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When 17-year-old Arbor Hayes' best friend turns up alive after a mysterious six-month disappearance, she must piece together the fragments of her story to make sense of what happened. But as clues e...
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Friday night I can't sleep. I lie in bed as the wind whips tree branches against the side of the house. There's a flutter in my stomach, and the only thing I can think about is that Emma's coming home.
I rehearse what I'm going to do and say. Should I hug her when I see her, or will she not want to be touched? Should I act happy that she's safe, or hang back and follow her lead? There are too many questions in my head and not enough answers.
I grab my phone and glance at the time. It's after three. Guess it's not Friday anymore.
What I'd really like to do is text Smith, but he has an All Hands on Deck fundraiser in the morning and keeps his phone on do not disturb. Along with being president of the senior class, he's president of that, too. It's an anti-drug club he started sophomore year. Mr. Zhang oversees it.
When Smith's grandfather was in his prime, he abused every substance known to man, and his mom has shared the unstable stories of her childhood with her kids. Smith's terrified it's genetic; that the curse of addiction has been passed on to him.
Not that he goes around preaching about drinking and drug use. He doesn't have to. Our friends aren't into those things either. Sure, they might have the occasional beer at a party, but I've never seen any of them fall-down drunk, or high. Smith just offers to be the designated driver in case someone decides to have a drink.
That's it. Sleep isn't happening. I scrub a hand over my face and roll out of bed, drag myself down stairs, and fling open the fridge. I'm not really hungry, so I settle on a glass of milk.
Cooper lets out a series of desperate meows and circles my bare feet until I pour a serving into his bowl, too.
I flip on the TV and settle back on the couch, covering myself with a chenille blanket. There's nothing to watch except fitness infomercials and reruns of police dramas that are at least three decades old.
With my head snuggled in a throw pillow, the flicker from the TV lulls me to sleep, and the next thing I know, early-morning sunlight cuts through the curtains and warms my face. I rub my eyes and stretch.
"I'm surprised to see you up so early. This is Saturday morning, isn't it?" Mom leans against the doorway sipping coffee, her burgundy-painted lips set in a teasing smirk. Steam rises from her mug and the scent of hazelnut fills the room.
I yawn and push myself to a sitting position. "What time is it?"
"Almost seven." She takes another swallow. "What time did you come downstairs?"
"I don't know. Sometime after three?"
She doesn't need to ask what's on my mind. "When's she coming home?"
All I can do is shake my head.
"I have to meet with a client in an hour, but we could go shopping afterward, if you'd like. Or maybe out to lunch after your soccer game?"
