Page 30 of You Belong Here

He’d been a planner since the day I met him.

It was one of the many things I had liked about him, especially because I’d gotten to know him at a time when my life had felt unfamiliar, without form or direction.

He had an uncommon blend of responsibility and adventure, with a wide-open heart that he wore proudly on his sleeve, something I found both disarming and endearing.

But I never had to guess what he was thinking.

I never had to guess which parts of him were real.

And he was always planning: to see me again; to show me things around the city.

And more: He’d told me his plans for the semester, for the summer, for his career.

Delilah had been the ultimate unexpected twist. I supposed I had been, too.

In hindsight, I should’ve given him some more time, some more grace.

But I couldn’t forgive his first reaction; I don’t think I wanted to.

He’d asked me to stay once and only once—before I left for home for Thanksgiving.

He wore the same expression as now, like he was all exposed nerves.

He’d made a mistake, he said; he could make it work—make us work—if I stayed.

But by then I was already showing, and it felt like the offer was made under duress.

I needed to trust myself. I was also naive.

So very, very stubborn. I said no. And he silently watched me pack instead.

Now Trevor followed me inside the house and placed his bags along the wall beside the living room, just as my cell rang from the pocket of my joggers.

I felt my eyes widen—saw his expression mirroring my own.

My hand shook as I pulled out the phone. Cliff Simmons . “It’s the dean,” I said, answering the call.

“Hello?” I could hear my heartbeat echoing in my skull in the half second of silence.

“Beckett, it’s Cliff. We haven’t found her yet.

” I let out a sigh, shook my head at Trevor.

“But I’m with the campus police, and they’re compiling the footage from last night right now.

We’d like to invite you in for a meeting at their office at four-thirty, so we can discuss how best to proceed.

Make sure we have all the relevant information. Keep you in the loop.”

That was over an hour away. An hour of lost time. “Okay,” I said. “Four-thirty, see you then.”

“Same place it’s always been,” he added before hanging up.

I bit my lip as I turned to Trevor, felt my mouth turning dry. “Nothing yet. Campus police are setting a meeting.”

“Four-thirty,” Trevor repeated, nodding once. “Is there a place I can set up my things in the meantime? And change?”

I nodded to the room behind him. “My father’s office. Don’t mind the decor.”

He picked up his bags again, then his eyes trailed down my body—to the long-sleeved waffle shirt and joggers, which were barely a step above my pajamas. “Have you had a chance to take a breath?” he asked. Probably meaning: to sleep; to shower.

“There’s been no time,” I said, feeling a tremble in my hands.

He frowned. “There’s nothing else you can do before the meeting. I’ll make some calls in the meantime.”

I nodded, then watched as he slipped into the office, shutting the double doors that didn’t quite seal or latch.

He was right. I had to get ready. Shower, change, make myself presentable for the meeting.

Make them show me everything. Make them help me find her.

I showered in the downstairs bathroom attached to my parents’ room, where two beige towels hung perfectly side by side. I was lucky they hadn’t turned off the hot water.

When I emerged in the jeans and black button-down I’d hastily thrown in my bag in the middle of the night, I heard Trevor talking on the phone in the office.

I pushed one of the doors open, feigned knocking while he quickly waved me inside. He was sitting behind my father’s wide cherry desk, the line of masks on the wall beside him like they were peering down at him.

Trevor’s laptop was open, and he had a lined notepad beside him, dark writing in list form.

“Bowery,” he repeated to whomever was on the other end. “She’s eighteen. Five-seven, with wavy dark brown hair.”

I approached the desk, saw what he’d been writing. It was a list of nearby hospitals and phone numbers, most already with a line through them.

“Thanks for your help,” he said, and hung up.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said.

He drew a dark line through the last name on the list. “Well, it was a dead end. But a good one to be able to cross off.” He turned to his laptop, where he pulled up a map, searching for more possibilities in the area.

“How are you online?” I asked, wondering if he had some sort of portable Internet tech with him.

He frowned at me, then gestured to the side of the desk. “I plugged in the modem underneath.”

I leaned down and saw the black box with a series of green lights flashing. “I thought my parents called to turn off the Wi-Fi,” I said, confused. My mother had made a big show of it when we were here for orientation.

“It doesn’t seem like they did,” Trevor responded with a small smile.

I let out an exasperated sigh. Both at them and at myself for not checking. I plopped on the futon across from the desk, pulling my legs up to the side, and connected my phone to their local network.

The first thing I did was check Delilah’s Instagram again, trying to see into her past, pull any insight from her world.

I opened the last image she’d posted with the mountains in the distance and the caption: Here .

I searched through her list of friends for anyone named Sierra or Gen—the two names I heard most often.

Nothing came up for Sierra, but searching the list of followers for Gen pulled up a private account. The profile picture was of a girl holding a bucket hat over a head of very curly hair, her mouth open in feigned shock. A theater kid if I ever saw one.

I couldn’t send a message since the account was set to private, but I took a screenshot of her picture. A place to start. Something to pass along to the campus police.

Then I opened the latest email from my parents and sent a reply.

Mom/Dad: Did you give someone else your spare key? I’m in town and couldn’t find the key out back.

I debated telling them more but figured it was better to wait.

What would they do with the information other than panic, separated by time and distance with nothing at all they could do but ask me for continual updates?

Or they’d say: Beckett, please, you’re overreacting. I wasn’t sure which I preferred.

I sent the message, then clicked the next one down, about the memoir. It had been sent last night, after I’d gone to bed. Before my world had shifted on its axis.

So nice to finally hear back from you, Beckett. The project is a firsthand witness account of a crime—unresolved, decades old, in a small town. You understand, of course, the need for privacy and sensitivity. The timing is urgent. We can come to you; pls send your availability ASAP.

By the time I finished reading, the hairs had risen on the back of my neck. The details were vague—vague enough for me to potentially see something in it that might not exist.

Crime, unresolved, decades old. Small town.

You understand, of course—

The timing is urgent.

I closed the message, tossed the phone onto the futon beside me.

Trevor looked up from the laptop screen. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just reached out to my parents.” I forced a tight grin.

He came around the desk, sat beside me so that I could feel the warmth of him—something he wanted to say. “The police are involved, Beckett. Let’s give it a minute, okay?” He reached a hand for my shoulder, squeezed it gently in reassurance.

As if he could see me on the cusp, about to completely fall apart.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m trying.” But I left the room, filled a glass at the kitchen sink, trying to shake the unsettling chill.

Witness account . We had all been witnesses. There were witnesses the night of the howling, and a bar full of witnesses the weekend before. I wondered how many still lived here. How many knew I’d come back.

Maybe it wasn’t Delilah being targeted here but me. Maybe she was just an extension of the effort—the clearest way to hurt me the most.

Someone had been trying to reach me. I’d had three emails from them before I noticed. Maybe they’d seen me here in August, down at the Low Bar. Maybe they were still angry. And when they were unable to get my attention, they started targeting my daughter instead—

I imagined a shadowy figure sneaking into the dorm, stealing her things. Taking the key to my parents’ house, writing the threatening words on my wall. Following her in the night while she tried to hide out in Beckett Hall—

“Ready?” Trevor asked, from the entrance of the kitchen.

I nodded. “I’ll meet you in the car.”

After I heard the screen door shut behind him, I pulled another fresh piece of tape from the drawer to secure the house on the way out.