Fadeaway by E. Vickers (ebook smartphone TXT) 📗

by this cruel image painted by those I thought might be able to help.

But I blink back the tears. I won’t let them win. I won’t let them turn this into a place to hurt somebody I care about. I text Kolt, tell him to hack into Jake’s account and shut the post down. Then I start a new page of my own.

Title: Missing Person: Jake Foster

Category: Community

I upload a photo of Jake in his basketball uniform for the profile picture and a full-court shot for the cover photo. It feels cheap, but Jenna’s right: people care about Jake Foster, MVP. And if that will get us more visibility, more eyes on the lookout, it’s worth it. I add a quick description of the page:

Let’s do everything we can to bring Jake home safe. Please post any information you have on the whereabouts of Jake Foster.

But it can’t be a place for wild, depressing speculation. The information will need to be monitored and moderated, but I don’t know if I’ve got the guts to sift through all the content. So I send Jenna the link and an invitation to be the admin.

Here’s our next move. Can you help?

Five seconds later, she accepts the invitation, and something inside me uncoils.

After that, I share the link across social media and send it to anybody I can think of. Teammates, friends, everybody—except the asswipes on Ruckert’s post. When I click back to my new page, there are already two posts, nearly identical and nearly useless.

Kolt Martin: Thanks for starting this Sharp. Hope it helps.

Seth Cooper: Good idea, Daph. Help us out, everybody.

I’m annoyed at the “us.” Now that I’ve done something, he wants to claim part of it? Where was that concern this afternoon?

Seth and Kolt. I look at the two names next to each other and think back to that night. If the police felt the need to question Kolt again, their stories must not have lined up.

I know them both, trust them both. So why is one of them not telling the whole truth when Jake’s life could be on the line?

The memory of the cruel comment makes me shudder. He’s either in a ditch or in a freezer. Depends on if they found him yet.

I won’t believe that Jake is dead. I can’t.

But where the hell is he?

Still dark down here. Still cold. Jake feels both in his bones as he’s startled from sleep, the cot shaking beneath him.

“What did you tell them?”

The voice is angry, the words sharp. They rattle inside Jake’s skull. He squeezes his eyes shut, but strong hands grab greedy fistfuls of his shirt.

“Sit up. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Jake sits up, tries to open his eyes. Is he home? Why is his dad here?

“You didn’t tell them anything, did you?”

But no. His dad is dead. Isn’t he?

“Holy shit. Can’t you even follow instructions?”

Those are his dad’s words, though. They all are.

If his dad is dead and his dad is here, is Jake dead too?

Then, footsteps. Pacing. Like the man is getting ready to walk away.

“This isn’t how any of this was supposed to go down. You shot my plan to hell—you know that?”

Jake feels a sob in his throat. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’ll do better. Please don’t go.” Maybe this time Jake can get it right. Be enough.

A muttered curse and a hand against his forehead. “You’re burning up. Get in the shower. Cold water. I’ll get you some shorts. Your clothes are drenched.”

Jake wants to obey, but his body is a wet sack of sand. The man watches him, sighs, lifts him by the armpits, and guides him to the shower. “You’d better be able to take it from here. I’m not your nurse.”

I know you’re not a nurse. You’re a mechanic. Or you were.

I know you.

Jake thinks he says the words out loud, but the man either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care. He snaps on the light and turns on the water, and then he’s gone.

Alone again, Jake realizes he is burning up. That he does want a shower. A line from an old kindergarten song floats into his mind: Soap and bubbles wash your troubles away.

Yes. He repeats the line in his mind, again and again, like an anchor from his past to figure out his present.

Finally the room comes into focus. Jake recognizes himself now, slick with soap, the pain in his body too raw and real for him to believe any longer that he’s dead. He’s still in the dark, run-down basement, but whether it’s two blocks or a hundred miles from home, he doesn’t know.

When the man comes back, tossing the shorts onto the cot, Jake can see it’s not his dad. Too young, too wiry. Too wired. And, of course, too alive.

“Did you tell them where you were going?” the man, pacing again, asks once Jake is dressed. “Did you leave a note or something? Anything? Think, Jake. Did you tell anybody you saw me?”

So many questions, and Jake can’t seem to form the words to answer any of them. He’s afraid if he doesn’t say something soon, the questions will just keep coming. So he thinks hard, makes sure to say the words aloud when he tries again with a question of his own.

“Are you going to kill me?”

The man laughs, harsh and sharp. “Well, I hadn’t planned on it, but that was before you got the cops looking for us.”

Jake studies the man, tries to tell if he’s joking. But who would joke in a moment like this? He remembers another of the man’s questions and attempts to answer it.

“How could I tell anybody I saw you if I don’t even know who you are?”

“You know who I am, Jake.” The man scratches the back of his neck, and there’s something familiar about the gesture. “But don’t think about me right now. And for God’s sake, stop thinking about your dad. If you’re going to think about