The Space Between Heartbeats (8 page)

WEDNESDAY, 4:17 PM

Dale’s car groans away from Adam’s house. “You want to sit in front with me?”

“No, I’m fine back here,” I mumble. I press my chin into my forearm and gaze out the back window, wanting to evaporate.

The car pulls to the edge of the road once we reach flat terrain and eases to a stop. I spin around to see Dale facing me.

“Why did you stop?” I snap.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is soft.

I aim for ignorance. “What?”

His eyes fill with compassion as he whispers, “I’m sorry you had to find your sister. I’m sorry you lost her.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I clear my throat.

“Nico—”

“I don’t want to talk about it!”

Dale jerks back in his seat and accidentally hits the horn. The blast is loud enough to jolt us both. He swivels back to face the road, clutching the wheel and muttering, “Okay.”

Putting the car in gear, we bunny-hop forward for a second until Dale finds his rhythm. I cling to my numbness—the only form of protection I’ve known since the accident.

Jody.

I squeeze my hand into a tight fist, willing it to hurt. I used to be able to draw blood if I squeezed hard enough. I open my hand now and see nothing except the outline of where my body should be.

We drive straight to Lauren’s house, but she’s not home and her twerp of a little brother is anything but helpful. As reluctant as I am to do it, we then move on to Trent’s house. A small part of me is relieved to find no one home. I didn’t want to walk back through that door again, possibly go up to his room, and gaze down at the bed I’d laid on countless times. I’d given all of myself to Trent on that bed and I shuddered to think how many other girls had done the same thing.

“Can we just get out of here, please?” My voice is barely more than a whisper as I stalk back to Dale’s car. We drive away without saying a word and end up back at Dale’s house.

I have no reason to be nervous about going into his home, but I am. I step through the door and gaze around the interior. The walls are wooden, giving the whole house an understated, log-cabin feel. There’s a fireplace in the living room, perfectly fluffed pillows on the sofa, and the window ledges are dust-free. A lit candle on the coffee table emits a sweet vanilla scent.

Dale’s petite mother appears from the kitchen. She has a round face and when she smiles, faint laugh lines appear at the corners of her hazel eyes.

“Hey, sweetie.” She reaches up on tiptoes and gives Dale a kiss on the cheek. “How was school?”

“Good.”

His mother walks back to the kitchen, her beige corduroy pants rustling as she moves. “An eventful day? You’re almost late for dinner.”

Dale looks over his shoulder toward me with a wry smile. “You could say that.”

I follow them into the kitchen, taking in the brown checkered floor. Unlike our white kitchen with its stainless steel appliances, this one is dated, but well kept. The cupboards are engraved with a floral border and the olive green countertop looks straight out of the seventies.

Dale takes a seat at the table, where his dad is already sitting. I lean against the wall and watch as his dad gives him a friendly smile, and asks how Dale’s doing. They share a quick joke I don’t understand, then hold hands and say grace.

Awkward.

I grimace and look away from their little
Brady Bunch
moment.

“Amen,” they say in unison before picking up their cutlery and digging into their meal. A conversation quickly starts up between the trio as they all ask about one another’s day, showing genuine interest in each person’s answers.

Their happy family chatter turns to static noise, my gaze going fuzzy as I stare, unmoving at the foreign scene. I can’t remember the last time my family sat together at a table, let alone held a proper conversation. The Finnigans were acting like it was an everyday occurrence.

Unable to tolerate it any longer, I slip out of the kitchen and up the stairs. The entire home feels a few decades older than mine, but the carpet has been redone and is a warm burgundy, giving the place a cozy feel. I wonder if my mom sold them the house—knowing her, she would’ve thrown the words
cozy
and
comfort
in there a few times.

Upstairs, I poke my head into the first room, which judging by the floral-patterned king-sized bed is Dale’s parents’ bedroom. I move on and look into the second. There’s a double bed in the corner of the room with a bright green duvet that’s slightly rumpled. The walls are lined with over-stuffed bookcases. With a small smile, I ease into the room and note the open closet. Shirts and sweaters are hung in haphazard order, a mishmash of colors and patterns squished together with a bright orange ski jacket bulging at the end. Various pairs of Converse and Vans are dumped on the floor, most of the laces still done up. There’s also a desk in the corner holding a large Mac computer and piles of paperwork on either side. The upper walls and ceiling are covered with posters of breathtaking scenery—white-capped mountain ranges, sandy beaches with golden sunsets glistening off the water, waterfalls in hidden forests, and vine-wrapped ruins that look perfect for exploring.

