Made of Stars (22 page)

A failure on my part that I didn’t call the cops and get him caught, but at least if he’s away, he can’t hurt Chance.

I allow myself a few minutes to cry and laugh and breathe and work the numbness from my fingers. Then I pull the camera out of my pocket, tracing the crack across the screen with my thumb. Great.

But the camera itself isn’t important. I slide the memory card out of the side and pop it into my computer while waiting for it to boot up. I glance at the clock. Hunter should’ve been home already. Unfortunately, my only method of contacting him at the moment is lost, probably broken, somewhere in the woods near Chance’s trailer.

On the memory card are a ton of sub-folders. The camera automatically creates one for each day pictures are taken. Maybe I ought to start at the end, but I can’t bring myself to. Whatever is in this, I have a feeling, is not going to be pretty. Maybe I should wait for Hunter. Maybe I should…

Suck it up and be a big girl. I came this far on my own. Besides, I have to protect Hunter from what is on here, too; I can handle this better than he can, when it comes to Chance.

I open the first folder.

There are some pictures of no consequence. Some shots of the sky, trees, Chance’s room. Like he was testing the camera out, seeing how it worked. I skim through them with growing impatience, wanting to get to the important stuff. I didn’t possibly risk my life to see scenery.

Then comes a video. Short. Thirty seconds. It takes some courage for me to hit play.

Chance’s face appears, smiling and chipper and unblemished by bruises. From the positioning, I think he has the camera set on the dresser, so he can sit on the edge of his bed and talk.

“Hello! Hi!” he says, waving. “Chance Harvey here. Though if you’re watching this, you’re probably Ash or Hunter. S’up, guys?”

My heart simultaneously melts and tightens all at once. What a drastic difference this Chance is from the one I saw in the alley after work the other day.

Chance continues. “And, if you’ve found this, I’m guessing something has happened. Kind of sucks, doesn’t it? Well, to help things along, I’m using this camera to do some clue-hunting. Collect some evidence. So whatever happens…hopefully this will help.” He grins, lifts his fingers in a wiggling wave, then rises from the bed to turn off the recording.

I was right. Chance used this to document the goings-on in his house. His evidence of what his dad was doing to him—and to his mom. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I resume flicking through photos.

After Chance’s video, they take a drastic turn.

Bruises.

A hole in the wall.

A bloody nose.

These must have been during the time he was avoiding us. He didn’t want us to see what had been done to him.

A swollen lip, a black eye.

Then another video. This time, the lens is positioned from its hiding spot: Chance’s pile of clothes. It’s tucked away, recording, and anyone else in the room is oblivious to it. This video is longer; thirty minutes, to be exact. It begins with Chance positioning the camera, making sure the lens isn’t covered, but his movements are hurried, frantic, and Zeke is hollering somewhere in the background.

Chance himself says nothing. He hunkers down on his bed, still and silent. Studying his door. There’s another voice—Tabitha’s, I assume—screaming back. Crying. At the sound of that voice, Chance launches himself off the bed and out the door, and his yelling joins the cacophony of sound.

Glass shatters. Tabitha sobs. Chance and Zeke scream and scuffle.

Something hits the wall and again and again, Zeke threatens—“I’ll kill you, you ungrateful little”—and Tabitha begs for them to stop.

There are more pictures after that. Proof of the aftermath of what Zeke did beyond yelling, beyond hollow threats.

And more videos to follow. Some like the first. Nothing more than video of an empty room with shouting matches in the background. There are others, where I catch a glimpse of a fight in the hallway. More still, of Chance barreling into his room, chest heaving, nose bleeding, hands trembling with the adrenaline pumping through his system.

“—should’ve put you in a bag and drowned you—”

Zeke flings open the door with enough force that the doorknob punctures a hole in the wall. In the bedroom, Chance is safer. He is spry and knows the danger of the floor, so he springs out of the way while Zeke lunges for him and trips over shoes, stubs his toes on sock-concealed rocks, snarling and swearing.

