“She was probably held up at work,” I say, but I don’t believe it. She’d have texted me if that were the case.
Mom appears, and I hurry over to her. “Can I borrow the car? I’ll drop you at the house first, then I want to swing by the restaurant. I don’t get why she’s not answering my texts or calls.”
“It’s on the way home. I’ll go with you, and you can drop me off after. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation.”
“Thanks.”
“You were great tonight,” she says as we leave the venue.
“They were great. I was worried about Abby, so I sucked.”
“You didn’t suck, Chris. I see a big future for you in the music industry, with or without Naked Whale. Promise me you’ll always be smart about it. Promise me you won’t get caught up in the drugs and narcissism.” She touches my shoulder. “I don’t want you to lose the incredible man you’ve become.”
“I promise.”
Twenty minutes later we park at the fast food restaurant. Abby’s car is in the lot, and I’ve never been so relieved. I get out and go over to it, and something crunches under my shoe. It’s a cracked cellphone, and I can tell by the case it’s hers. Not far away from it is a scrunchy, like the one she wears to work. I pick it up; there’s a lot of hair in it. Abby’s hair.
“This is hers,” I say, holding it up for Mom to see through the open window.
She comes around to my side of the car, and we follow a trail of things on the ground—a crushed bottle of hand sanitizer, a package of tissues, a pen, a tube of Chapstick—and end up at a purse.
My heart is pounding, and my mouth goes dry. “That’s hers.”
Without thinking, I reach for it, but Mom stops me. “Don’t touch anything. Run inside and see if she’s there.”
“You think something happened to her?” I feel dizzy.
“Maybe she fell on her way to the car and had to be taken to the hospital.”
“Oh shit, the baby.”
“Hurry. I’ll wait here.”
I run inside and cut in front of people at the counter.
“Dude,” someone says. “Not cool.”
I ignore him and ask the employees, “Is Abby Evans here?”
“She’s not working right now,” a man says.
“When did she leave?”
“Dunno. A while ago.”
I slap the counter. “I need to know how long she’s been gone.”
He shouts to someone in the back. “Chet, when did Abby clock out?”
“Seven.”
“Exactly seven?”
“Hold on. Six fifty-five.”
“Happy now?” the annoyed cashier says to me.
I glance at my phone. It’s quarter to nine. “Are you sure she’s not in back?”
“In the plush employee’s lounge?” he says sarcastically. “Yes, I’m sure. She said she had to go to her boyfriend’s concert. I’m guessing you’re the boyfriend. Guess you got stood up, man.”
“Can you do me a favor and check in back? Maybe she’s sick or something.” I turn to a female employee. “Can you check the bathroom? Please. It’s important.” I follow her and wait outside the restroom.
“There’s nobody in there,” she says.
I return to the front counter. The man shakes his head. “She’s not here. Sorry.”
Running back outside, I try to call Abby again. Then I remember her phone is smashed on the ground.
Mom is on her cell.
“Abigail Evans. Abby. She’s seventeen. Light brown hair with streaks of blonde. Blue eyes. About five-two. How about Abigail Rewey? R-E-W-E-Y,” she spells out. “Yes, I’m her mother.” She glances at me, and I see the worry in her eyes. “Okay, thank you.” She puts her phone away. “I take it she’s not inside.”
“They said she left almost two hours ago.”
“I called the three closest hospitals. None of them have admitted a girl by her name or description in the last few hours.”
I gaze at Abby’s things strewn across the ground. “Mom, this is so messed up. I’m scared.”
She puts an arm around me. “We need to call her parents and