I lie down on Dale’s bed and gaze up at the images. The posters are just starting to turn fuzzy when a black Labrador bursts through the doorway with a happy bark. I yelp and jump back.

Dale follows him in, laughing. “Nicole? Are you in here?”

“Uh-huh.” I scramble to the corner of the bed, grateful the jumping canine can’t see me. His slobbery tongue is hanging out of his mouth as Dale pets him. All of a sudden, the dog’s nose twitches and he springs into the air, sniffing loudly.

“What is it, Jester?”

The dog hunches down, studying the carpet and weaving his way across the room until he’s up on the bed and sniffing at my feet. I hold out my hand. Jester tips his head to the side as if he’s looking right at me before inching closer to my fingertips. He starts licking the air.

“I think he can see me,” I breathe.

“Maybe,” Dale murmurs, walking across the room and snapping his fingers. “Down, boy.” The dog jumps down immediately and sits at Dale’s feet. His tail starts thumping as Dale pets the top of his head.

“That’s too bizarre. How can he see me? Or smell me? I’m a ghost.”

Dale grins. “I’m not sure. Life’s mysterious that way.”

I give him a cynical laugh. “That’s your answer?”

Dale shrugs. “Sometimes we just have to accept the fact we can’t explain everything.”

My eyes narrow as I ease off the bed, wondering where he’s going with this.

“Life happens,” Dale continues. “Whether we want it to or not. Our job is to try and make some good come out of it.”

I have a feeling he’s referring to Jody, so I quickly change the subject. “Why’d you name him Jester?”

Dale scratches the dog’s floppy ears. “At the time I got him, he was the only thing that could make me laugh. Jester seemed the perfect name.”

“When was that?” I stare at him, not missing the way his mouth purses for a second.

He gives his dog a final pat and points to the door. “Off you go.” Jester makes his way back out the door and Dale shuts it behind him.

“Is it when
this
happened?” I run my fingers down the length of his face. I know he can feel me, because he shivers. He snatches his bag off the floor and unzips it with more force than is strictly necessary. He pulls out his homework, resting the books next to his computer.

I step toward him, not quite ready to give up. “You know all about my past. Why can’t you tell me yours?”

“Do I?” His head snaps in my direction, his open scrutiny stripping me bare.

I’m glad he can’t see me.

“Okay, fine, don’t tell me,” I say. “I don’t care anyway.”

Dale lets out a doubtful chuckle, sitting down at his desk and patting the empty second chair. I take a seat and clear my throat so he knows where I am.

“You just disappeared at dinner.”

“Yeah.” I shrug, trying to sound casual. “I was just finding the whole
Brady Bunch
affair a little overwhelming.”

He snickers. “
Brady Bunch
?”

“Oh, please. Normal families are not like yours. They don’t sit around the table holding hands and talking nicely to each other. Most people eat in front of a screen.”

His expression is pitying, but not in a mocking way. “That’s kind of sad, don’t you think?”

I shake my head, thinking about the day I’ve just had. “I don’t get it.”

“Get what?” He leans toward me.

My voice takes on a distant quality as I picture Dale’s parents talking to each other, then think about my mom’s brittle tone on the phone when she spoke to Dad.

I suck in a shaky breath. “Before this week, I had everything and you had nothing. No friends, no girlfriend. People only know who you are to make fun of you.”

Dale frowns and licks his lips. “Is there a point to this or are you just trying to give me a complex?”

I pause for a long beat, then look into his beautiful brown eyes. “Why do I want your life?”

Dale’s face folds with a look of such compassion I have to turn away. I can sense him about to say something, so I clear my throat and intercept him. “So when we were driving around this evening, you said something about a map book?”

After a pause so long it has me squirming, Dale relents and says, “Right,” then scans the shelf above his desk. “Here it is.” He pulls it out and flicks through the pages. “Okay, so this is where we drove today.” He rummages through his desk for a highlighter and then crosses out the section of the road we were on. “Let’s check out this section tomorrow? And maybe once I talk to Lauren, we’ll have some more clarity on where you are.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, feeling nervous at the thought of Dale confronting Lauren. I turn toward his chaotic bookshelf. The neatly lined novels have been overrun with other books that are shoved on top and stacked up in front.

“I’m going to try her again.” Dale snatches up his phone and dials the number we tried this afternoon. Once again, his call goes unanswered.

“She’s totally ignoring you.” I can’t help my hot anger.

