If he were shouting and hollering at me, it would be easy to get mad and kick his ass out. But he’s not. He’s one hundred percent cool, calm, and collected. He really wants this—I can feel it radiating off him like electricity. And I do owe him a year. I don’t break very often, but when I do it’s always been him I’ve turned to. He’s scraped me off the floor when it’s counted. I take off my jacket and throw it on the couch, sitting down beside him. He passes me his regular acoustic guitar. There aren’t many people Cole Rexford would trust with his baby. I run my fingers up and down the strings, playing the opening to “Creep” by Radiohead. Cole starts laughing.

  “I take it you think my tactics are underhanded?” he asks.

  “Oh, no.” I shake my head, pouting. “I think you’re Mary Fucking Teresa.” I keep on playing, humming the melody.

  “They said you can write everything. No outside interference,” Cole tells me. “And imagine the fucking women, Reid. Jesus. You’ve been stuffed away up here in your tower like motherfucking Rapunzel, afraid to let her hair down for too long. You need to get some tail.”

  This is not the first time I’ve heard this from Cole. He’s convinced that if I start thinking with my dick, serving my community will no longer matter to me. I’ll be more like him. And Cole Rexford is definitely more interested in fucking the community than serving it. He has no clue what it means to be in love with another human being. I replace the line I wish I was special that Thom Yorke usually sings with, “I don’t wanna fuck tail,” swiftly followed by, “you’re such a creep. You’re a weirdo.”

  Cole exhales sharply, throwing his feet up on my coffee table. “Is this about her again? That girl, Iris?” I may or may not have told him about her after a gig one night, when some drunk chick with fake tits was trying to stick her hand down the front of my jeans. I never told him she changed her name, though. Probably better that way.

  “This isn’t about Iris. This is about what I think I should be doing with my life, Cole. I want to help people.”

  He looks at me sideways, one brown eye narrowing into a slit. “You want to stop the bad shit from happening, then. Because of what happened to you when you were a kid.”

  I just close my eyes, my fingers now aimlessly picking out chords I like the sound of.

  “But you can’t stop it. You have to know that, right? People do awful shit to each other every day of the week. You’re not some fucking superhero from one of your comics, dude. Bad stuff will still happen in this city, regardless of whether you’re a cop or you’re the guy singing on the radio.”

  I just smile. I smile because he doesn’t get it. “I know that, Cole.”

  “Then will you promise me? And no fucking around this time, okay? Promise me you’re gonna think about it. One year, Luke. One year of your life. That’s all I’m asking.”

  I nod my head in time to the rhythm I’m plucking out, eyes still closed, thinking. “All right, man. All right. I promise I’ll think about it.”

  Twenty-One

  Outed

  Morgan takes the news of Tate’s disappearance pretty badly—there are a lot of tears and swearing. Her mom lets me take her home—unexpected—but only after she’s signed a contract. A contract Mr. and Mrs. Kepler have actually had notarized by a lawyer, stating that she’ll attend counseling and rehabilitation sessions at Seabrook House without fail. If she misses one appointment, she’ll no longer be allowed to stay in school, and she’ll have to go back to full-time rehab.

  I sit in between Noah and Morgan on the cab ride back to Columbia, and the three of us remain utterly silent. I feel sick. I should be worrying about wherever the hell Tate is, but I’m not. I’m worrying about Noah’s hand on my leg and how much I wish it was Luke’s. We arrive back at Columbia in time for me to drop her at her apartment before I leave for class, promising to come by as soon as I’m done. In truth I’m seconds away from skipping; it would mean spending more time with Morgan and making sure she’s okay, and it would also mean avoiding Noah. And I want to avoid Noah like I want to avoid the plague. It feels shitty, but I can’t help it. My mind keeps going back to the moment outside Woodhull hospital where Luke asked me if I wanted him to stay, and I paused. I should have told him to stay. I should have told him I did need him, because I do. It makes no sense that I should feel that way. It will undoubtedly only end up with me getting hurt, but there’s no denying it any longer.

