Front Cover

Title Page

Thank you for downloading this Sourcebooks eBook!

You are just one click away from…

• Being the first to hear about author happenings

• VIP deals and steals

• Exclusive giveaways

• Free bonus content

• Early access to interactive activities

• Sneak peeks at our newest titles

Happy reading!

CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

Books. Change. Lives.

Copyright

Copyright © 2022 by David Bell

Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks

Cover design by Katie Klimowicz

Cover photo © Claudia Lommel/Stocksy

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567–4410

(630) 961-3900

sourcebooks.com

Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the Library of Congress.

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Video #1

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Video #2

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Video #3

Sixty-Six

Sixty-Seven

Sixty-Eight

Sixty-Nine

Seventy

Seventy-One

Seventy-Two

Seventy-Three

Seventy-Four

Seventy-Five

Seventy-Six

Seventy-Seven

Seventy-Eight

Seventy-Nine

Eighty

Eighty-One

Eighty-Two

Eighty-Three

The Final Video

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Cover

For Molly

Video #1

I push the red record button.

I’ve never made a video like this, never tried to talk so openly to strangers. Icy sweat trickles down my back. I don’t know what to say or how to begin.

My face beams back at me, pale and thin from the time I spent in the hospital. I wear a small white bandage on my forehead, and I’m still feeling the effects of the concussion. Bright lights make me wince like a vampire exposed to the sun. If I move too quickly, I get nauseated, and my ears won’t stop ringing.

It’s time to talk. My phone is recording, and I can’t just sit here staring.

I almost turn it off—shut it down.

But I need to talk. I need to get this out.

“Hi,” I say, before realizing how simple that sounds. “My name is Hunter Gifford. I’m seventeen years old. A senior. I don’t know, maybe a lot of you already know who I am. I guess everything that happened has been in the news. That’s why I’ve stopped looking at my phone. Or talking to anybody. Or maybe they’ve stopped talking to me. I’m not really sure. But it has the same effect. Normally, I like to write things down to make sense of my life, but I haven’t been able to write since the accident. I just stare at the blank page and nothing comes out. So I decided to give this a try.”

I clear my throat and watch the red light. My face looks even whiter than when the video started…if that’s possible.

I remind myself to keep talking.

“I’m making this video because of all the things that happened that night. Because of the accident. And because my girlfriend, Chloe Summers, hasn’t been seen since then. A whole week ago. She was in the car that night, but no one has seen or heard from her since. I guess I should back up. I think she was in the car that night. She should have been. We’ve been dating. We went to homecoming together.” I try to swallow again, but I can’t produce any spit. “We went everywhere together. So I assume we left the dance together, but I don’t know for sure. Because of the accident, and what happened to my head…”

I see myself point to the bandage. My movements look awkward, but I don’t want to stop and start over. If I stop, I may not start again.

“I don’t remember the accident. I don’t remember much of that night. There are holes—blind spots I just can’t see. And that means I don’t know what caused the accident. Or what happened to Chloe. The police told me we drove into a tree in Dad’s Charger, and somehow I ended up at the hospital. The truth is, no one even knows how I got there. The police think a Good Samaritan found me dazed, wandering on the side of the road, and dropped me off. But Chloe was gone. Everything she had with her—her purse, her phone, even her shoes—was still in the car. But no Chloe. Gone without a trace. That’s what they keep saying on the news.”

My mouth is dry, and my lips look like cracked pottery, but I need to finish.

“So I’m hoping someone out there knows what happened. To Chloe, I mean. Everyone is worried. Her parents. Her friends. Her teachers. Me. If you know, just call the police. Or message me. Or tell a teacher or somebody. Because she’s somewhere, right? And she might be hurt. She might not remember anything just like I don’t. And she’s probably scared or confused or cold or completely out of her mind.”

The next part makes me nervous. I’ve thought about leaving it out. It’s really personal. Everyone thinks people my age just spill everything all over social media, but I’m not like that.

But it feels right. It does.

“And, Chloe, if you’re seeing this…well, I don’t know what happened that night. I don’t remember. I really don’t. But I remember that I love you.” I pause. I don’t even try to swallow because I can’t. “And I want to know where you are and that you’re safe. I just want to know that more than anything. Even if you don’t want to see me or date me, I need to know you’re safe.”

