Page 29 of You Belong Here

The road cut sharply on the descent back to town. I kept seeing movement out of the corner of my eye; I’d brace for an animal only to turn my attention to a swaying branch, a sweep of leaves, tall grass moving against the pavement in an optical illusion.

I pictured someone running through the woods in the night, darting into the street, waving for help. A car barreling forward. The screech of brakes, eyes wide open in terror, hand out. Stop—

I shook my head, shook off the thought, tried to stop the spiral. I wasn’t seeing clearly.

I needed to eat. Or I needed to sleep. Maybe a shower, to wake up.

I wasn’t sure which, only that my body was hitting a wall.

It seemed supremely unfair that I would require human necessities at a time like this.

I swung by a drive-through on the way back toward downtown and picked up some extras for Trevor, who would likely be arriving soon.

My stomach twisted with every glance at the dashboard clock.

Almost twelve hours since her dropped call.

I might’ve been panicking unnecessarily when I first left my house.

I might’ve convinced myself I was overreacting at her dorm in the early morning.

But Delilah should be up by now, if she were tucked in somewhere safely on campus.

She would want food—she was always stumbling down for breakfast before she was even conscious enough to hold a conversation.

She would be desperate to get online even if her phone was broken. Maybe especially then.

She would’ve seen my messages. She would’ve known I was looking for her. She would’ve found a way to reach out, let me know she was safe.

Twelve hours, I knew, was too long.

I passed the turnoff to Maggie’s house, then the spot where I’d stood once, tracing the ridgeline. The spot where Delilah also must’ve visited, to take the picture she’d posted on Instagram.

Maggie may not have heard from her, but Delilah had been right here, so close.

On impulse, I called Maggie again, leaving the phone on speaker. This time she picked up immediately—like she’d been waiting.

“Maggie, I still can’t find her,” I said, voice tight. I needed help. Trevor. The campus police. Her. “I really think something’s wrong.”

After a pause, she said, “Bill volunteers with the fire department. He might have more ideas about where the kids hang out these days.” Bill, her husband, whom I’d never met.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Beckett…” she began, then stopped.

“What?”

“It might be nothing, but I heard it last night.” I knew what she was about to say. I could hear it, too, in my memory. “It was the first howling of the year.”

Cliff might’ve brushed me off, but Maggie confirmed it.

I was right to be worried. I wasn’t the only one thinking it.

As I parked on my parents’ street once more, I felt the possibilities of Delilah’s whereabouts dwindling in a way that tightened my chest, stole my breath.

I closed my eyes and reminded myself that right now, if Cliff kept his word, campus security would be reviewing the cameras at school.

If there was reason to panic, they would call.

I approached the front door cautiously, eyes focused on the top of the screen door.

I ran my finger along the seam, where the tape was still firmly adhered to both edges of the frame.

The screen door hadn’t been opened since I’d left.

I peeled the tape away, then let myself inside the unlocked front door.

I stood in the foyer, listening—and heard nothing. I believed I was alone, but I checked to make sure no one had entered through the back door in my absence, either: The tape was secure there, too.

In the kitchen, I ate as quickly as I could, then stored the rest of the food for Trevor. But when I stopped moving, I heard something whistling from up the back steps, like a window had been left open.

It had been shut, I was sure of it.

I stared at the dark steps behind the kitchen, then slowly headed that way. My hands braced against the walls of the narrow stairwell as I climbed. The whistling was louder here, coming from the bathroom. I peered inside: The door to the attic entrance was fully ajar.

The sound of the wind was coming from the attic, where it whistled through the gaps, unprotected by the insulation of the house. I shone my phone light inside, as if someone might’ve been hiding in the corners, then pulled the door shut firmly—the noise dissipating.

I couldn’t remember whether I’d left the attic door open in my rush.

Still I could hear the whistle of the wind, shuddering against the windows, taunting me.

I poked my head into my parents’ bedroom downstairs, where the bed was perfectly made with hospital corners. Their bathroom right outside, with a window to the side yard. Locked.

My father’s office, where I’d accidentally left the window unsecured over orientation.

