Page 82 of People Like Us

I stared at him trying to determine if he meant it or if he was simply emotional because his daughter was dressed up for formal pictures like some milestone fatherhood moment out of a Hallmark commercial.

“Are you proud of me?” I asked softly.

His grip loosened slightly around my wrist. I watched emotions move across his face too quickly to fully name—surprise first, then guilt, then something almost wounded.

“Of course I’m proud of you,” he said.

I squeezed his hand because I didn’t know what else to do with the sudden ache blooming behind my ribs. Then I put my practiced smile back on—the small, neat one that made adults comfortable.

“Thanks, Dad.” I slipped free before he could say anything else.

The truck smelled like leather seats and Andy’s cologne and the peppermint gum he chewed obsessively before football games. As soon as I climbed in, he reached over the center console and squeezed my knee.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” I shut the door harder than I meant to. “Just cold.”

He studied me for a second like he knew that wasn’t true, then started the engine.

Behind us, my father still stood beneath the porch light watching the truck idle in the dirt driveway. My stepmother appeared beside him, wrapping her cardigan tighter around herself before leaning against his shoulder. For one strange moment they looked almost happy. They felt like mine in a way I’d never experienced before.

The roads into town were slick with old rain, black pavement shining beneath the truck headlights like snake skin. Andy drove one-handed, easy and loose behind the wheel of his vintage Chevy, the other hand resting warm on my thigh whenever he wasn’t shifting gears.

He wore confidence the same way some people wore expensive watches—daily, thoughtlessly, like he’d forget it was there if nobody pointed it out.

“You alright, babe?” he asked again, glancing over at me beneath the red glow of a stoplight. “Thought you’d be more excited for tonight.”

I sat stiff in the passenger seat, careful not to let my pinned curls touch the headrest. My scalp already ached from the bobby pins digging into it. The jacquard skirt spread awkwardly over my legs, thick curtain fabric rustling every time I shifted. Outside, dark fields rolled past in long stretches, winter corn cut down to ugly stubble that looked like broken teeth sticking from the earth.

“I don’t know,” I muttered. “Feels a little weird going to this thing while Shannon’s still missing.” I picked at a loose thread on my skirt. “Like… doesn’t it feel selfish?”

It had only been two weeks since Shannon O’Kinzy vanished into the woods behind Holy Trinity Baptist Church like the earth itself had opened up and swallowed him whole. The search parties had slowed down by then. People still talked about him, but softer. Less urgently. Woodland had already begun doing what small southern towns did best—turning tragedy into rumor and rumor into background noise.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about the shape in the trees that night.

Couldn’t stop hearing the crack of the rock against something solid.

Andy sighed through his nose, turning the wheel with his palm. “Maybe. But he was a shy kid.” His voice stayed light, almost absentminded. “I don’t think he’d want us giving it too much attention.”

Was. The word lodged itself in my throat, thrumming and thrumming, and thrumming until I couldn’t stand it any longer.

I turned toward him sharply. “Too much attention?” Exhaustion sharpened my tone. “Andy, he could be hurt somewhere.”

“Nah.” He shook his head easily, like we were discussing football scores instead of a missing person. “That kid ran away.”

I blinked at him. “Why would you think that?”

“Because he had a backpack with him.”

“So?” I frowned.

Andy finally looked over at me then, eyebrows raised like the answer should’ve been obvious. “You ever seen him carry a bag to church?”

I opened my mouth, then stopped. Because no. I hadn’t.

At school Shannon always carried that composition notebook covered in taped-on clovers, clutched to his chest like scripture. At church he usually came empty-handed except for whatever paperback he’d shoved in his back pocket. I tried to picture him with a backpack and couldn’t.

“Did you tell the police that?” I asked slowly. “Or your dad?”