Page 39 of Still Missing You

In spite of everything we’ve done together over the past few nights, I haven’t gotten a good look at his injury. The scarring is jagged and red, and it definitely looks swollen from exertion.

He was shot, I think to myself. He could have died. While I’d lost him years ago, let him go, the possibility of him being gone from this world for good ices the blood in my veins.

“Hey.” Hunter’s voice drags my attention from his knee to his face. My expression must give away what I’m thinking, and he reaches for my hand, pulling me closer. “It was a long time ago, and I’m fine. It really doesn’t hurt that much.”

Given that he almost fell on his face earlier, I’m not sure I believe him. My throat feels like it’s shriveled to half its size, and even if I knew what to say, I don’t think I could speak.

“I’m glad,” I finally manage to rasp out. Because I don’t know how I could exist in a world without you. Living away from you is hard enough.

He squeezes my hand and nods at his laptop next to him on the bed. “We should start going through that footage. It’s going to take forever.”

I sit next to him on the bed, and we start watching Matthew’s raw footage. Nothing has been edited, and nothing is in any consecutive order. Most of the footage is interviews with local townspeople, some we recognize, but most we don’t, and most don’t believe Matthew’s claims about the disappearances or that there’s anything unusual about them. Some people even get angry, accusing Matthew of stirring up trouble.

“Can I ask you something?” I say, while we queue up the next interview.

“Of course,” Hunter says.

“Do you think Matthew’s dead?” Just speaking the words aloud makes my chest tighten. I feel like I’ve let him down.

Hunter sighs. “I don’t like to speculate, but it’s been almost two weeks with no sign of him. He obviously got himself mixed up in something. It doesn’t look good.”

My throat squeezes tight. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Chapter Fifteen

Hunter

I’m not sure how long Dylan and I have been lying sprawled out on the bed with my laptop balanced between us, watching Matthew’s interviews. Long enough for the ice on my knee to melt and for me to notice how quiet Dylan has become.

He leans back against the headboard, a couple of pillows propped behind his head, and his gaze fixed on the screen. Each interview goes on for close to an hour, and while Matthew’s questions are thorough, they’re also repetitive. He isn’t exactly covering new ground.

The fact that Dylan keeps watching without comment makes me uneasy.

I take the makeshift ice pack off my knee, which already feels better between the ice and the ibuprofen, and shift onto my side so I can see Dylan’s face better.

“Are you okay?” I ask him.

He blinks as if the sound of my voice startled him from his thoughts, as if he’d forgotten I was there. “Yeah. Sure. Why do you ask?”

“You’re quiet,” I admit, reaching out to stop the recording.

“Do you need more ice?” I suspect he is deflecting.

“I’m good. It’s a lot better than it was.”

He nods at the frozen screen. “I’m not sure how much of this is actually registering at this point. Maybe we should grab some dinner and take a break.”

“That sounds good. I’ll change, and we can find somewhere to eat.”

But Dylan is already shaking his head and rolling off the bed. “Why don’t I pick something up? Let you stay off your knee a little longer.”

“It’s fine now. I’m feeling a lot better.”

Dylan nods knowingly. “Cool. A little longer off that knee can only be a good thing.”

Dylan starts to move away from the bed, but I grab his wrist and stop him. “I’ll stay right here, off my knee, if you tell me what’s really bothering you.”

He sighs and drags his fingers through his hair, leaving it messier than normal. “I can’t shake the feeling that I let Matthew down, that I failed him.” The longer we sit with this footage, the heavier the guilt seems to get.