  Skipping Media Law and Ethics isn’t an option, though—not after Professor Lang’s disappointed speech last time. Noah walks with me, hands thankfully to himself now. I’m almost glad when we arrive late—the auditorium is packed, which means we can’t even sit together. Our seats are about as far apart as they could be, in fact. As soon as the class commences, I’m relieved I made myself come. Lang’s in a fiery mood today.

  “The news is no longer folded sheets of paper that we buy should we happen to remember on our way to work. It’s alerts on our phones, pop-ups on our computer screens, interruptions to our favorite television shows. Global events are instantly reported mere seconds after occurring. With everything so immediate, so push of a button, so in our faces, we need to ask ourselves, how have the roles of journalists evolved in the wider world? What are their duties? Their responsibilities?”

  I can’t help but feel like Professor Lang’s gaze lingers on me a little too long. My suspicions are confirmed when he removes his glasses and polishes the lenses on his untucked shirt. “Perhaps you have some thoughts on this matter, Miss Patterson?”

  Curse him. He’s never called on me before. This is entirely because of what I said to him in his office the other week. All eyes are on me—a sensation instantly unpleasant and confronting. “I … I personally feel that there’s an onus on journalists to be truthful in their reporting. The truth has to be the most important thing, right?”

  “You’re asking me, or you’re telling me?”

  Fuck. I do not need this today. “I’m telling you.”

  Lang frowns, returning his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “Okay. So if we work to that principle—that the truth is the most important factor here—how does a journalist know fact from fiction when they’re required to report on something so quickly? Before someone else can jump in with both feet and beat them to the punch?”

  “I don’t know. I guess that’s where fact checkers come in.”

  “Fact checkers?”

  “Yes.”

  “This isn’t the seventies, Miss Patterson. Anyone with a smart phone and enough common sense to ask questions can do so freely. You request a fact checker at the New York Times and you’d be fired on the spot. Your job as a journalist is to be able to quickly and efficiently check the veracity of your information in person. If you need a week to comfortably confirm your sources before going to print or, indeed, to air, then you should perhaps go to the New Yorker and become a fact checker yourself.”

  The class titters at Lang’s remark. Why the hell am I being torn a new one? So far I’ve been invisible in this class, and I’ve liked it that way. But worse than being the center of attention right now, Lang is challenging me to defend my decisions. Decisions I’m sure he knows are very personal to me. “Then I’ll revise my statement,” I say. “The most important responsibility a journalist has is to report as judiciously as possible, including only information they believe to be true after verifying first the legitimacy of their information to the best of their ability. Journalists who choose to sensationalize the news for their own ratings, people who scavenge over the truth like it’s a goddamned buffet and they can take and leave whatever they decide without a thought or care for how their words affect people, that’s the kind of journalism that should be avoided at all costs.”

  The room is silent. Lang considers this for a moment, his lips pursed. “I agree. But it’s not always that easy, is it? Emotions often get in the way regardless of how hard a person may try to remain impartial.” He breaks his focus, a reprieve from the intensity of his stare, and takes a look at the rest of the student body. “I have an assignment for you, class, and you can thank Miss Patterson for the extra workload. I want each and every one of you to tell me the truth. Tell me a greater truth about an event that has shaped and formed you into who you are today. And I don’t want to hear anyone telling me such an event in their past does not exist, because that would be … wait for it … a lie. There’s always something. We all have one. But—” he breaks off when the class starts groaning. “But! I want you to tell that greater truth from someone else’s perspective, someone else who knows that terrible incident inside and out. This is where the problems begin, class. We hit brick walls when we start to borrow other people’s truths. Our experiences, our prejudices, our own personal beliefs all color the way we choose to pick over the buffet of truth, as Miss Patterson so eloquently worded it. So, in short, be creative. Be bold. Be subjective. Be whatever you need to be, but most importantly, be honest. I’ll expect all of your Pulitzer-worthy, vainglorious pieces to be turned in by the end of the week.”

