mouth goes up, but his eyelids flutter and then close. I take out my phone to call 911.
“Think about this, Hunter,” Scott says from the other side of the car. He has Laura on her feet, his arm around her. Her head is slumped against his shoulder, her eyes closed.
“I have to call them. He’s losing too much blood.”
“I know, Hunter,” Scott says. “But we’re going to leave. Laura and I. Okay? And you need to just forget all of this. You don’t understand it.”
“I understand it. I really do.”
Scott starts toward me. “Just listen, Hunter—”
But Laura places her hand on Scott’s arm. “Stop,” she says. “Scott. Just stop. It’s over, okay? Just…I’m so damn tired…”
Laura starts to sob. She collapses or faints, and Scott eases her out of sight behind the car. Before I dial, a siren sounds in the distance, drawing closer and closer.
Had a neighbor heard the shot and called for help?
I pick up the gun and stand, walking around the car and over to the corner where the freezer sits. It’s not locked. Anyone could open it. Scott must have been doing that very same thing on those lonely, guilt-filled nights when he came out here, pretending to work on a car or a table or a lamp.
“Don’t look in there, Hunter,” Scott says. “You don’t want to.”
But I do.
I have to.
My free hand lifts the lid. Cold billows out, puffing around my head.
And I see Chloe. One more time.
The blue dress. The bloodstain…
And I’m back in the car. On that night.
I’m not imagining. I’m remembering.
I push the airbag down, out of my face, and wipe blood out of my eyes.
On my right. Chloe.
She’s slumped over, still restrained by the seat belt.
Blood on her face. Blood on the dress.
Broken glass on her body.
I reach over. Touch her. She’s not moving. Not breathing.
“Chloe! Chloe!”
And I’m alone. Very alone.
“I’ll get help… I’ll get help…”
Someone opens the passenger door.
A voice. Scott’s voice: “Oh, God. Oh, God. What have I done?”
I push open my door. I can’t find my phone.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
It’s getting black. I’m fading…
And that’s where my memory ends.
I don’t know how long I stand at the freezer, staring at Chloe one last time, before the police come in and pull me away.
The Final Video
The camera and tripod are ready in my bedroom. For the last time.
It’s been a few weeks since everything happened. I’m not sure I’ve processed it all, but I’m trying. I’m seeing the therapist Dad found. And I’m back in school and spending time with my friends when I feel up to it.
But I don’t know if anything will ever really feel normal again. Maybe it shouldn’t.
And I don’t want to make any more videos. I just need to say one last thing.
The red light glows.
I may not be ready, but I start talking anyway. And I know I’m going to share this one:
“I don’t think I need to tell you my name by this point. You know who I am, and you’ve read about me. A lot of people have even been sending me messages telling me how sorry they are about Chloe. And Daniel. And part of what I want to say here is I’m really grateful for all that.”