I take a deep breath. The red light blinks back at me.

I should probably smile. My whole life, people have told me to smile more. Smile when I have my picture taken, and smile when I meet a stranger. But I don’t like smiling that way because it feels weird and fake.

My skin feels itchy, my limbs stiff. I don’t want to smile, but I want to look concerned.

Worried. Or whatever I’m supposed to be.

But I don’t know how to do that, either, so I end my spiel.

“Just let me know, okay?”

I push the red button to stop recording.

One

The alarm rings, but I’m already awake.

I slept maybe an hour, and my eyes burn like they’ve been scoured with bleach.

I groan, a noise full of desperation, and pick up my phone to silence the screeching alarm. The concussion effects make it sound ten times louder.

My screensaver taunts me. A photo of Chloe and me taken on a day we spent at the lake during the summer. We’re both smiling, and a burst of sunlight pops over her right shoulder. Like she’s glowing. Her eyes are bright blue.

During the brief time I slept, her face filled my dreams. She was alive and by my side. I reached out to touch her, to take her hand. Contact with her skin always sent an electric jolt through my body, and every cell in me jangled with energy when we were close.

But then I woke up and landed in reality with a cold splash. I groan again. No words, sounds, or thoughts are enough to sum up everything that has gone wrong. Chloe is missing.

My head hurts, a constant reminder of the crash. I take in the familiar surroundings of my bedroom, the things that used to make me feel at home. A shelf full of science fiction and fantasy novels. The covers worn, the books well-read. A poster of the movie Dune—the original—that Mom bought years ago. A cactus Chloe gave me that she named Harriet after her favorite book, Harriet the Spy. A few of the soccer trophies and ribbons I still display.

My phone tempts me. I posted the video last night, and then checked the page about fifty times a minute.

Big mistake.

The number of views was nothing to write home about. But the comments…

You killed her.

You know the truth.

You’re a liar.

Memory loss. Right.

But I kept looking, hoping for the one person who might have posted something helpful—the one person with the missing piece of the puzzle. But it never came. I finally put down the phone around 4:00 a.m. and tried to sleep. I closed my eyes, but it didn’t help. Awake or asleep, I only see Chloe’s face, the wrecked car, the lonely spot by the woods on County Road 250. Chloe was there that night when the car crashed…wasn’t she?

Where is she now?

Water runs in the bathroom down the hall. My sister, Olivia, getting ready for school. I know where I have to go today. I just don’t know what lurks ahead.

The rumpled covers and the soft pillow tempt me to stay in bed, but if I do, I’ll only think about Chloe all day. I’d stare at photos and texts all day. I’d start to read the hateful comments again, the conspiracy theories and accusations. The stories claiming Chloe was taken into the woods by Satan worshippers. I know I’d give in to it all.

I’ve been hiding in my room for almost a week, ever since I came home from the hospital. The therapist said to go back to school, return to my normal life.

Routine is therapeutic, she told me.

I grab the jeans I threw over a chair last night. A shirt from the closet. Socks and shoes. I’ll give her advice a try, even though I don’t believe for one minute anything will be therapeutic. And nothing will ever make me feel normal again.

Two

In the kitchen, a bizarre sight greets me. Dad stands at the stove holding a beat-up wooden spoon, stirring something in a pan. Whatever it is appears to be smoking and smells like hot tar on a summer day. I gag.

Dad is dressed for work. Tan pants, olive green sweater with the sleeves pushed up. He smiles at me, but it’s forced. The way you’d smile at someone you feel sorry for.

“I’m making oatmeal,” he says. “I thought…well, this is what you eat in the morning. Right?”

“I usually have cereal.”

“Oh, I thought…not oatmeal. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Dad.”

“Do you want me to…” He points at the refrigerator. “I can make the cereal.”

“I can make cereal,” I say.

“Okay. I mean, if you’re sure. I just wanted to…”

Dad teaches history at the community college. He’s always reading something or grading papers. His words frequently trail off in the middle of sentences. People who’ve taken his class tell me it’s so inspiring how much he loves history, that when he lectures about some important topic like D-Day or the Civil Rights Movement, he goes on and on until one of the students reminds him the period is over.

When I ask if they’ve ever gone to his office hours, they say, “I’ve never done that. He’s not really the kind of professor you go talk to.”

