Hold Tight

“Did they catch the killer?”

“No. They didn’t even know who she was until today.”

“I’m so sorry, Guy.”

“I’m on my way back to the house. Yasmin doesn’t know yet. I need to tell her.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t think Jill should be there when I do.”

“Definitely not,” Tia agreed. “I’ll come pick her up right away. Is there anything else we can do?”

“No, we’ll be fine. I mean, it might be good if Jill could come over later. I know that’s asking a lot, but Yasmin might need a friend.”

“Of course. Whatever you and Yasmin need.”

“Thank you, Tia.”

He hung up. Tia sat there stunned. Beaten to death. She couldn’t wrap her brain around that. Too much. She had never been much of a multitasker, and the last few days were playing havoc with her inner control freak.

She grabbed her keys, wondered if she should call Mike, decided against it. He was laser-focused on finding Adam. She did not want to interrupt that. When she stepped outside, the sky was the blue of a robin’s egg. She looked down the road, at the quiet homes, at the well-tended lawns. The Grahams were both outside. He was teaching his six-year-old how to ride a two-wheeler, holding on to the seat as the boy pedaled, one of those rites of passage, a question of trust too, like those exercises when you let yourself fall back because you know the person will catch you. He looked hopelessly out of shape. His wife watched from the yard. Her hand was cupped over her eyes to block the sun. She smiled. Dante Loriman pulled into the driveway in his BMW 550i.

“Hey, Tia.”

“Hi, Dante.”

“How are you?”

“Good, you?”

“Good.”

Both lying, of course. She looked up and down at the block. The houses were all so alike. She thought again about the sturdy structures trying to protect lives that were much too fragile. The Lorimans had a sick son. Hers was missing and probably involved in something illegal.

She was slipping behind the wheel when her cell phone buzzed. She checked the caller ID. It was from Betsy Hill. Might be best not to answer it. They were after different things here, she and Betsy. She wouldn’t tell her about the pharm parties or what the police suspected. Not yet.

The phone rang again.

Her finger hovered near the SEND button. The important thing here was finding Adam. Everything else had to take a backseat to that. There was a chance that maybe Betsy had found something that could give her a clue about what was going on here.

She pressed down.

“Hello?”

Betsy said, “I just saw Adam.”

CARSON’S broken nose was starting to ache. He watched Rosemary McDevitt put down the phone.

Club Jaguar was so quiet now. Rosemary had closed it down, sending everyone home after the near-fight with Baye and his crewcut buddy. They were the only two still here.

She was gorgeous, no question, a total hottie, but right now her usual tough exterior looked like it might crumble. She wrapped her arms around herself.

Carson sat across from her. He tried to sneer, but it made his nose hurt.

“That was Adam’s old man?”

“Yes.”

“We need to get rid of both of them.”

She shook her head.

“What?”

“What you need to do,” she said, “is let me handle it.”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

Rosemary said nothing.

“The people we work for—”

“We don’t work for anybody,” she interrupted.

“Fine, put it however you want. Our partners. Our distributors. Whatever.”

She closed her eyes.

“These are bad people.”

“Nobody can prove anything.”

“Like hell they can’t.”

“Just let me handle it, okay?”

“He’s coming here?”

“Yes. I’m going to talk to him. I know what I’m doing. You should just leave.”

“So you can be alone with him?”

Rosemary shook her head. “Not like that.”

“Then like what?”

“I can work this out. I can get him to see reason. Just let me take care of it.”

ALONE on this hill, Adam could still hear Spencer’s voice:

“I’m so sorry. . . .”

Adam closed his eyes. Those voice messages. He had kept them on his phone, had listened to them every day, felt the pain rip through him anew.

“Adam, please pick up. . . .”

“Forgive me, okay? Just say you forgive me. . . .”

They still came to him every night, especially the last one, Spen- cer’s voice already slurred, already hurtling toward death:

“This isn’t on you, Adam. Okay, man. Just try to understand. It’s not on anyone. It’s just too hard. It’s always been too hard. . . .”

Adam waited on the old hill by the middle school for DJ Huff. DJ’s father, a police captain who grew up in this town, said that kids used to get high up here after school. The tough kids hung out here. The others would rather walk the extra half mile to avoid it.

He looked out. In the distance he could see the soccer field. Adam had played there in some league when he was eight, but soccer was never for him. He liked the ice. He liked the cold and the glide of the skate. He liked putting on all those pads and that mask and the focus it took to guard the goal. You were the man then. If you were good enough, if you were perfect, your team could not lose. Most kids hated that pressure. Adam thrived on it.

“Forgive me, okay? . . .”

No, Adam thought now, you have to forgive me.

Spencer had always been volatile, with swooping highs and earth-crushing lows. He talked about running away, about starting a business, and mostly about dying and ending the pain. All kids do, to some degree. Adam had even started making a suicide pact with Spencer last year. But for him it was talk.

He should have seen that Spencer would do it.

“Forgive me. . . .”

Would it have made a difference? That night, yeah, it would have. His friend would have lived another day. And then another. And then who knows?

“Adam?”

He turned to the voice. It was DJ Huff.

DJ said, “You okay?”

“No thanks to you.”

“I didn’t know that would happen. I just saw your dad following me and called Carson.”

“And ran.”

“I didn’t know they’d go after him.”

“What did you think would happen, DJ?”