“Well, why would she take a call from Scarface?”

I cringe. “Don’t call yourself that,” I say. “She probably just doesn’t recognize the number. It has nothing to do with you.” I hunch over in the chair, still hating myself for the nasty label I placed on him.

“It might have everything to do with
you
.” Dale drops his phone on the desk.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I sit up straight while Dale stares at his blank computer screen, a worried frown creasing his forehead.

“After today, your friends all know I’m suspicious about your disappearance. What if this is one big cover-up? Trent’s cheating on you with Lauren. You can’t tell me you haven’t at least considered the fact they might—”

“Want me out of the way,” I whisper.

“It’s only speculation, I . . .” His sigh is heavy. “I don’t want it to be true and I’m going to talk to her tomorrow. Whether she wants to or not, she’s giving me answers.”

Tears fill my eyes. I’m glad he can’t see me as I give him a watery smile. Ever since Jody died I’ve wanted someone to fight for me. Maybe I didn’t know it, but I wanted someone to rescue me from my own destructiveness, to take my hand and pull me away from all the people that were letting me hurt myself.

“Where were you two years ago?” I murmur.

“What was that?” Dale glances up.

“Nothing.” I shake my head and look back at his bookcase.

“Should I go talk to your parents?” Dale’s question makes me turn to face him.

“I don’t know. They think I’ve run away like everybody else, although . . .” I tip my head to the side.

“Although what?” Dale gazes at the space where I’m sitting.

“Well, Mom seemed worried today . . . until she did a U-turn to go and meet a client,” I end bitterly.

“Look, I’m sure she’s beside herself by now. You’ve never been gone for this long before, right?”

“No. I always come home on a school night.”

“Then, let’s go.” Dale jerks out of his seat. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing, and if we can convince them, then maybe they can convince the sheriff to get off his ass and start looking for you.”

I love the fact that he’s trying so hard. The expression on his face is so earnest and I feel that warm feeling all over again. He gives me hope. If my parents can see what I’m starting to see in Dale, then maybe, just maybe, I have a chance.

WEDNESDAY, 8:52 PM

I stand behind Dale as he presses his finger to the doorbell of my house, and the chime echoes loudly. All the lights are on in the house and both cars are in the driveway. It takes less than ten seconds before I see a shadow shifting in the foyer and hear my dad’s footsteps. He throws the door wide open, an expectant look on his face that quickly turns to disappointment, then confusion.

“Uh, hi,” he says, recovering and pasting a smile on his face. “Can I help you?” His normally styled hair is disheveled, like he’s been running his fingers through it all day. His shirt is wrinkled and coming untucked, and there are dark bags under his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m Dale. I go to Barrington with Nicole. Can I come in?” Dale asks.

My dad hesitates a moment, then opens the door wider. “Of course. Yes, I remember you. Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, showing Dale into the kitchen.

“No, I’m good. Thanks.” Dale stops by the island, raising his hand and giving my mom a soft smile. “Hi, Mrs. Tepper.”

“Hi . . .” She wipes her hands on a towel and moves around the counter to shake Dale’s hand.

“Dale Finnigan,” he reminds her.

“That’s right. You live just around the corner,” she says. Her makeup is blotchy, and her eyes are puffy and red.

Dale acts as if he doesn’t notice that she’s been crying. “Yeah, you helped us find the house.”

“I remember.” She forces cheeriness into her voice, but it cracks.

“What can we do for you, Dale?” Dad pulls out a stool for him.

Dale perches on the edge of the seat and licks his lips. “I . . . Well, I’m worried about Nicole. Do you guys have any more news?”

“Have you heard from her?” Mom’s hope is hard to miss. She grips the counter so hard, her delicate fingers tremble in place.

Dale shakes his head.

“You know, you’re the only one of her friends who’s come to talk to us.” Dad studies him carefully and I can sense an internal struggle. “Are you two in some kind of . . . relationship?”

“No, sir.” Dale says it so quickly and emphatically that it actually stings a little. “But I’m worried about her. I know people think she’s run away, but I don’t think Nicole would do that.”

Dad frowns. “You don’t?”

“I’m certain of it. We’re not friends exactly, but I know her well enough to know she wouldn’t just leave. I talked to the sheriff about it, too, but he didn’t seem to take me very seriously. I think Nicole is out there and I think she needs help.”

My mother’s face turns pale and she leans her elbows on the counter, as if she’s crumbling in on herself. “Why? Why are you saying this?”