Zeke, storming into the room another time, armed with a hammer and a fistful of nails. Chance rears back, like he expects they’re somehow meant for him, but for once Zeke ignores him and heads for the pile of clothes. For the window. The camera is knocked askew, covered with cotton, and even the sound is muffled.

“Let’s see you sneak out now.”

More footsteps. Silence.

Chance grunting while he tries—I assume—to force open the window.

“Son of a bitch.”

His voice, weak and angry and tired.

I stop after that video, rubbing at my eyes. Having to pause because I thought I heard something downstairs. Dad’s bedroom door, I think. He’s probably just getting up for the bathroom.

I wonder why Hunter isn’t home.

I watch video after video of similar yelling and fighting, flip through a dozen photos. One more, I decide, then I’ll worry about the fact my brother is out later than he ought to be.

In this video, most of Chance’s injuries are healed over, or are at least not visible. I can hear Tabitha’s voice: “—talk to you?”

“Come in,” Chance says as he drops the camera. By the way he doesn’t aim it like he has every other video, I almost wonder whether he realizes it’s recording. Chance settles back on his bed. The camera lens is catching him from the neck up. It’s the first time in all the videos Tabitha Harvey has stepped into Chance’s room, despite the number of times he flew to her defense. She never once tried to get between Chance and his dad. What kind of mother does that? What kind of parent so blatantly ignores the suffering of her kid, especially when it’s happening right under her nose?

Tabitha clicks her tongue at the state of the room, but Chance just stares at her as she sits beside him.

“I got the call from the lawyer. All I have to do is go in tomorrow and sign the paperwork, and the money is mine.” She sounds so excited, so hopeful.

Is this what happened? Was Tabitha finally going to leave her husband and get out of there? And did Zeke find out, so that it finally sent him over the edge?

“Heard that before,” Chance mutters.

“Watch your tone, young man.” Tabitha pulls her hands back as though burned. “Don’t be ungrateful. Do you want me to leave you here? Is that it? Because I will.”

Chance picks at lint on his mattress, eyes glued to his bare feet.

Tabitha prods, “Well?”

“No, ma’am.” He doesn’t look up, but everything about his demeanor is smaller, softer, afraid of being left behind. Maybe she would. She spent all his life not protecting him; why would she start now?

The video comes to an end. I only have one folder left.

“Ashlin!”

Dad’s voice jerks me out of my endless loop of dread-filled questions. I spin in my chair to face the hall. What’s he doing up this late? More importantly, what’s he doing awake and yelling for me at the top of his lungs?

I roll my chair to the door, head popping out into the hallway and calling back before Dad tries something stupid like climbing the stairs. “What?”

“Down here, now!”

The back of my neck prickles. Going somewhere, in the middle of the night? Where is Hunter? I look at my computer, worrying my bottom lip. Chance’s evidence will need to wait, I guess. For now, I flick off the monitor and head downstairs. Dad is dressed, frazzled, worried lines creasing his brow. He looks me over. “I tried calling your phone—were you still awake?” When I stare at him blankly, he adds, “You’re still dressed.”

I do my best not to look flustered. “Yeah, uh, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”

He clenches his jaw, runs a hand down his face, and turns away. “Get your shoes on.”

“Dad?” He’s starting to freak me out, like, seriously. I head to the entryway to shove my feet back into my shoes, praying Dad doesn’t notice my jeans are wet and my shoes have left a puddle of melted snow on the floor.

If he does, he makes no comment. Only grabs his coat from its hook and swings it on. He’s either upset or he’s angry or—crap, I can’t tell which. I’ve never really seen Dad seriously angry or worried. He’s always been the sort to take everything with a grain of salt, to take a deep breath and reassure everyone around him. I let him float in his bubble of silence until we get out to the truck. Then, with me behind the steering wheel, he seems to realize he
has
to tell me what’s going on because I have no flipping clue where he wants me to go.

“The hospital,” he finally says, strained. “Hunter found Chance.”

My hands clench the wheel so tightly it hurts. But I put the truck into gear and pull out onto the road. I don’t trust my voice. This is why he didn’t say anything—because I shouldn’t drive if I’m upset, and because
he’s
upset…

“I think he’s all right,” Dad offers, but his voice is so distant I can only imagine the things running through his head. He hasn’t stopped blaming himself for this. Then again, neither have I. Neither has Hunter.

