I thank him again, turning toward the window and catching a glimpse of my reflection, thinking that Quentin is absolutely right.
As we start for the highway, I ask Quentin to turn on the news. “I want to hear everything about Winston Weeks.”
Part 2Find your forgotten stick
15
Winston Weeks went missing late last night, right about the time the other investors were murdered. There is no body, no blood. There has been no demand for money. His house alarm was triggered at around three a.m., but by the time the police arrived, there was no one there. All the lights were on and classical piano music was playing from the stereo in the dining room.
A few hours later, Winston’s car was found by the railway, burned up and still smoking when the fire trucks arrived. There was no body recovered. At this time, Winston Weeks is presumed missing, and I can’t help but think of all the other missing people that no one ever looks for. But a millionaire is missing for a few hours, and the entire country is having a manhunt to save him.
“Do you think he faked it?” Annalise asks, looking over her shoulder at me from the passenger seat. “Saw what was happening and staged his own disappearance to keep himself alive?”
“Possible,” I say.
“I don’t know,” Quentin says, watching the road through the windshield. “He wouldn’t have even known about the other two investors yet, right? Seems this strike happened simultaneously. It was well planned. And I’ll be honest, I don’t think Winston Weeks is the last rich dude who disappeared last night.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“It’s all over the news, but there’s no official response from anyone. No one high up weighing in. And normally, that’s okay, but considering the frenzy of panic, it seems unusual. I think they’re taking stock to find out who else got targeted.”
“I wish I knew who we were dealing with,” I say. “No way this is just Leandra, or Rosemarie, or Anton. And the corporation is some faceless entity—I don’t understand what they want anymore. Who they are anymore. None of this makes sense.”
Quentin and Annalise agree. I lean my head back against the seat and watch the trees outside the car window. The drive to the cabin, which Quentin swears is little more than four walls and a roof, is winding and long. And the farther we get from town, the more I start to miss Jackson. We’d finally resolved to love each other, finally kissed, and already we’re apart. I don’t long for him, not in the way characters do in movies. I miss him making me laugh, chatting and thinking things through with me. I miss our partnership.
But more than that… I have this sinking feeling that I’m never going to see him again. He’s going to the police, he shouldn’t be in danger, but I have a deep sense that something is wrong. Whatif they believe he was involved in his father’s death? What if someone else catches up with him?
I take out my new phone and text him, my body swaying with the movement of the car as it swings along the winding road toward the lake, the trees causing shadows to streak across my lap.
I’m not mad,I type to Jackson. I’m immediately comforted when a return text pops up, but I’m disappointed to see that it’s an automatic text to let me know he’s driving and will contact me later.
“He’s actually on a bus,” I mutter, “but okay.”
“What’s that?” Annalise asks, sounding bored. I tell her it’s nothing, and she reaches out to scan the radio stations again, only to find static and several angry radio hosts. She clicks off the stereo. She checks her phone and groans. “Signal’s gone too,” she says.
I check my phone and find the same. I tuck it away, a little dizzy from the car moving, and stare out the windshield to get my bearings. When the nausea passes, I rest back in the seat and watch the patches of trees fade as the lake comes into view.
It’s honestly breathtaking, and I realize it’s the first time that I’ve seen a body of water in person, at least from the ground. The sunlight glitters off the surface, and I hear Annalise gasp as she watches it too. Quentin smiles and turns to her.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” he asks. “I used to love it here as a kid.”
“I can imagine,” she says, sounding a bit dreamy.
We turn down a dirt road, the lake running along the side of us, until I see a small wood cabin at the end of the lane. It sagsslightly to the left; a bit of disrepair is obvious, but it’s quaint.
“This is amazing, Quentin,” I say. “Thank you for letting us use this cabin.”
“My parents were thinking of selling it a few years ago, but I asked them not to,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve been up here since my grandfather died, but I should have. It’s gorgeous.”
“I can’t wait to watch you clean it up,” Annalise says, earning a laugh from him.
We get out of the car, and the air is fresh and warmer than it was when we left town. I stretch my arms over my head and take a big gulp of air. I’m a bit nostalgic. At the academy, we would run outside where I could soak up that fresh mountain air, but it was thin. Here, the oxygen is pure and open. I feel at home.
“Well,” Quentin says, starting up the creaking wood steps, “let’s see what the squirrels have been up to.”
He finds a key hidden under a dirty flowerpot at the corner of the porch, and then unlocks the door. It’s dark inside, and he flips on a light, illuminating the room in an orangish glow. Annalise walks in behind him, dropping her bag at her feet as she surveys the room. Then she promptly crosses to the windows and begins opening the shutters, letting light stream in and transforming the place.
It’s a little worse for wear. The furniture is dated, and dust coats most of the surfaces. It smells a bit musty, and when Quentin turns on the faucet it sputters and groans before water begins to flow. But with a bunch of us in the mix, we’ll have this place humming with activity. We’ll bring it to life.