I always want to tell them, He’s not that kind of dad, either.

Which is why the oatmeal is so weird. Dad last made breakfast…never. At most, he points to the coffee he brewed or the loaf of bread for toast before he rushes out the door for his way-too-early office hours.

He hands me the wooden spoon like it’s a fragile ancient artifact. “Here you go. If you put some cinnamon in there…the burning taste or whatever.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Since he’s made the effort, I grab a bowl, slide the pan off the burner, and scrape out some oatmeal. Dad just stands there by the table, holding his coffee mug like he has all the time in the world. Like a guy trying to show no sense of urgency. And utterly failing.

This is about me going back to school. I can feel it.

“I’m okay, Dad. I can handle it.”

“I know, I know. I don’t doubt that.” He takes a loud sip of his coffee. “It was on the news this morning that the latest search didn’t come up with anything. They’re not…not sure when they’ll do a big search again.”

“Are they giving up?” I ask.

“Not that,” he says. “It’s just…to get that many volunteers out.”

“People have short attention spans.”

Dad nods. He has as much faith in humanity as I do.

His overstuffed messenger bag and his laptop sit by the door. He taps his foot against the tile, shifts his weight.

Dad is almost fifty but still thin, not like most dads. He rides his bike on the weekends, rarely overeats. Once a month he sits in the backyard looking at the stars and smoking a cigar that smells worse than the burnt oatmeal. He must think about Mom on those nights, but I never ask.

“You see, Hunter, people can be…cruel. They can say things. You’ve been in the news, and some people always think the worst about the boyfriend when something like this happens.”

“I know, Dad.”

“I’m just saying…”

The spoonful of oatmeal nearly chokes me. It tastes scorched, like he stirred ashes into the pot as a seasoning. I don’t want to hurt his feelings but…

“I’m just saying that if you want to stay home today, or if you just don’t…I mean some kids get homeschooled. I can certainly help with that. And my colleagues on campus can help, too.”

Mom died of breast cancer a year and a half ago. Since then, Dad has pretty much had to do everything. He works a lot and pays the bills. He drove us around everywhere until I got my license. He tries in his own weird way to be both parents, even though it’s not his strong suit. Things are always a little awkward with him.

Tears form in my eyes. I stare at the gross oatmeal like it’s the most important thing in the world. Like black tar breakfast is my absolute favorite. I can’t look at him. Not now.

“It’s okay, Dad,” I say. “I’m ready. I need to do it sooner rather than later. Besides, it’s better than sitting around the house just…thinking.”

“And your head, it’s... Is it feeling better? The nausea?”

“No nausea,” I say. Unless I eat more oatmeal. “Just a little headache. It’s getting there.”

Dad nods. Maybe he even looks a little relieved. He wants me back in school, getting on with my life. And he hates having his routine disrupted.

He finishes his coffee and sets his mug on the counter with a little thump. “Well,” he says.

One of our awkward silences descends on us. He’s ready to go but doesn’t know how to leave.

And I don’t have anything else to say to him. As usual.

Olivia clomps down the stairs. She comes into the kitchen like a miniature hurricane, her phone clutched in her hands, her eyes and mouth wide.

“Oh my God, you guys,” she says. “Did you see this?”

Three

“See what?” Dad asks.

He looks like a poisonous snake has just curled up next to his foot. His son is a murder suspect, and he can’t handle any more bad news.

Olivia is holding her phone like it’s a holy book she’s about to read from. She’s fifteen and dressed in her usual outfit: combat boots, tight jeans, black T-shirt, flannel shirt tied around her waist. She has a new streak of color in her brown hair. Purple this time. Last week it was pink.

Dad is about to get blindsided. He would have told me not to do it. To keep my mouth shut and put my head down until everything blows over. As if it ever will…

“Hunter made a video,” Olivia says. “The quality is terrible. He should’ve picked a different background. It’s like some low-budget terrorist group made it.” She looks up from her phone. “You should have at least sat in front of your bookshelf. That would be interesting. Here you just look really pasty and pale. I mean I know you’re hurt and everything.”

“What video?” Dad asks, pushing away from the counter and moving toward Olivia.

“Why did you put this on YouTube and not TikTok?” Olivia asks.

“It’s not really right for TikTok—”

“Oh, I see,” Olivia says. “You shared this on the creative writing club channel. Ex Libris. Clever. Then people at school can see it and start to share.”