I wince at the sharpness of her tone.

Dale takes a deep breath. “I don’t know, Mrs. Tepper. It’s just a . . . feeling, I guess.”

Mom’s shoulders slump and she takes in a deep breath. For some reason, this conversation stresses my mother out more than the idea of me running away. Grabbing up the dishcloth, she snaps up and starts cleaning the already sparkling surface. “So what does that make her? If she hasn’t run away, where is she?”

“I—I’m not sure.” Dale moves his hand before it gets swiped with the dishcloth. “I’m just suggesting that maybe someone should start searching for her.” He pauses and looks my dad straight in the eyes. “In fact, Mr. Tepper, I think you should go to the sheriff and insist he starts searching for her now.”

Mom stops cleaning and stands like a statue, her large eyes staring unseeing at the pristine, white surface. Her chest is heaving, shuddering breaths puncturing the quiet room, and a second later, she breaks down into giant, heaving sobs. Her shoulders quake as she dips her head and leans her whole weight against the counter. I’ve only seen her like this once before, when the paramedics told her Jody was dead.

I dig my nails into my forearm, screaming at myself to stay put and not run from the room like I want to.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tepper.” Dale looks at the polished floor. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I just—”

“It’s okay, Dale,” my dad says. “Thanks for stopping by, but I’ll take it from here.” His voice wobbles slightly as he rubs my mom’s back in slow, soothing circles.

“I’m sorry,” Dale mumbles again, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking to the front door.

“Thanks for trying,” I whisper when he pauses in the foyer.

He nods. “Are you going to stay here?” he asks.

I glance back at my parents, who are haloed in the kitchen light as Dad continues to rub Mom’s back, looking desolate and helpless. “Yeah, I think so. See you tomorrow morning?”

He nods again and closes the door behind him with a soft click. I turn to go to the kitchen, but before I can move, my dad comes striding out, his face ashen.

“Dad, don’t go.” I stand in his way. “You can’t leave Mom like this, not now. She needs you.” He nearly walks straight through me as he makes his way through the front door. I follow him outside and he yanks the keys from his pocket. “Where are you going?”

Dale stops short at the end of the path and watches Dad jerk the driver’s side door open. I scramble into the car before he can close the door on me, and flop into the passenger’s seat. With a sharp frown, he fires up the engine and screams out of the driveway so fast Dale has to jump out of the way to avoid getting hit.

“Dad, what the hell? Where are you going?”

It takes only ten minutes at the speed he’s traveling until we’re sitting in the Hutton’s driveway beside the sheriff’s white cruiser. Dad barrels out of the car and stomps to the front door.

After several forceful knocks, the porch light comes on and Sheriff Hutton opens the door, wearing navy blue sweatpants, a Denver Broncos sweater, and a confused glower.

“Mitchell? What are you doing here?” He puts his hands on his hips, filling up the doorway.

Dad looks down at his shoes, squeezing the back of his neck. “Sorry to show up like this, Gerry, but I need to talk to you.”

The sheriff gives him a long, steady stare before moving aside to let Dad pass. “Okay.”

I follow him inside and stand in the living room. The house is smaller than I remember. The new couches are oversized and boxy, and the only light in the main room is coming from a tall reading lamp in the corner. Just off the living area is a brightly lit dining room. Adam sits at the dining room table with open books, a laptop, and sheets of paper scattered around him. He glances at my dad, his face creasing with worry.

“Hey, Adam.” Dad nods at him.

Adam stands and smiles a greeting, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Is everything okay, Mr. Tepper?”

“Adam,” his dad warns quietly. “He came to see me.”

Adam glances at the floor. “Sorry, I was just wondering if this is about Nicole. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you yet, Dad, but she wasn’t at school today and . . . well, is that why you’re here Mr. Tepper?”

Dad gives Adam a glum smile. “Yes, that’s why I’m here.”

Worry swirls in Adam’s clear blue eyes and I’m reminded why I used to hang out with him so much. He’s always cared so much about people. I’ll never forget the time he gave up his umbrella and walked home in the rain so that Jody and I could get home dry, or the time he invited Jody to play Monopoly Empire with us, even though she had no idea what she was doing. He gently talked her through each move and she ended up winning the game. I think she fell in love with him that day.

I close my eyes, trying to shut off the memory of her adoring blue gaze and lovestruck giggle.

“Adam, why don’t you go finish up your homework in your room. You’ve still got a lot to get through,” Sheriff Hutton says. Adam opens his mouth to protest, but is cut off by a stern look from his father. “Don’t wake your mother.”

