Lost Boy - Ker Dukey Page 0,32

“The Willis guy—he kidnapped his son Jack.”

Jack.

I hate Willis’s name on her tongue. She should never have to speak his name, know what he did—know the evil inside him. She turns her laptop to show the news article she’s been looking at.

Amber Alert

Missing

Jack Peters

Age: 8 years old

Height: 4’1

Weight: 68 LBS

Hair: Brown

Eyes: Green

Missing from Portland, TN

Call 1-800-090-FIND

Believed to be in serious danger.

Suspected kidnapping.

Suspect highly dangerous. If seen, do not approach.

“If this is him, Lizzy, you need to tell me everything.” There’s a desperate plea in her voice.

Filling a glass with water, I take the seat opposite her, an ache coursing through me.

“I was there. Willis…” Closing my eyes, I try again. “Willis killed our mothers, then stole my best friend right from in front of me.” I want to swallow the words back as soon as they leave my lips, but also feel like I can take a breath that isn’t crippling.

“Your mom…” she whispers. My mind races with the memory of the last time I saw her.

Crimson liquid all around her. “Mama?”

“She was murdered?” God, it’s painful. Still, after all these years, her memory cuts into me, bleeding me out.

“Damn, Liz, you’ve never spoken about your past before.” She closes her laptop, swiping away a tear. I’ve never told her because we weren’t supposed to be friends. We were thrown together out of circumstance. It made sense to share an apartment and half the rent, but that’s all it was.

“It’s not something I advertise.” I half-laugh, but there’s no humor there, just sadness. Sipping the water, I watch her as she watches me.

“I can stay home tonight. We can have a girl’s night?” she offers.

I don’t do girl’s nights. “No,” I shudder internally. “I’ll be fine. I just want to sleep some more.”

“Thank you for telling me. I know it wasn’t easy for you. God, Liz, do you really think this is him?”

Exhaling, I shrug. “Cops say Lee fell.”

“And the girl from your class?”

“Could be a coincidence,” I say, not believing my own words, but not wanting her to be afraid to be around me. I’ve never allowed myself to admit it, but I need her. I think back to the detective mentioning another woman. “Can I borrow your laptop?”

“Of course.” She pushes it toward me, then stands and walks around behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “This shit is why you call out for him in your sleep. I wish you had told me sooner—helped me understand.”

Our tainted history haunts my waking hours as well. Echoes of the pain, the torment, my mother's cries, my silent sorrow. How I wished I could go back and change it all. How I wish I’d never let go of Jack’s hand. “I know. I’m sorry. It was a long time ago, but it’s still painful to think about let alone tell people.” I stroke at the scars on my palms.

“I’m not people, Liz. I’m your best friend,” she murmurs. She’s right, and maybe that’s why it’s so hard to tell her, because in order to allow her to be my best friend, I have to let a piece of Jack go.

“I know. Thank you for sticking by me. I know I’m not easy.”

“Well,…” she winks, “we can’t both be.” I appreciate her lightening the mood even at her own expense. “You want me to ring Jeff and tell him you’re not coming in today?”

Smiling, I shake my head. “No. I want to work. It helps keep me busy.”

Thirteen

Work hours have never gone so slow. The shop is dead, and despite telling Charlotte the opposite, I don’t want to be here. My thoughts keep going back to the search results for suspicious deaths in the past few months. A woman at her own home was found with stab wounds, but that’s all I could uncover. Is she the street worker, or is there more than one?

“Your admirer is back.” Jeff rolls his eyes and points with the pen he’s using to do the crossword from yesterday’s paper. He had offered to give both Charlotte and I a day off after what happened, but insisted he would need to deduct from our wages to pay someone else to cover our shifts if we did. Grade A asshole.

“How do you know about him?” I wipe down the counter, my heart racing.

“Who doesn’t? He’s a weirdo who comes in looking for you.”

I bark out a laugh. “You’re calling someone weird?”

“What the hell does that mean?” he grumbles.

Energy races up my spine and tingles over