  The lecture theater erupts into conversation and complaints as Lang begins packing his laptop and papers away, and I sit there trying to become invisible again. But I can’t. He’s asking me to do something, to put myself out there—but not only that. He’s asking me to involve someone else in the process, look at my situation through their eyes and report it back in stark black and white without allowing my tormented past to affect the work. It’s just not possible. It’s cruel, is what it is.

  I pack up my laptop, my desire to escape becoming more and more pressing by the second. I bolt before Noah has a chance to catch up with me. I don’t escape without him noticing, of course. My cell phone’s buzzing before I can clear the building.

  Noah: Everything okay? You just took off like a shot.

  Me: Yeah, sorry. I just don’t want to leave Morgan on her own for too long.

  Noah: Will I see you later?

  Me: Sure. I’ll let you know what’s happening.

  I’m almost at Margo’s when my phone vibrates again. I feel like shit, expecting the message to be from Noah again, wondering why I’m being so standoffish, but then I see Luke Reid’s name flashing up on my screen.

  Luke: Didn’t have time to look through our homework I’m afraid. Something came up, so no news. Will call later if I have anything.

  Me: No problem. Hope everything’s okay.

  I feel like an idiot as soon as I hit send. Hope everything’s okay? That’s bordering on the personal, essentially asking him what’s up. I don’t get to ask him what’s up. Not when I’ve been pushing him away at every available opportunity.

  I head inside Margo’s diner and order two extra-large coffees for me and Morgan. My hands are in heaven the whole journey back to 125th Street thanks to the scalding takeaway cups, but the rest of me is a frigid ice block. Worse still, it starts snowing halfway home and my hair is damp and ratty, running melted water down the back of my neck by the time Morgan lets me into her apartment.

  “Sheesh, you look like crap, Patterson.”

  “Thanks. You look terrific, yourself.” She actually does look pretty good, aside from the shadows under her eyes and the way she seems to flinch whenever she moves, like every joint in her body aches.

  “That for me?” She relieves me of one of the coffees. The wrong one. I snatch it back and thrust the other one out to her.

  “Trust me, you don’t want that one.”

  “Surprised you’ve got any teeth left, my friend.”

  “Your concern over my teeth is touching, Morgan, but you have more important things to worry about.” I’m referring to her future appointments at Seabrook, but my friend isn’t worried about that. She’s worried about a certain missing person.

  “I can’t handle it. I just know something bad’s happened to him, Avery. Tate and me, we didn’t exactly live in each other’s pockets but I know he would have called me by now.”

  “I know, babe. But I’m sure he’s fine. He will show up, y’know.”

  “But that’s the thing. We can’t know that.”

  “Luke said he was gonna ask around, find out if the police have learned anything about where he might be.”

  “Luke?” Morgan’s eyes widen, shining slightly. She looks like she might cry. “You spoke to Luke? I really need … I really need to thank him, Ave. God, he must think I’m a total fuck up. He came right away, you know. As soon as he knew I was sick—”

  She cuts herself off, apparently not knowing how to continue. Her words hit me like a fist in the gut. Of course Luke rushed to her. I can picture him getting the call. I can equally imagine him dropping absolutely everything he was doing because someone he faintly knew was asking for his help. He’s just that kind of person.

  “He doesn’t think you’re a fuck up, Morgan,” I tell her. “He’s just glad you’re okay.”

  “You’re crazy, you realize?” Morgan takes a deep drink from her coffee cup, shoulders rounded in. She’s still not her confident, loud self. I don’t think that Morgan’s gone forever, but she’ll certainly be on hiatus for a while. “He’s not the kind of guy you pass up, Avery. Not for any reason.”

