“I do,” Keith says, regaining his balance and standing taller. “I know who’s singing.”
Jake doesn’t have a response to that.
“It’s them,” Keith says, his gray eyes moist. “The ones that took her.”
Jake turns his eyes back to the orchard. “Who? I don’t see anyone, sir.”
“I don’t see them either. But I hear them.” He laughs, but there’s no hilarity there. It’s sad, defeated. “You don’t believe me, I know, but I heard them. Heard them that day like I hear them now.” Keith’s swollen eyes leak tears as they scrutinize Jake—as they dare him to contradict his assessment. And then he blows out a puff of air in disgust. The sour smell of yeast and vomit lingers between them. “Who cares what you think? Who are you anyway?”
Jake knows it’s the alcohol talking, but still this man’s hatred of him tears at his chest. Scratches at the hope there.
“It’s Jake. I’m Jake.”
Keith pushes him off and turns back to the orchard. “I know who you are, kid. You and your dad.” Keith sinks to the ground, crosses his legs like he’s a first grader and it’s magic circle time. “And now you’re taking my little girl. Taking her away. Like them. Like they took Hannah.”
Jake can’t help it. Compassion is who he is; it’s who he was raised to be. He knows he risks further rejection, but he sinks down next to his girlfriend’s dad anyway.
“She’d never let that happen, sir. She loves you. More than anything.”
Keith folds in on himself, curling into a ball of terry cloth. He rolls to his side, his knees drawn up, his arms wrapping his body.
“Not more than anything,” he says.
17
Brielle
Saturday’s turning into a day of double duty for me. Between classes at Miss Macy’s and our new program at the community center, I’m exhausted. The nightmares don’t help. I find myself scanning all my students’ faces to see if anyone resembles the girl from the marble hallway. I look for her on the street and at the supermarket. Yesterday I terrified a poor old man having lunch with his granddaughter. I’d do anything for a really good, dreamless nap.
Since that doesn’t seem possible, I’ve been trying to pay attention to the scene that captures me when I sleep. I try to let my eyes wander, try to pick up anything that tells me what to do with what I’m seeing. So far I’ve not been able to see anything beyond the girl’s own gaze, but I’m determined. If figuring this dream out is the only way to get rid of it, I have to keep trying. Canaan did check Henry’s place for me. He’s been there several times now, to the city, to the townhouse Henry owns. The old man’s there, he says, but he swears Javan’s nowhere to be found.
“Dad, I’m home.” The cool linoleum of the kitchen floor soothes my tired toes. I tug open the fridge and feel unexpectedly violent. A wall of amber-colored beer bottles separate me from the pitcher of filtered water behind. I shove them aside and free the pitcher.
“Seriously, Dad. This is ridiculous. You stocking up for the apocalypse?”
When I kick the door shut with my sweaty foot, I see my father. He’s leaning against the archway separating the kitchen from the living room.
“Am I out of beer? Can you pick me up a six-pack?” Each word carries the hint of a slur, and sick runs down his shirt. Speckles of it fleck his beard.
“Really, Dad?” I say, shaking the pitcher at him. “Really?”
He just stares at me, his eyes on my wrist. I plop the pitcher down and yank the halo off, shoving it into my back pocket. Dad pushes past me and grabs a half-empty beer from the counter.
“You really think you need another one?”
“It’s Saturday, all right?” he says, swatting at the air like a petulant child.
“Saturday is not synonymous with ‘drink yourself stupid,’ Dad. Neither is Tuesday or Wednesday or—”
“Independence Day.”
“Exactly.”
“I am sorry about that, Elle.” He takes a few wobbly steps into the kitchen and pulls a glass from the cupboard next to the sink. He presses two hands flat on the counter, steadying himself, before he picks up the pitcher. He fills the glass, sloshing water onto the counter, and hands it to me.
“And yet here you are, drinking yourself stupid again. What is going on with you?”
The fur lining his lip trembles. His eyes slide back and forth behind red-rimmed lids, veins blossoming like roses against the yellowing