of the road and my car.
Nathan’s hand went quickly to cover my mouth, stifle my noise. His other arm around my chest, holding me to him. Holding me tight, my neck tipped back.
And I could see how he did it—how he could do it. A box cutter in his grip. One quick motion of his hand across my exposed throat. Dropping me back to the ground, waiting for someone else to find me.
I could see him arguing with his father, stopping him. Begging him. And then—
“Do not make a noise,” he said, whispering in my ear.
Footsteps coming closer, while Nathan held me perfectly still, his hand so tight across my mouth and nose, I felt light-headed, like I couldn’t breathe.
“You don’t want to do that, son.” Another voice now, to our left. “Let go of the girl, keep your hands where we can see them.” I strained to see the speaker, could just make out the police officer in my peripheral vision.
“Just a minute,” Nathan said, but he raised his arms, and I fell forward, sucking in a huge gulp of air in the process. “We were just having a conversation here. You scared us, is all.”
But I was scrambling away from him, toward the officer on my left, who had a gun drawn and was gesturing for me with his free arm.
“This is all a misunderstanding,” Nathan said. “Arden, tell them. Tell them who you are. What we’re doing here.”
“Hands behind your back,” called the other officer, now visible, approaching him with handcuffs. He patted Nathan down, pulled something out of his pocket. “You been tracking this lady’s car?” the second officer asked.
And only then did Nathan stop protesting. The officer beside me called for backup, and we all moved silently out of the woods.
I SAW MY CAR through the trees, Nathan’s parked directly behind it. There was a police cruiser parked behind Nathan’s car. And another pulled up just as we arrived.
I wanted to feel relief, like I’d escaped something. But I could only see Nathan, hear his words in the woods, feel his conviction in his story.
And all the while, even as they questioned him and searched through his car, he kept staring at me—like he was merely choosing not to break free of their grip on him. As if he was only doing me the favor of not taking me down with him.
I sat in the passenger seat of my car, legs out the door, and couldn’t hear what any of them were saying until Nathan raised his voice. “Tell them, Arden. Tell them the truth.”
The newest officer on the scene stepped in front of me, squatted down so he was on my level. “Arden?” he asked.
“Olivia,” I said.
He nodded, held out a hand. “All right, Olivia. Come with me and tell us what happened.”
IT WAS LATE BY the time they let me go, taking my statement, contacting Detective Rigby. Dusk was settling, and they offered a nearby motel. But I just wanted to get moving.
They knew who I was at the station, of course: The girl from their town. The mechanism that had put them on the map.
The officers were my age or a little older, had grown up with their own claim to the story. Their parents had searched. Their aunts and uncles had been interviewed. Their neighbors had drawn search grids. Their schools had lent lights and equipment.
They’d told the stories that only they knew, passed down from the generation before.
It was a rite of passage during high school to trek out in the night to that grate beside the plaque, find your way in the dark, make your own stories, and leave them there. Fade to black.
They remembered the name Sean Coleman. They did not remember his son.
“I’M COMING HOME,” I told Detective Rigby on the phone, desperate to get as far away from Nathan Coleman, and all that had happened here, as possible.
“I’ll meet you there as soon as you get back,” she said. “I’ll send a cruiser by your place in the meantime, just to be safe. Okay?”
I hoped that would at least scare off any of the remaining attention around my place. But the danger had followed me here.
It was time to get the past contained again, keep it where it belonged—underground, in the dark. There was no good that could come of it now.
Everyone claimed to know things here.
I knew she was gone before I woke. The first line of my mother’s book.
The words seemed flat now. Deadened;