Then You Were Gone Part 12

"s.h.i.+t, Knox, you're blitzed."

True. Drank a quarter of Sam's smoky scotch before I boarded the bus for Kate's place.

"What's in the bag?" she asks, prying the soggy brown sack from my fingertips.

"Blueberry pie."

She peeks inside. "You sit on it?"

I laugh. Kate laughs. Purple filling oozes onto her dry, white hands.

Walker, Yates, and Reed huddle around their supper plates, staring. And Lee? Lee's at my side, peeling my coat off my body, yanking me into the kitchen.

"You're drunk?"

"I'm hungry." I pull myself up onto the sticky countertop. "When do we eat?"

"What the h.e.l.l happened to you? We ate already."

I dig into some leftover congealed artichoke dip with my pinkie. "Yum."

"Knox, look at me." He grabs my chin. "You smell."

"That's the scotch."

"Why are you like this?"

"Like what?"

"Because of her?"

"Because of her?" I mimic.

Kate appears, carrying a stack of crusty plates. Lee turns, says, "Take care of this?"

Now Kate's in my face with a bowl of cold chicken and roasted beets. "Eat, drunkles." I let her feed me. The beets are sweet and tangy and I swing my legs back and forth while I chew.

I tell Sam I'm sick. He knows I'm hungover. I skip school, go to the Italian deli on Alpine, buy an eggplant sub and a liter of Pellegrino, and walk home. I eat my sandwich, lie on my lawn, mess around with my phone. I google "Mark Mills."

Up pops his website, along with a few tangential mentions on music sites and rock blogs. I click MarkMills.com. One page only. Stark blue, looks homemade. Bands he reps. Contact info. I cut and paste his studio information into my cell. Ridiculous. So easy. Who the h.e.l.l is this guy? How did he get with D. Webb?

August 18. Roughly a month before she went missing. I scroll through Gmail trying to sort out where I was the day she was posing for those pictures. A few nonsense emails from Lee ("Blow me." And, "Come over. Come sit on my face."). A forward from my mother. A Zappos receipt. Nothing noteworthy. I try text next-clicking Kate's name, reading backward, to August 18: "b.i.t.c.h, you late. Hurry up. Want pie." So, supper club. Thursday. School day. Dakota was living, breathing, getting naked with sketch music managers, scribbling dates down on old army jackets.

Back to Contacts. Mark Mills. I tap his name with two fingers. Consider emailing. Stop myself. Toss my phone into the purple bougainvillea. Roll face-first into dry gra.s.s.

We used to do this all the time, me and Lee. Screw around for hours. Order Thai takeout or pizza. Do our homework downstairs in front of the TV while his parents were out at some dinner or fund-raiser or fancy premiere.

Now, no more s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around. And Lee's big, showy shack makes me feel sad, sick, and lonely.

"Pa.s.s that, please?" He points.

We're trading dishes. Shrimp lo mein for pork fried rice. Lee takes a sloppy bite of noodle and makes a face. "Tastes weird, right?"

"What?"

"The lo mein." He chews quickly and pats his mouth with a napkin. "Saltier?"

"Tastes fine to me." I suck on my lip and push the plate away.

"You're done?"

"Yeah."

"You barely ate."

"I did, Lee, I ate, like, half a tub of that eggplant."

"That's nothing. That's like eating air."

I shrug him off and grab at the orange chicken. "Look," I say, picking up a glossy piece of meat with my middle finger and thumb. "Mmm." I fake enthusiasm, taking a bite and playfully pus.h.i.+ng Lee backward. He's not laughing.

"Knox." He drops his chopsticks.

"What?" I lick my thumb clean and flash my fakest grin. "I'm eating, see?"

"You're miserable."

I don't want to have this conversation right now. I want to pack up my c.r.a.p and go home. "Lee, I'm fine. I'm tired, okay?"

"You're different."

"Lee."

"It's like, you look at me and it's like-" He looks at me. "Like I make you sick or something."

"Stop."

"No, I just-I want to talk about it."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"I just-I can't tell if it's her?" he says, breathing hard. "Or if it's me." We watch each other. "Is it me?"

"Is what you?"

"You don't, like, let me touch you anymore."

"That's not true."

"It is." His eyes are wet. "Why can't you just admit it?"

"Admit what? Lee. Jesus, stop. You're freaking out over nothing."

"It's not nothing. G.o.d, Adrienne. You're showing up drunk to dinners, you're completely withdrawn, you're dressing different-"

"You like this," I say, grabbing at my dress, incensed. "You prefer it, remember?"

"Prefer it to what?"

"You said I looked s.e.xy."

"You do! You did and you do."

"So-what is this?" I scream, not looking at him, looking at the s.h.i.+ny walls instead. "You're p.i.s.sed off because I won't f.u.c.k you?!"

"Oh my G.o.d, Adrienne." His voice cracks and one arm flies up, accidentally knocking the takeout container out of my hand. Orange chicken skitters across the Turkish rug.

"I'm sorry," he whispers quickly, looking humiliated and apologetic. I dart toward the blinking television, where the white rectangular box lies, mangled, nearby on its side. "It's fine," I say, digging bits of fried batter out of the carpet.

"I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay, Lee." I right myself, carrying the mess to the trash can. "I wasn't hungry anyway."

Open period. Julian and I share a cigarette inside his Datsun.

"This thing work?" I ask, straining to roll down the sealed side window.

"Jammed," he says, biting the cigarette, touching his tongue to its filter. "You need to, like-" He stretches across the seat, using both hands to joggle the window roller. "There." He pulls back, both elbows brus.h.i.+ng my thighs. "Air."

"Thanks."

"Finish it," he says, pa.s.sing me the last of the cig.

I squish the wet filter between my fingers. Touch the damp part to my lips. "I googled that guy," I say, dragging lightly, holding the smoke in. "I have his info. I think we should contact him." I exhale, bracing myself for Julian's wrath, but- "I can't stop thinking about, just, like, the two of them."

"Maybe he'll talk to us . . . ?" I say quietly, seizing my moment. Julian's willing, I feel it. Ready to yield. "Maybe he knows something?"

"Maybe he did something," he suggests.

I look over. His face is fuchsia.

"Those freakin' pictures," he says, putting his head in his hands. "And I keep going over those dates. A few overlap with shows, but the bulk of them-there's no pattern. I can't link them to anything specific."

I have nothing to offer. No theories, no fantasy scenarios. I feel bad for him. Jilted beau. Betrayed bandmate. "Want me to do it? I can call him," I say. "Try to set something up?"

He's zoned out, hunched over, chewing a knuckle. After a minute: "Don't do that," he says, snapping back to life. "No, I know the guy." He faces me. "I know where to find him."

The Echo.

Julian knows the door guy. We skate by with quick waves-no IDs, no dollars. Inside, it's black, packed, and L-shaped. There're mirrors. There's a bar. Onstage, three girls beat drums and scream melodiously into mics. Julian leads me up front. We meet the crowd, scanning lit faces.

"What does he look like?"

"Dunno. Old. s.h.i.+thead vibe."

We squint, searching. I gesture left. "That guy?"

Not that guy.

We wait. Check our watches, watch the door, watch the show. We buy drinks. Between sets, we buy more drinks. New band: loud, goth, grating. I'm ready to go.

"Can we leave?" I scream, having hit my death-metal limit.