“James.” Jessie snaps her fingers. “Don’t get hurt over someone you’ve only known for three days. If her dad is like you say he is, he might be dangerous, and you don’t know what he’s capable of—”
Straw to her lip, Jessie freezes, looking over James’s shoulder. “Holy shit, he’s here. He’s watching you.”
James whirls, knocking the table with his leg. Soda sloshes, pools around the base of the glass.
A 2004 Jeep zooms off the square, tires screeching as it pulls down the street.
The evening is mellow, warm, sticky. Cicadas scream in the trees in front of James’s house. He smacks a mosquito on his arm, leaving behind a trail of blood, and waves goodbye to Jessie as she backs out of his driveway in her rental sedan, off to the airport. It stings every time she leaves. He doesn’t know when he will see her again, and he is jealous of the life she is flying away to.
He sighs. Is he stupid for thinking he, too, will one day get to live in New York? Being an author feels like a pipe dream, especially when his mom and dad slip med-school brochures under his bedroom doorand shake their heads with disapproval every time he breathes Jessie’s name. Aunt Patricia, in that classic mom way, calls her twice a week to guilt her into coming back to Lincoln.
The first firefly of the night blinks past. Pam, the town’s mail carrier, pulls onto Anderson Street, bobbing her head behind her windshield. Her musical taste is vast and consistent: explicit rap Thursday through Saturday, worship songs Monday through Wednesday. When she pulls up to the house and waves at James, out spills a soulful lyric about sinking into the waves of God.
Wednesday. July 7.
Three days since he met Nelle.
Two since he went to her house and saw her sitting almost lifeless at that table.
James braces himself on the porch railing, his phone like a rock in his pocket. Just three numbers. He could dial three numbers, tell them he is concerned for Nelle, and be done with it. That is all he has to do. Anxiety eats at his stomach like a monster, stilling him.
Going back to 23 Blackwood Road terrifies him.
But Nelle might be in danger.
Shit.
He pulls out his phone, nauseous and trembling, and dials 911.
It rings for half a terrifying second before a woman answers.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“I, um ...” James sucks in the warm air. “I went to a friend’s house two days ago. Nelle Quill. She lives at 23 Blackwood Road. I met her father for the first time, or at least I think it was her father. But he seemed really strange. Scary. I saw him again today in town. I think he was following me. I’m just worried about her safety, so if there’s anything you could do to check in on her ... I know you probably need a search warrant for that, but—”
On the other end, a woman exhales strongly enough to cut him off. A pen scratches. “What’s your name?”
“James. James Finch.”
“Thank you for calling us about this, James. Where are you now?”
“Home.”
“Stay there for now, ’kay, hon?”
“I can do that.” Suddenly James’s porch feels like a prison cell. All he wants is to break out and haul ass to Blackwood Road. Is sending the police a grave mistake? He leans against the chipped railing. “How soon do you think you’ll send someone?”
“We can have an officer out there tonight.”
James exhales and fishes his memory for Jessie’s advice.Stay out of it.
“’Kay. Thank you for calling, James.”
“Thanks,” he says absently.
A frightened animal coils inside him, telling him to stop talking to Nelle, to disassociate himself, to resume life like normal and never think about her again.Go back to school, graduate, get a job, stay in Georgia.
But Quill is in that house with Nelle, and has been for God knows how long. James swallows.