We’ve been going on and on about how he’s part of our family, and every one of us failed to protect him.

I bob my head into a mute nod but keep any commentary to myself.
All right
is such a vague term. Pretty much anything seems
all right
next to, say, death, doesn’t it?
All right
equates to
alive
but not necessarily
and
well
. Very big differences.

There is no point in trying to comfort each other. I could promise him everything will turn out okay, that nothing else bad is going to happen, but why? We both know all too well this could end horribly. That the best years of our lives with Chance could be behind us, and everything that lies ahead…

Dread weighs heavily in my stomach.

The last time I stepped foot inside a hospital was when Dad got shot. That night wasn’t terribly unlike tonight, either. Hunter and I were home alone while Dad worked. He’d promised to be back in time for dinner and left enough cash for a pizza. Dinner had come and gone, and no Dad. We sat on the couch with a movie on, me nestled against Hunter’s side, feeling alone without Dad there and without Chance to lighten the mood.

(Thinking back, that must’ve been one of the times he vanished for a few days because he’d taken a beating and didn’t want us to ask questions.)

Close to eleven that night, Roger came knocking on the door to tell us what had happened. A couple of guys wanted a few counties over for bank robbery…and Dad had been a part of the group who had tried to chase them down when they were spotted here in town. He was also the only one who had been shot and almost died.

We stayed at Roger’s that night, sleeping on a guest bed, Hunter and me together. We begged to stay home because how else would Chance know what had happened? But Roger would hear none of it, leaving us alone all night. We didn’t call our moms. Not right away. Sure enough, when Dad came to and it was clear he was out of the woods, he scolded us, and the next day Hunter’s mom came to get him, and I was on a plane back to California.

They took us away from Dad, who I was determined
needed
us, and then—they took us away from each other. I needed Hunter then as much as I think he needed me…and we both needed Chance.

I’m not sure I’ve ever forgiven my mom for that. Not sure I’ve forgiven myself, either, for not fighting harder.

This time will be different.

I reach out and wrap my hand around Dad’s. He startles then squeezes back.

I find a parking spot right up front. Is the emergency room always quiet this time of night, or are we lucky? I hop out of the truck, circling around to watch Dad—while pretending not to—get out and pick his way on his cane across the icy parking lot.

“Don’t slip,” I warn.

He replies with a thin smile, “If I do, at least we’re at a hospital.”

Inside, the air smells funny. Sterile but not clean, if that makes sense. Like the scents of bleach and disinfectant are masking whatever underlying odor of germs and bacteria is on the waiting room seats, the vending machine buttons, the pens they keep at the front desk.

Among the others in the lobby, I spot Hunter, hunched over with his eyes locked onto the television mounted in the corner. He doesn’t seem to be watching it, exactly, just staring because it’s something to occupy some part of his brain.

Dad says his name, and he snaps out of his self-induced trance, immediately standing. He opens his arms with the same reflex that I go into them and hug him tightly. He bows his head, mumbling into my hair, “They won’t really tell me anything. Because I’m not
family
.” He spits this last word like it’s full of venom. Like the employees here don’t know a thing about what constitutes
family
.

“You didn’t tell them who he was, did you?” Dad asks, ushering us to sit. I keep hold of Hunter’s hand in my own. He shakes his head.

“No. I got sort of…mad they wouldn’t let me in to see him, so I refused to say anything.”

Dad sighs. “We need to give them his information. Otherwise, you’re going to get busted for helping harbor a fugitive.”

Hunter pushes his shoulders back. His spine stiffens. The mere idea of calling the cops doesn’t sit well with him. Can’t say it sits well with me, either.

“How did you even find him?” I ask. Dad nods. Undoubtedly, he’s interested in the answer to this, too.

“He called me.” Hunt stares down at our joined hands. His thumb touches each of my knuckles, one after the other, distracting himself. “I found out he was on Hollow Island and I…I had to go get him. If he thought the police were coming, he would’ve left again. We never would’ve found him.”