Page 20 of You Belong Here

I took the mask with me, ice-cold and dripping with the quarry water, like some sort of proof.

Something had happened. Something was still happening. I felt the cold shock work its way through my bones. Felt something else coming alive in the process. The need to move, to act.

Seven and a half hours since the dropped call. One hour since Bryce had emerged from the woods, looking for someone behind him.

I was trying to put the pieces together.

By the time I made it back to the lot behind the deli, a second sedan, gray and rusted, was parked behind the other vehicle at the trailhead.

I circled to the front of the building and stuffed the wet mask in my bag.

It was instinct, a secret that belonged to the past—something I needed to keep for myself.

Bells chimed overhead as I pushed through the front door of the deli. The two girls behind the counter quickly looked up and pulled slightly away from each other, as if they’d been leaning close, whispering.

They were both striking, with angular features and bone-straight dark hair slicked back into tight ponytails.

One was taller than the other, but I thought they could’ve been sisters.

Or it could’ve just been the style of the current generation.

They looked about Delilah’s age—maybe still in high school; maybe not.

The taller girl wore an apron with the name tag Carly .

They both looked to me expectantly. I’d been up since two in the morning, and I couldn’t find my grounding in the present.

“Large coffee, please,” I said. It seemed the smartest choice at the moment.

Carly turned for the coffee machine while the shorter girl rang me up at the cash register, her white nail polish just starting to chip.

The deli had clung to its roots—tip jar on the side of the counter, a request written in marker for CASH ONLY PLEASE .

That was maybe the biggest surprise of the town: how little it had changed in comparison to the shifting generations and the new construction on campus.

But that was also the charm of this place.

They didn’t bend their rules to accommodate the population from the outside.

They held strong, waited for the outsiders to adapt.

There was an ATM strategically placed outside in the brick wall around the corner. I wondered if they got a kickback from the bank.

I rummaged in my wallet, thankful I had a worn ten-dollar bill, which had probably been there for months. I slid it across the thick wooden countertop that had been covered in graffiti over the years, notes and names and drawings. Another tradition, one that was encouraged.

If you were to strip back the layers, somewhere underneath the years of ink, you’d find my name in block letters, the ridge of the mountains in the distance engraved underneath. Something I was practicing, trying on for size, before I committed to my tattoo.

“Will that be all?” Carly asked as she handed me the cup.

I took a sip of the coffee, scalding against the roof of my mouth.

“Do you know,” I began, like the thought had just occurred to me, “where I can find the Harv—the Whartons? I think their son Bryce is about your age.” I could’ve tried a Google search, checked the White Pages, but word of mouth was the most reliable resource here.

I wanted to know if he lived close to downtown.

I wanted to know if there was another reason he could’ve been cutting through the woods this morning.

The other girl paused as the cash drawer slid open, then cut her eyes to the side. A question.

“I went to school with his mother, Violet,” I added. And then, with a grin, “A long time ago.”

Carly stared back, straight-faced. I felt her looking me over. She was too young to know me but not too young to know of me.

This was another benefit of their cash operation—I didn’t have to hand over my credit card, watch as my name registered on their faces.

“I think they live in the Estates,” said the girl with the white nail polish as she pushed the drawer shut and handed me my change. “I graduated with Bryce last year.” I caught a twitch at the corner of her mouth that did nothing to make me think they were friends.

“Thanks,” I said, nodding like: Of course that makes sense.

I placed my change in the tip jar and turned to go, the heat of the coffee searing my grip.

“Hey,” a voice called from behind. I turned around slowly, like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t. But Carly was just holding out a receipt. “You forgot this.” Her eyes were locked on mine as I took it from her outstretched hand.

There was no way Bryce had been returning from a night at home. The Estates was a solid drive up the winding mountain roads, large and showy on sprawling lots, with manicured hedges and wide front porches. And he hadn’t been coming from the deli—it had been closed when I first arrived.

No, he was coming from Cryer’s Quarry. He had to be.

I knew there were technically other options—friends, a significant other.

But the first howling of the year had presumably swept through the valley last night, and I’d just found a mask, eyeholes cut into the red fabric, floating in the quarry water.

He’d been there. I was sure of it. And, as much as I hoped against it, there was a good chance Delilah had been out there, too.

It took me a moment to find the entrance to the hidden path again, and it was much slower going on the way back, uphill with a coffee in my hand. But I felt the caffeine and the warmth hitting my bloodstream, waking me up. Students should be waking up soon, too.

I waited until I was at my car behind the dorm to check my emails.

It had been almost two hours since I’d emailed Delilah. Eight since her dropped call. And I worried my parents’ house would have spotty coverage, with their Wi-Fi service turned off temporarily.

I did a quick scan for Delilah’s name down my inbox, but came up empty.

There were a handful of other messages that had come in since the evening before: an update from my parents, sent every Friday like clockwork, to a list of anonymous recipients including me; a reply to that request for a memoir—had that really been only yesterday?

—and a reminder of an upcoming bill’s due date.

I didn’t bother reading any of them. Instead I hit refresh, willing something to happen.

Her Instagram account was still idle, my note unread. My text message still showed as undelivered.

An electric golf cart pulled into the lot, driven by a man in an orange vest. Security, I was guessing, with nothing better to do at the moment than check for parking permits. I slipped inside my car and started the engine before I had to explain myself.

My father was a creature of habit, though he was prone to adventures.

Even in Peru, I was sure, he’d be wearing a checkered button-down and khaki pants, waking at the same time each day, eating oatmeal and raisins for breakfast while he checked the same gold watch that once belonged to his father.

The email updates were probably from him, though they came from a shared email address, so it was impossible to send a note to one of my parents without the other.

We do have separate cell phones, my father had said with a shrug when I pointed this out.

It’s easier this way. Your mother keeps the calendar.

After they retired, practically in unison, they lost their school email accounts and defaulted to a single username that could double for either or both: TheProfBowery .

I found the idea of sharing an email address with anyone alarming, like giving access to my private thoughts. But maybe my mother had long since pried every secret from my father, so that he found the prospect a useless endeavor.

Other things I could count on my father doing: raising the flag on the mailbox, even though there were no outgoing letters, so that he would know when the mail had arrived; closing every door behind him when he exited a room, an old habit from trying to conserve heat in the bedrooms at home; and leaving the spare key around back, in the hollow of an antique weathervane.

Now I drove up their street until I found a spot along the curb. I walked up their narrow single-car driveway, which was occupied by their small gold sedan, then reached over the high picket fence for the latch.

The gate shuddered against the ground as I pushed it open, catching on patches of grass and dirt, the hinges starting to pull away from the wood, everything shifting off balance. I squeezed through the entrance and followed the paving stones to the back door.

The weathervane remained where it always had, on a slate stone beside the back steps. It was made of a dark, heavy metal, with a figurine of a coiled-up dragon just below the spinning arrow.

I tilted the weathervane to the side and reached into the hollow underneath, fingers grasping for the spare key. But I felt only the dirt and grit of the underside. I ran my hand over the slate, brushing the surrounding dirt and grass.

The key was missing.

I peered around the yard, looking for other options. The potted plants had been moved, only the rusted rings left behind on the steps. I groaned, irritated by my parents’ preparations. One of them must’ve taken the key inside for safekeeping.

I returned to the front of the house and pulled the gate shut behind me until I could hear the click of the latch. So much for my plan to regroup here, think of my next step.

Looking up at the house, I had one more idea. One last place to check.