Fadeaway by E. Vickers (ebook smartphone TXT) 📗

about Jake. The presence of his truck in the driveway tells me he came home during the night, and he’s earned the right to sleep in.

But by ten I wonder enough to crack open his door.

The bed hasn’t been slept in.

I check my phone for a text saying he spent the night at Kolt’s. That must be what happened, even though I’m not sure why he’d bring his truck home first.

Still, he must be with Kolt. Maybe he typed up a message and was so busy celebrating that he forgot to hit Send.

There’s a buzz of irritation at the back of my skull as I text him: Time to come home or at least check in. Even MVPs have to report to their moms.

By the time I’ve cleaned the floors and finished the dishes Luke left half done and sent Jake three more unanswered texts, the irritation has been joined by a small seed of worry. Is he okay? Surely I would have heard by now if something had happened to him.

I pull up Coach Cooper’s number but hesitate. It was handy to have in the seasons before Jake had his own phone. But it’s been years since I used it, and I’ve never taken him up on his offer to “ask about anything, anytime.” I had no real cause to suspect that he was so warm to me for any reason other than that I was his star player’s mom, but I’d always wondered if there was something not quite right in the offer. If there might have been an element of it that stemmed from the fact that I was his star player’s single mom, since he lowered his voice and glanced at his wife whenever he made the offer.

So I keep my text to Coach Cooper formal and brief.

Hi, Coach. This is Sabrina Foster. Is Jake still at your house by any chance?

I’ve barely had time to set the phone down when it chimes with the reply.

We never did see Jake last night. I kept hoping he’d come. And I hope you know you would have been welcome too.

My chest feels like it’s caving in. I type the words “Are you sure he was never there?” and erase them, three times. Of course he’s sure. For all his faults and borderline flirtations, no one could question that Coach C always knows exactly where his players are and what they’re up to. Sometimes better than even their parents do.

I scroll through my contacts until I find the one person who might have been able to convince Jake to skip the team party. When they were together, I saw enough signs—hasty ponytails for her, shirt buttons missed for him—that I knew they weren’t saints, but they’d never spent the night together.

Now I find myself hoping, hard, that they have.

Hi, Daphne. You haven’t seen Jake, have you?

This time, the reply takes longer, and I let myself imagine that she’s with him now. Maybe they’ve gotten back together and are trying to find the way to cover some indiscretion, not realizing that all that matters to me in this moment is knowing that my son is safe.

Finally the answer comes.

I haven’t seen him since before the game. I’m sorry. Do you have Kolt’s number?

She sends the number along, but it doesn’t help. Kolt hasn’t seen Jake, either.

“He’s missing, isn’t he?”

Luke appears at my shoulder as I stare at my phone, tears stinging my eyes.

“The first twenty-four hours are the most critical in missing-person cases,” he says. It’s a far cry from The Clone Wars, but he’s clearly quoting something.

“What should I do now?” I ask, as much to God as to myself.

But it’s Luke who answers. “Call the police.”

So I do.

Thanks for talking with us again, Kolt. We’ve received some new information that raises additional questions.

Okay.

When was the last time you saw Jake Foster?

In the locker room, after the game.

Are you sure? Think hard, son. Because we have a witness who says they saw you pick him up from his house around midnight.

No, sir. That witness is mistaken, or messing with you. I can promise you I haven’t seen Jake or heard a word from him since the locker room. Is Seth Cooper your witness? Because I already told you, he’s the one you should be questioning again.

Is there anybody who can vouch for your whereabouts at midnight that night?

Sure. My parents. Like I said, I went to the party earlier that night—everybody did—but I was home before midnight and didn’t leave the house again.

If everybody was at this party, weren’t you worried that Jake wasn’t there?

I wasn’t worried then. Jake doesn’t always come out after games. But I’m worried now. Where’s my best friend? That’s the only question that matters.

Did you and Jake ever fight?

Nope. This is pointless. Quit talking to me and go find him. Where’s my best friend?

Did he ever get angry at you? Were you ever afraid of him?

Nope. Where’s my best friend?

Were you jealous of Jake? His athletic ability, his relationship with the coaches, anything like that?

Jealous? Are you kidding me? He’s my best friend. Where’s my best friend?

Were things different between you and Jake after his injury last summer?

Where’s my best friend?

I think we’re done here. Let us know if you remember anything, okay?

When the police leave my house, my parents just sit there on the couch. I slouch across from them, hands in my pockets, pinching the soda-can tab I picked up yesterday at Jake’s house until it cuts into my thumb.

Maybe I should show it to my parents.

Maybe I should have shown it to the police.

Maybe no matter who I show it to, they’ll tell me it doesn’t mean anything.

Not maybe. That’s exactly what will happen.

Maybe I’m an idiot for picking it up in the first place.

The second I saw it there, I could picture what might have gone down the night Jake disappeared. But what evidence did I have? A piece of