Page 111 of Elusion

Off the kitchen is a hallway. I check the rooms as I go. A princess bedspread covers the bed in the first. The book Cate always reads before bed waits for her on the pillow. Across the hall, a pair of gym shorts lies on the floor, a promising sign I am in Connor’s room. When I flip the light on, though, other than half of a torn-down LeBron James poster on the wall, nothing in here reminds me of Connor. Even after years of not playing lacrosse, I still have gear, but not even a gym bag or basketball sits in his room. I shut the door on my way out and move farther down the hall.

I almost bypass the next room completely when I see the door kicked in, a dent in the wood from a foot, and the frame is splintered where the lock and the latch ripped away. Being a masochist, I step in anyway. Blankets and pillows are scattered all over. The remnants of a blanket fort. My eyes sting as I realize he probably found Callie in there. Hiding. I pull the door as closed as possible, filing it away with all the other images to forget.

Other than a bathroom at the end of the hall, only one room remains. I walk into a disaster. A TV lies on the floor, ripped from the wall mount, the screen shattered. The bare mattress balances halfway off the box spring with a smear of red on one corner. Drawers hang open with the contents strewed over the floor. Glass covers the top of the dresser from a broken mirror with more blood in the shards.

An unsettling mess but no Connor and nowhere else to search.

Where the fuck is he?

I race through the house and out the front door, not bothering to shut it behind me. The moment I get outside, I gasp for air, a heaviness leaving my body. How anyone could stay in there for more than a few minutes confounds me. Memories haunt that house, and they carry more negative energy than any ghosts.

Still anxious, I pull out my phone to call Trey. He should have come because I have no clue where to look next. I start across the yard, my eyes landing on the three vehicles parked in front of the house. Callie’s car, Pete’s truck, my Jeep. Then it hits me—there should be four.

I shove my phone in my pocket and bolt to the Jeep.

All the places I’ve gone with Callie—Trey’s house, the bar, the school, the gas station—are a bust for Graham’s truck. I end up driving random streets and somehow even get lost. As I attempt to figure out where I am, a familiar Guns N’ Roses song starts playing. I slam the knob to kill the sound. All the stress of the night settles over me at once when I think of her. I throw the shifter into park, roll down the window for some air, and admit defeat.

The kid wins. Life wins. The fucking cold bitch of a universe wins.

A fast-asleep town and the soft hum of the idling engine leave everything too quiet. The lack of noise chips away at already-raw nerves more than some stupid song, so I slap the volume knob for music. If I drove something more akin to Benji’s piece-of-shit station wagon, I wouldn’t have this problem. That thing roars loud enough that we receive a warning of his arrival from several blocks away.

Risking wearing out the volume control, I push it off again and bring back the near silence. What are the chances Graham’s crappy blue pickup makes the same racket?

Worth a try at least.

Windows down, music off, I drive each street from one end to the other. On every turn, I slow down and listen for the faintest hint of an exhaust pipe. A sound that never comes. Soon, I start running out of roads to travel in the small town. One of the last ones takes me out of town to the middle of nothing, fields on all sides. I need both a new long-shot plan and a place to turn around.

Or neither.

My headlights land on Graham’s truck, the rust spot unmissable on the bumper. I jerk the steering wheel and slam on the brakes, skidding to a stop on the side of the gravel road.

Oh no, Connor.No. No. No.

Everything loses definition, a dreamlike fuzziness spreading. It makes me wonder how we ever know for sure when we’re dreaming. Some people claim they remain lucid and control what happens in their dreams. If that’s possible, I need to be one of those people right now. And this needs to be a nightmare I can navigate into a sweet, sweet dream.

I climb out, not taking my keys and leaving the door wide open. Over and over, I try swallowing. Between the lump in my throat and the dryness in my mouth, the whole affair proves futile. Each step is a little slower than the last, but I make it to the passenger side of the cab.

“Hey,” I say through the rolled-down window, my voice gravelly.

Connor stares blankly ahead on the other side.

After a successful swallow, I try again. “Hate to tell you this, but you overshot the waiting room by about fifty miles.” I shove my hands in my pockets and feel Pete’s truck keys. My fingertips drag over the jagged edges. Each scrape helps me believe more and more that what I’m experiencing is real.

He stays unmoving, the ignition next to his knee empty.

I check through his window off into the distance and then peer over my shoulder, doing the same, relieved to see the tracks dark and empty in both directions.

“Where are the keys, Con? We should probably move the truck before a train comes.”

He lifts his hand to examine the bandage wrapped around his knuckles. “It’s all my fault.”

At least he’s talking. I can work with that.

“Want to tell me what happened?”

His hand drops to his lap, and his gaze returns straight ahead. “Graham burned my basketball gear, so I trashed his room.”

The shattered mirror, the blood on the mattress, his hand. All the result of a boy at his breaking point. Now the pieces of the broken boy sit in front of me. I can only think of one person who knows how to put him back together, and it sure as hell isn’t me.

---