I pivoted to the hallway outside my father’s office—there was one more place to check, to be sure: the basement. Though my mother preferred to call it the laundry room.

I flipped the switch just inside the hall door, and the overhead lighting below flickered once before catching.

The wooden steps were painted gray but otherwise unfinished, with a small railing on either side. When I was younger, I used to get vertigo standing at the top, looking down.

I didn’t have much cause to ever be down here; this was my mother’s space.

The only time I’d venture down the steps was to play around with the old dumbwaiter.

It led from the kitchen to the basement, with a cabinet built directly into the cinder-block wall.

We never used it other than in jest—sending laundry up and down for the novelty of it.

I always thought there was a darker history here, inside the walls of our house.

Why else would someone need to deliver food to a basement?

But my father said I had it backward: a chef’s kitchen in the basement, food sent to the residents above.

I wasn’t so sure. There was no evidence of that setup now.

The washer and dryer were tucked against the far concrete wall.

Several wooden posts extended from the floor to the ceiling throughout the space, supporting the house.

My mother had added stand-up metal shelving for laundry baskets and cleaning supplies, with bins for spare linens and old three-ring binders full of her years of lesson plans.

On the top shelf was an antique mantel clock that didn’t seem to be in working order.

I retraced my steps to the main floor, flipped the light switch, and shut the door. I was sure: The house was secure.

I heard Trevor’s car before I saw it—the hum of an engine crawling slowly along the street. Pausing, house by house, before continuing on. I went out to raise a hand at his dark blue sedan and felt a surge of relief as I walked his way.

His gaze caught mine over the hood as he exited the car, and I could see everything I was currently feeling mirrored back.

Dark circles under his light blue eyes; hair, shaggy and unstyled in his rush to leave, starting to turn gray along the sides; athletic clothes thrown on haphazardly, in mismatched shades of charcoal, though I imagined he had showered after his run before hitting the road.

He was broad-shouldered and tapered like an athlete still.

His expression was pure vulnerability—something I’d seen only once before.

“Thank you for coming,” I said, my throat unexpectedly tight. I could feel the tears coming and fought to stop them. Once they started, I knew, they wouldn’t stop. I didn’t think, just fell into his chest, and his arms wrapped around me in a tight squeeze.

“Of course I came,” he said, the words a shudder in his chest as he tucked his head over mine.

Here was the only person who would care as much, fear as much, give as much to find her. Who would immediately get into his car and drive, to look himself.

Ever since Delilah was born, she’d been the conduit between us. She’d run to him for a hug while I’d stand back and watch her circle her arms around his neck, swing off his shoulders, rub her palm against the dark stubble of his jaw.

Until now, I realized, that was as close as we ever got, since I left London—and him.

Even in the hospital two days after Delilah was born, when he’d taken a plane across the Atlantic and then a taxi straight from the airport, his hand had hovered over my shoulder before he thought better of touching me.

His thumb had moved instead to Delilah’s cheek, where she was swaddled in my arms.

Now I felt his arms tense, his posture straighten. “Anything new since our last call?” he asked.

I pulled back from him, shaken. “No, sorry. I’ve been driving around, checking in with people who might have had contact.

I went to the dorm. To another parent. To the dean of students and an old friend.

” I was talking too fast, the words spilling out, and I could tell he was trying to process, to keep up.

“No one’s seen her yet. But campus security is supposed to be checking now. ”

“Good, good,” he said, nodding. His eyes looked bloodshot, his gaze slightly disoriented.

I noticed his throat move as he looked down the street, straight toward campus, and I realized he was seeing it all for the first time: the mountains in the distance, and the trees stretching toward infinity. All the places his daughter might be.

He took a sharp breath, then reached into his backseat. He swung a backpack over his shoulder, grabbed a weekender bag by the handles. He was prepared, of course. He was always prepared.

Trevor was the person, I imagined, anyone would call in an emergency. Even-tempered, possibly to a fault. He rarely raised his voice, never let emotions escalate the stakes of an argument. He didn’t fight—not with you; but, in my experience, not for you, either.