Page 10 of We Are All Guilty Here

“We don’t know,” Emmy said, because that was the God’s honest truth. “When I saw Madison, she was holding her phone. Can Paul track it?”

“What?”

“You told me that Paul had a tracker or something on her phone, right? That he wouldn’t let you use it?”

“Y-yes,” Hannah stuttered. She knew this was bad. “He can—maybe he can—”

Hannah didn’t finish the sentence. She ran back toward the parking lot. Davey looked at Emmy over his mother’s shoulder. His eyes were wide. He’d absorbed Hannah’s panic.

So had Emmy.

“Steady.” Gerald pressed his hand to the small of her back.“The way you help her is to keep your head down and do your job.”

Emmy nodded, but it was so hard.

“Tell me about Madison’s phone.”

Emmy made herself look away from Hannah. She closed her eyes, trying to summon the memory of the phone Madison had been holding. The sweltering heat. The stink of sweat and beer. Spotting Madison under the tree. Getting the idea that now was the time to make Hannah’s case.

Madison was in pink ballet flats that were scuffed green from the grass. Lips pursed in thought. White shorts too tight. Light blue North Falls Choral Club T-shirt stuck to her chest. Antsy, irritated. Had she looked worried? Her skin was bright pink. Emmy had walked toward the girl, silently lecturing herself not to start out with a negative about getting sunburned, then she’d stupidly told Madison to drink more water.

“Okay,” she told her father, “It was an iPhone. White case with flower stickers on the back. The same one she always has.”

“What time was it?”

“I saw her twice. The first time was around eight fifteen, eight thirty. She was standing under the oak tree. I went to find her because I thought I could help with—” Emmy knew her father wasn’t asking about the strained relationship. “Madison seemed annoyed that I was talking to her. Not the usual annoyed, more like she had somewhere else to be. She said that she’d told Cheyenne that she’d meet her at the SnoBall stand ten minutes ago. But there’s no SnoBall stand.”

“And no Cheyenne?”

“No. I haven’t seen her all day. She’s usually with Madison.”

“And the second time?” Gerald asked.

“It was about ten minutes before the fireworks started. I was walking up the hill and saw Madison standing by the bleachers. I think she wanted to talk to me. I brushed her off. I went to the bathroom. I looked for her after the fireworks, but I couldn’t find her.”

Gerald studied her with his piercing blue eyes. “Did she have anything else on her? Sunglasses? A purse?”

“Nothing,” Emmy said. “Hannah told me she only carries apurse when she’s on her period. But there was a bulge in the front pocket of her shorts. Not a tampon or lip gloss. It was bigger. Maybe a Ziploc bag with snacks or something.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s look at the bike.”

Gerald took the flashlight. He kept his hand on her back as they walked the longest distance of Emmy’s life. Her heart felt like it was churning inside of her chest. She fought to keep the tears from falling. Her body was registering the horribleness of the situation before her mind would let her go there.

Cheyenne’s bike had been thrown instead of dropped. The handlebars had turned backward. One of the grips dug into the earth. The bike had slid several feet before hitting the trunk of a tree. The pine straw was furrowed, the soil gouged. The bike had been thrown with force. Some of the bark had chipped off the base of the pine.

An adult had done this. Probably a man.

Emmy held her breath as Gerald trailed the light along the vivid blue frame, the colorful spokes, the pedals, the handlebars. The chain was broken. The back wheel was bent. The tire was flat. He let the flashlight beam crawl across the area. To the right. To the left. Her heart flinched at the sight of a phone approximately five feet from the bike’s rear tire. White case. Flower stickers on the back. iPhone. The screen was fractured into pieces.

Gerald pivoted the light a few feet past the phone. “See?”

Emmy saw. The earth was saturated, dark liquid pooling the same way oil had pooled under Lance Culpepper’s Miata.

Except this was not oil.

It was blood.

“Okay,” Gerald said. “We’ve got a kidnapping.”

---