Fadeaway by E. Vickers (ebook smartphone TXT) 📗

when I couldn’t stop him

and I didn’t save him.

Because I wasn’t brave enough.

I kept waiting for him to write me back and tell me

why

he did it.

But eighty-seven days is enough

to make you

wonder if you saw

what you thought you saw

or if you saw

anything at all.

Enough to make you wonder

if the notebook will ever be under your pillow again,

if the mail for Jake

you’re stacking on his desk

from colleges that don’t know he’s missing

will touch the ceiling

or topple over.

When the detective asked me if we ever fought,

I wanted to scream,

“Of course we fought! We’re brothers!”

But I knew that was the wrong answer.

We’re like Luke Skywalker and Han Solo

(good thing my mom didn’t name him Han).

We argue about pretty much everything.

But we’ve always got each other’s backs.

I know how this sounds,

I KNOW,

but the night after he disappeared

I dreamed I saw him

frozen in carbonite.

Dreamed I saved him with

a princess and

a Wookiee.

I told you, I know.

It was just a dream.

I open the book and almost write it down because

it would make him laugh.

But when I put the pen to the paper,

I think a thought that knocks my breath away.

What if I’m supposed to save him this time?

And what if I can’t?

The man kicks the empty tray from last night’s dinner.

“Rise and shine, Jake.”

Jake waits with his eyes closed. Even though his heart pounds, he slows his breathing so it will look like he’s sleeping.

He hears the footsteps coming closer, but he just waits.

Keeps waiting as the man blocks the blood-red light coming through Jake’s eyelids.

He hears the pop and crack of somebody else’s bad knee as the man kneels next to the cot. “I said, rise and—”

Jake strikes, bare knuckles full force against the man’s jaw. He jumps up as the man staggers back. Knocks the man’s legs out from under him with one swift, sweeping kick.

In the very next heartbeat, Jake is running for the door, but the man is already up, racing him to it. Jake’s knees nearly buckle as the man jumps onto his back. The man wraps his arms around Jake, slapping his right hand over Jake’s mouth.

If he’s trying to keep me quiet, there might be somebody nearby. Jake opens his mouth to shout.

But really, that was what the man wanted, and Jake realizes his mistake when he feels a pill at the back of his throat. The man’s hand still covers his mouth, so Jake bites down, hard, and there’s a satisfying taste of blood on his tongue as the man roars and pulls his hand away.

Jake spits out the blood and the pill, but he’s weak. Why is he so weak? He is Jake freaking Foster. MV-freaking-P.

He spins to find the man again, which is another mistake, because the room keeps spinning, even after he’s stopped. But finally he sees the man kneeling behind an old metal box, messing with the lock.

Jake hasn’t noticed the box before, and for a moment he hesitates, wondering what could be in there. Drugs? Guns?

Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to wait for the man to use it on him. Jake charges toward the man as the key turns and the lid swings open. The man reaches inside right before Jake tackles him, pinning him to the ground.

“I’m leaving, and you can’t stop me,” Jake spits at the man. “You’re lucky I’m not going to kill you first.”

But then there’s a sharp pain in his thigh. Jake looks down to see a syringe, its needle sunk cleanly through his basketball shorts, its plunger already down, only a few drops remaining of its pale blue dose.

Jake feels the anger and the energy drain from him. Maybe this is it. His last dose of poison.

“You’re not ready to leave,” the man says, easily pushing Jake off him as all of Jake’s muscles release and his senses dull. The man drags Jake to the cot, and Jake is grateful to lie down. He’s suddenly so, so sleepy.

“Don’t you dare try that again, or I’ll give you another blue-light special. This whole thing was your idea, remember?”

Jake shakes his head, trying to clear it, as he tells the man no.

That can’t be right.

The last thing Jake sees before his eyes close is the man’s face; the last thing he hears, the man’s voice. And he wonders if maybe he’s seen the face and heard the voice before. He even wonders if he has wondered this before, but it’s all a blur, it’s all going in circles, circling the drain, he’s so drained…

When he wakes up, the man is gone, and so is the metal box.

And Jake’s left hand is cuffed to a pipe on the wall.

Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Foster. We’ll just ask you a few questions, and then you can get back to your son.

Sons. I have two.

Yes, ma’am.

I’m sorry. I know you’re doing everything you can. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you.

Right now we’re trying to figure out the timeline. And Jake’s frame of mind. How was he earlier in the day? Did you see him after the game? Had anything changed?

I didn’t see him during the day. He left with the team before I got home. I texted him before warm-ups to tell him good luck, but that was it. That makes me sound like a terrible mother, doesn’t it?

No, ma’am. Teenagers are hard to connect with. Did he respond to your text?

He did. Something like “Thanks, Mom” and that was it. I thought he must have been nervous.

Did he get nervous a lot? Have you noticed any changes in his behavior?

His senior year has been hard. It’s been tough recovering from his injuries. If I’m honest, he’s been more withdrawn this year, and I can’t help but feel like it’s partly my fault. Jake had to grow up too quickly, especially after his dad died. He was always trying to make me happy, make sure I was okay. He did the same