Page 32 of The Missing Half

“I…” I turn to look at her, my ragged breathing beginning to slow. I imagine McLean following Jenna to her house, slinking in the shadows of the trees in her yard, stepping quietly to her bedroom window. “I—I’m sorry.”

She sighs. “Let’s just get out of here before he comes outside.”

It’s past midnight now, the sky black. As we drive, the stoplights blur to streaks of red and green. My adrenaline slowly fades, leaving shame in its wake. Jenna trusted me to do this with her, and all I’ve done is put her at risk by pissing off a dangerous man. For the millionth time in my life, I wish I were a different kind of person. A better kind.

When I meet people who’ve heard of Kasey, I always get the feeling that they think seven years is enough time to have moved on.Losing her is sad, of course, a tragedy, they’re so sorry for my loss. But before I can even finish thanking them, they’ve already switched topics.So, what do you do now?they ask with amnesiac smiles. These are the people who don’t know what real loss is, don’t understand how it worms into your brain and infects your blood. They wouldn’t understand how sometimes, even now, I pick up my phone to call Kasey, and when I remember, it feels like a hole being blown through my chest. They wouldn’t understand how nighttime turns every stranger into a stalker, a predator, someone to both fear and despise. Even now, I’m a hornet’s nest of anxiety, a knife’s slash of pain.

Jenna and I have been driving in silence for so long that when she speaks, it makes me jump. “Here we are.”

I look around and realize she’s pulling up to my apartment. “Right,” I say. “Thanks for the ride. And listen, Jenna. I really am sorry—”

She holds up a hand. “I know.”

I grab my bag, but don’t get out. “So, do you think what McLean said about—”

“Hey, Nic. I know we have a lot to talk about, but I’m exhausted. Can we just take a beat and go over it in the morning? Tomorrow’s Sunday. You’re not working, right?”

How could she possibly want to wait that long? Questions and suspicions are pinging so violently around my mind, I feel electric. “Sure,” I say. “Fine.”

I open the truck door. It’s isolated out here, in the southeast corner of town. Beyond my apartment complex is nothing but fields. Moonlight glints off a nearby power line tower. Overhead is a star-studded night sky.

I’m closing the door behind me when I stop, turn to face her. “Just one thing.”

Jenna sighs, but nods.

“Do you remember the way Wyler talked about McLean yesterday? He said, like,He’s the kind of guy who gets heatedand slaps a woman when he thinks she’s out of line.” I’m mimicking Wyler’s low voice. “He doesn’t think this stuff up in advance, he just acts.”

“Yeah…” she says.

“That was Wyler’s big reveal about why McLean wasn’t ‘their guy.’ But McLean knew who I was back there. He knew what we were doing. And he let us. He toyed with us a little, then dropped a bomb and laughed when we reacted.”

“I know,” Jenna says. “I thought about that too.”

The implication swirls in the silence around us: Steve McLean is way savvier than the police are giving him credit for.

Chapter Seventeen

Pam is sitting at the front desk of the animal shelter when Jenna and I walk in the next morning.

“Nic? What’re you doing here? You’re not on the schedule today, are you?” Her obvious horror at the idea is almost laughable.

“I’m just visiting,” I say. “I wanted to bring my friend.”

The first thing I did when I woke up this morning was call Jenna. I’d given her the time she’d asked for, but still, it seemed she wasn’t quite ready.

“Hang on,” she said. “Lemme wake up first. I need coffee. And let’s do this in person, okay? I’ll come pick you up and we can go somewhere. Is there anywhere that makes you—I don’t know—calm? We have a lot to talk about, and I’d prefer to do it with nice, normal Nic, not spit-in-a-bad-man’s-face Nic.”

The first thing that popped into my head was Banksy.

“I see,” Pam says, her smile tight. “Welcome.”

“We’ll just head to the cat room,” I say. “Always good to see you, Pam.”

Five minutes later, I’ve taken Banksy out of his cage and brought him to the room designated for interacting with the cats, which is mercifully empty. Jenna and I sit on the floor, our backs againstadjacent walls, our legs out in front of us. The tips of our shoes almost touch.

“I can see why you like him,” Jenna says with a nod at Banksy. “He’s just like you.” Banksy hasn’t quite taken to Jenna and sits curled in the far corner. His crooked tail is wrapped around his body, and his one eye glares lazily in her direction. “Are you thinking about adopting him?”

I haven’t been able to articulate that plan yet, not even to myself. After all, I couldn’t take care of my first cat, so why would I think this one would be any different? Still, every time I walk through the doors of the shelter, my eyes find the sign on the far wall:Looking to Adopt? Look No Further!and I feel a little ache of longing.

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