“What video?” Dad asks.

“You should at least do a TikTok telling everyone you posted on YouTube,” Olivia says. “Although the comments tell me people are seeing it already. Yikes.”

“What is this video?” Dad asks.

“It’s about Chloe,” Olivia says. “What else?” She hands her phone to Dad and pushes the play button for him because he pretty much can’t do anything on his phone without help.

My voice comes across the kitchen, tinny and small.

Hi, my name is Hunter Gifford…

Dad watches with an open mouth and Olivia turns to me. “Have you read the comments?”

“Some.”

Oliva makes a face. “Nasty. People are so rude. They get online and totally stop acting like human beings.” She breezes across the kitchen and peers into the pan on the stove. “Blech. Who made this?”

“Dad did,” I say, pushing away my bowl.

“Dad made it? Professor Benjamin Gifford cooked?”

We both look at him as the video ends. Dad takes a deep breath. He hands the phone back to Olivia like it’s a dead bird. He goes over to his bag and picks it up. Dad doesn’t like conflict, and he never tells us what he’s feeling. We just have to guess when he’s unhappy with us. And it’s pretty obvious he’s unhappy right now. All the goodwill that went into him trying to make breakfast and offering to homeschool me seems gone.

“This is a mistake, Hunter,” he says, his voice level. For him this comment amounts to the Gettysburg Address.

“I’m trying to find Chloe,” I say. The ache in my head gets more intense.

“Things just started to quiet down a little,” he says. “The crank calls. The dog crap on the porch. We just got some peace.”

“You said they’re done searching,” I say. “Maybe this will motivate them to try again.”

“It’s a mistake. The lawyer told you to keep a low profile when you left the hospital. And you posted that on a school channel?”

“Dad—”

“It’s not a school channel,” Olivia says. “It’s a club channel. Hunter and Chloe created it, and this livens it up a little. Usually, Ex Libris posts boring poetry readings. Snooze.”

“Oh, jeez,” Dad says, shaking his head. “Okay, I’m late. Are you sure you’re okay to drive to school?”

“The doctor said I could.”

“Okay. Just be safe.”

And then he goes to the door without looking back.

“What are you so pissed about, Dad?” Olivia asks.

“Livvy, it’s okay,” I say.

“No,” she says. “He’s trying to help find Chloe. He has the right to do that, even if his presentation is ass.”

Dad stops in the open doorway. He doesn’t go out and doesn’t come back in. He just stands there, a man caught in-between. He doesn’t look over his shoulder when he speaks. “The cops said to keep a low profile. There are a lot of raw emotions. People get…” He pauses and lifts his free hand to his forehead. “Hunter’s going back to school today and that…It’s going to be tough.”

“What if the video helps us find her?” Oliva asks, her voice rising.

Dad stands in the doorway a few moments longer. He looks like he’s going to say something but stops. Then he says, “Just be careful driving, okay? And if you don’t feel well, go tell the nurse.”

And he’s out the door and off to work.

Olivia throws her hands in the air in an overly theatrical gesture. She wants me to be just as outraged. Which I am, in a way, but I’m also trying to understand. Dad doesn’t like talking about things. He doesn’t like emotions being on display.

As Chloe used to say, “The apple doesn’t fall far.”

Used to say? No. Says. Chloe says that about me.

“It’s okay, Livvy. Maybe I shouldn’t have made it. Maybe it’s just going to make things worse. All the things people will say…all the things they’re posting.”

Oliva stares at me with her mouth wide open, her braces gleaming beneath the kitchen light.

“What people say? What people say? Is what people say or post worse than the fact that nobody knows where Chloe is? Or people harassing us by smearing dog shit on the porch? Or knocking over the trash cans? Come on, Hunter. Think. Is that stuff worse?” She stomps off, but as she goes up the stairs, her voice floats back to me over the sound of her heavy steps. “I think it’s beautiful how much you love Chloe, Hunter. I really do.”

And she’s right. I do love Chloe.

And I love my lunatic sister, too.

Four

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

Enjoyed this preview? ❤️ Do not stop here!

Read the complete book free online → 🔗

Continue reading now on BooksBarbecue and discover every page!

Love reading? Bookmark BooksBarbecue.com for more amazing books!

Happy Reading!