Page 7 of Into the Dark, We Go

I shook my head. "He had his lucky grandpa’s socks and a few other weird things, but that was about it. He was more into studying these things than buying knickknacks."

Mitchell slumped back, disappointed. "Do you have access to his computer or phone?" he asked, dejected.

I shook my head no. Lucas’s phone disappeared with him. Apparently, the police tried to track it, but there were no pings from masts to suggest it was on or changing locations. The rest of his things were taken by his parents. I didn’t have much, only his gym bag, which I brought home with me the night he disappeared. The police never asked about it. There were also a few belongings he’d left in my room. Without those, I might have wondered if he’d ever really been part of my life.

"When did you say Amanda disappeared?" I asked.

"September thirteenth last year," Mitchell replied.

Lucas had gone missing a full year prior, on September twenty-fourth, the day of the game. I was still stumbling to find any connections.

"If you’re not coming with us, do you mind sending us a picture of his… scribbles?" Mitchell asked.

"Sure, if I can find them."

Disappointment etched itself on June’s face. She reclaimed her device without making eye contact with me.

"Sorry, I couldn’t help more."

Mitchell and I exchanged numbers, and he sent me screenshots of everything they had on the psychic. I didn’t want them, but he insisted.

"Just in case you remember something," he advised. "I still think you should come to Duluth with us. Even if we don’t find anything, at least it’s a new place to visit."

I didn’t tell them I’d been to Duluth many times. "I’ll think about it."

"You know what you’re gonna do with this info?"

"Haven’t decided yet. I might go to the police and see what they say."

June looked up from her phone with a skeptical smirk. "Good luck with that."

I smiled wryly. "It feels like the right thing to do."

Mitchell, on the other hand, encouraged me, "You can use our names, mention Amanda if it’ll help." He slipped on a pair of sunglasses he’d kept in his shirt pocket. "We’re headed out tomorrow morning. Let us know if you change your mind."

January, 2017

Some fights arelike explosions that sling shrapnel into your heart. They burrow in the thick, dark silence for years, squirming closer to that sensitive spot that could break even a fated romance. The scars heal, and the pain fades, but the memories stain your soul like a roadmap of tragedies.

That’s how it felt after our first big fight.

Lucas’s room had been cluttered with textbooks, clothes, and all sorts of trinkets that he swore brought him good luck—a gris-gris, a few bones that Irefusedto touch, and a stag skull he claimed to have shot himself on a hunting trip with his dad. I wasn’t thrilled about his hunting—I’d always found it violent, but I kept that to myself.

In my attempt to support him, I’d decided to help with his laundry, a task that he, a nineteen-year-old college student, often neglected.

His dorm room was heavy with the smell of sweat and dirty clothes, but he didn’t notice any of that. He was glued to the screen: a football game, during the playoffs, chips and chocolate spread on his bed. The rest of the world ceased to exist.

I held up a pair of clean, weathered socks. "Where do you want these?"

Lucas was too focused on the stream to pay much attention and gestured vaguely towards the dresser. Only when a streak of tartan green glided past did he shoot me a side glance and snap with horror.

"What the fuck did you do?"

I’d never heard such rage from him. He shoved his laptop aside, the screen flashing the final seconds of the game, but he didn’t care anymore.

"What?" I stammered, holding the socks like wilted flowers.

Never had anyone yelled at me like this. My father had always been gentle with me, even when I was a teenager pushing boundaries. Unlike in many families, my dad was the good cop, always on my side, even when it meant siding against Mom. My high school boyfriend never spoke to me so harshly, either. To be fair, we never even fought. After my father’s death, we drifted apart and broke up almost amicably.