Drooping his head, Adam mutters a good-night, slapping his laptop closed and slipping from the room. The sheriff waits until we hear the quiet click of a bedroom door down the hallway before turning to face my father. “How can I help you?”

“Dale Finnigan came to see us just now,” my dad begins. “He says he spoke to you today . . . about Nicole being missing? But that you didn’t take him seriously.”

The sheriff puffs out a sigh, rubbing his chin.

“Why didn’t you call me immediately?” Dad frowns at him, the pale light casting ominous shadows over my father’s already pasty complexion.

The sheriff raises his large hand before my dad can speak again. “I thought someone had. I told one of my deputies to call you.”

“Your deputy? Gerry, Nicole used to play here as a kid. We used to be friends. We—”

“I’ll have a chat with Deputy Peck tomorrow, make sure this doesn’t happen again.” The sheriff brushes off my dad’s complaints with a flick of his hand and quickly changes the subject. “Did Dale tell you why I didn’t trust his little hunch?”

Dad crosses his arms, obviously annoyed at the sheriff’s evasive technique. “No. What do you mean?”

“First off, I know more about Dale Finnigan than I care to. That kid has a dark past, and frankly, Mitchell, so does your daughter. She posted to a social media account just last night that she wants to take off to LA . . . with your stolen credit card.”

“That’s not exactly what I said.” I dig the toe of my boot into the paisley carpet, knowing that my Instagram pic could easily be construed as more than just a shopping spree.

“I know she’s lost her way a little bit, but she’s a good girl, Gerry.” Dad dips his head, then looks up like a lost kid, tears glinting in his eyes. “We can’t find her. She didn’t come home last night and none of her friends have seen her.”

The sheriff scratches the stubble on his chin again. “Well, have you called her?”

“Several times,” Dad says emphatically. “It just keeps going to voice mail.”

The sheriff’s dark eyes glitter. “I hate caller ID. You can’t surprise people anymore.”

Dad nods stupidly. It’s obvious he’s only now realizing I may have been dodging their calls. I’d love to tell him I’ve never done that, but it’s not true. I actually have designated ringtones for them, so I won’t reach for the phone when my parents call. When I don’t want to talk to them, I can just listen to the tone and ignore them. I flush with guilt.

The sheriff studies my father. “I put a call into the LAPD earlier today, but no one matching her description has been seen at any of the bus stations.”

My dad shakes his head. “I don’t know, Gerry. Something about this just doesn’t feel right. I called the credit card company earlier and no charges have been made. What if . . . what if something bad’s happened to her?”

“Yes. Thank you, Dad.” I move to his side. “Finally. Listen to him, Sheriff.”

“What are you thinking?” The sheriff plants his feet, his critical gaze softening a little.

“That maybe she’s hurt or maybe someone’s taken her.” His voice cracks. “What if something terrible has happened and we’re all assuming she’s just run away? I can’t live with that, Gerry. I need to find my daughter.”

“Mitchell, I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now”—Sheriff Hutton puts a hand on my dad’s shoulder—“especially with everything that happened to Jody. But nine times out of ten in these situations, the teen has run away. They show up a few days later, a little tired and embarrassed, but fine.”

“I’m not fine!” I scream at the sheriff.

“Still, let’s generate some posters of her and put out some feelers. If she’s not in LA, maybe someone around here saw something helpful. Does that sound okay?”

Dad looks relieved. “Should we start a search as well?”

“Let’s see what we hear first. If we have to start a search, we need to know where to look.” Sheriff Hutton pats Dad’s arm. “I’ll do everything I can to help you out, but right now, you need to go home and rest. If someone’s taken her or hurt her, we’ll find them. I can promise you that.”

Dad turns to leave, then hesitates, opening his mouth to say something. A quiet despair washes over him. “Thanks, Gerry.”

“I’ll call you in the morning.” The sheriff leads him to the front door.

Dad moves in slow motion as he waves good-bye and gets into his car. He drives home in robot mode. We pull into our driveway and he cuts the engine, places his hands on the wheel, and lets out a long, slow sigh.

“Dad?” Laying my hand gently on his arm, I try to get a response, even a shiver as my fingers pass through him, but he gives me nothing. He just keeps staring ahead, looking lost and afraid.

I want to lean my head on his shoulder and tell him it’s going to be okay, but I can’t. I’ve already been missing for a day, and by the time the sheriff finally authorizes a search, I may be dead.