“Don’t worry!” he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
“That’s like telling the sun not to shine, Jake, you know that!” She was only half joking, Jake knew, and when she looked past him, down to the driveway where Jake’s car was parked, the worry lines on her forehead deepened.
Jake paused and turned around to face her. “Shirley,” he said, softer this time. Her eyes shifted back to him, but she shook her head and waved a hand as though shooing him away.
“I know, I know. It’s just... Have fun, okay? Tell Phil good luck for me. And—and don’t forget to text me when you get there. Please?”
Jake nodded. “I will.”
“Thank you, Jake,” she said, and she smiled a genuine smile this time and then looked past Jake again and gave another small, awkward wave.
Jake turned back toward his car and paused for half a second when he saw Rye smiling and waving to his mom from the front seat, the now-familiar stutter of his heart almost stopping him in his tracks. Rye’s eyes shone with eagerness and excitement, and the sight made Jake feel things—warm, pleasant things that he’d been doing his absolute best to hide.
It’d been nearly six months since that morning he’d found Rye on his beach and just about four months since Rye had first opened up to Jake about what had happened to him. And they’d become close. Good friends close. Best friends close.
Knowing everything he now did about the time Rye had spent down in the cold, dark basement of Raymond Hirsh’s house, Jake had made every effort to continue hiding those other burgeoning feelings he seemed powerless to stop.
And he’d keep working on it, too, because Rye still just needed a friend.
He couldn’t hide his reaction to seeing Rye smile, though. And when Rye’s eyes, bright and happy, shifted to him and Rye’s face lit up in another huge smile, Jake’s heart did its whole flip-flop-flutter thing again.
God, what was he getting himself into? Inviting Rye with him on a three-day trip to Reno to watch Phil compete in his first ever national-level gymnastics competition had sounded like a good idea at the time. And it would be. It would be fun. His heart would just have to work really hard to behave itself.
He hurried the rest of the way to his car, glad his leg was back to its normal level of achy after the muscle strain he’d gotten nearly six months ago, and then he climbed in, buckled his seat belt, and glanced sideways at his friend with a grin.
“Ready?”
Rye nodded eagerly, and that made the warmth in Jake’s chest grow even more. “I’m ready,” he said. But then he tilted his head back toward the house and bit his lip, his smile faltering. “I’m not sure my mom is, though.”
“Ah, yeah.” Jake started his car and then put it into reverse and began backing out of the driveway. “She’s just worried, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” Rye said, and he waved one more time to his mom as Jake shifted the car into drive and pulled away from the house. “It’s... the first time I’ll be... away.”
The slight hesitation in his voice hinted at the fact that Rye himself wasn’t entirely unaffected by it either, although he did seem more excited than anxious. Jake glanced at him, but Rye was grinning again and now looking down at his phone.
“Six and a half hours to Reno?” he asked.
Jake nodded as he focused back ahead of him. “Yep, or maybe a little longer depending on how often we have to stop. My doctor always suggests I stop at least every couple of hours. Get out and walk around a little. But, uh, when I head to my sister’s, I usually just drive straight through,” Jake admitted, grimacing.
Rye laughed. “My mom said the same thing. To make sure you stop every couple hours, that is.”
The car was quiet for a few minutes, and Jake navigated the familiar road in comfortable silence, stealing occasional glances at his companion. They drove past the road that led to Jake’s house, and then another mile or so later, they drove past a turnoff to the left—a long, roughly cleared dirt road that led to an old, now-abandoned house in the forest.
Jake’s chest tightened, and he let out a measured breath before sneaking another look over at Rye. Rye was staring out his window, his face turned away. His shoulders were tense, and his hand seemed to be pressing into his leg. Hard.
The memories were too fresh, even for Jake, and he could only imagine how Rye felt, especially given that Raymond Hirsh was still somewhere out there. Even just thinking the man’s name made Jake’s stomach churn.
That day Rye had shared part of his story with Jake, just about four months ago now, had been such a roller coaster of emotions. They’d gone to the police station, and Jake had recounted everything Rye had told him. And then there’d been a whirlwind of activity—phone calls and more phone calls, waiting for the county sheriff’s deputies to arrive, waiting more, answering more questions, fielding questions for Rye, being so, so careful to keep Rye comfortable while people descended on their small, quiet town again.
Nancy had been the key to so much. Jake still remembered when she’d come down to the police station in person after speaking to Wayne on the phone, how she’d recounted a phone call she’d had with a man named Raymond Hirsh on the evening of Friday, November 1. She’d called him earlier in the day to remind him of a package he was supposed to pick up that had been waiting for him for over a week. He hadn’t answered, so she’d left a message. Then, just before closing, she’d called him again. He’d answered this time, but he’d cut her off in the middle of the phone call, muttering and cursing.
He never came to get his package and hadn’t answered any calls since.
After Nancy’s admission, the police had gotten Hirsh’s address and then a search warrant, and late that night, Wayne, Craig, multiple police officers from the county sheriff’s department, and a few agents from the nearest FBI field office had gone out to Hirsh’s house.
They’d found nothing. And everything.
The house had been abandoned, obviously in a hurry. Mostly emptied dresser drawers had been left partway open, clothing strewn about the single bedroom, the fridge had been full of rotting food, including an entire gallon of expired milk and a large pot of mold-covered oatmeal, and the door leading down into the basement had had a large, fist-shaped dent right at about shoulder height. Raymond Hirsh had been long gone. And in his rush, he’d made no real attempt to hide any evidence.