  There’s a truth to that statement, but I don’t want to admit it. I don’t want to own up to the fact that I may have passed Luke up. And I sure as hell don’t want to admit that I may have missed whatever chance there may have been between us.

  “Have you forgotten about a certain Irishman you pushed me into hanging out with?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s not like you’ve sworn your undying love for the guy yet, right?”

  “No.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter. You and him, you don’t have anything. You don’t owe him anything.”

  “I think Noah would probably disagree with you on that one.” And I really do believe that. He’s been sweet. He’s been kind. He’s been patient. And I have been picturing myself with another man nearly every time we’ve been together. What kind of person does that make me?

  “You just need to tell him. He’ll understand.” Morgan sits herself down on her bed—I can see her hands are shaking. I want to wrap her up in cotton wool and make everything better for her, and here she is trying to fix my life. “Because you know, right, Ave? You know how Luke feels about you?”

  I just blink at her, not too sure how to proceed. I wasn’t ready to hear those words.

  “Avery, come on. You can’t—”

  My cell phone starts ringing, preventing her from telling me what it is I can’t do, though I know it in the pit of my stomach. I can’t ignore this forever. I can’t run and hide from absolutely everything in my life. I pull my cell phone from my bag, cringing when I see Noah’s name. His ears must be burning or something.

  “Is it him?” I don’t know which him Morgan’s referring to, but I think she figures it out pretty quickly from the look on my face. “Just tell him,” she says. “I promise you he’ll understand.”

  I take a deep breath, actually considering it. It’s not fair to keep letting him think something could happen between us. “Hey, Noah. I’m sorry, I—”

  “Is it true?”

  Guilt floods me, like I’ve been caught cheating or something. “Is what true?” I ask carefully.

  “Was your father a serial killer?”

  I taste blood.

  “Avery, did your dad murder a whole bunch of people in Wyoming? Is your name … is your name really Iris?”

  I can hear my heartbeat pounding relentlessly behind my eardrums. I don’t think I can breathe. “What?” My phone buzzes in my hand, a text message alert.

  “Look at the picture I’ve just sent you,” Noah says. “Look at it and tell me that’s some sick joke.”

  I look down at the phone, pulling up the message he’s just sent me, and my whole world ends. It’s me. Really me. Iris Breslin. The photo is of a crude, photocopied poster that bears my high school yearbook picture, under which my real name is printed in neat italics. Along the top of the poster, the words, “Way Out Of Wyoming killer’s daughter among you. Columbia’s very own murder spawn.”

  SamO’BradyJeffersonKyleAdamBrightSamO’BradyJeffersonKyleAdamBright.

  I drop my cell phone. Morgan’s moving then, picking up the phone, talking into it, touching me on the shoulder, saying something to me, but it all flows over me. I can’t … I can’t …

  “Someone knows,” I mutter.

  The world comes rushing back at me then, too loud, too bright, too overwhelming. Morgan’s talking into my cell phone. “…handled that better, asshole. No, she doesn’t want to speak to you. Just … no, just give her some time.” She hangs up, worry etched into her features. “I’m so sorry, Avery. I didn’t tell anyone, I swear.”

  “I know. I know. I think … I need …” I don’t know what I need. I don’t know what to do.

  Morgan hurries to the bag she brought home with her from the hospital and finds her own cell phone. “Oh god, Ave. I’ve got the same picture. It looks like there were people handing out flyers.”

  People were handing out flyers? People were handing out flyers. They’d done that at high school before the teachers put a stop to it, but the damage was already done. And now it’s happening here, too. I stagger to my feet and race across the room to bend over Morgan’s trashcan, reaching it just before I throw up. It takes a long time for my stomach muscles to cease clenching.

  “I’m going to find out who those bitches are and destroy them,” Morgan growls as she rubs her hand up and down my back. “Hang in there, okay? This will all get sorted out. Melissa, hey, where are these people?” I look up to find that she’s talking into her phone.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31