Page 34 of You Belong Here

Trevor idled at the T intersection of College Lane and my parents’ street, directly in front of the empty plot, yellow caution tape blowing in the wind. He was staring in the opposite direction—through the gap to the dark green hillside of campus and the mountain peaks beyond.

“I want to go into the woods,” he said. I knew what he was seeing: the sun dropping in the sky; a stomach-dropping infinity.

A thousand places she could be. I’d already checked the quarry trail and another unmarked path this morning.

The campus police would likely be checking the ones that branched off directly from campus, especially if they thought she’d gone hiking.

But I knew that feeling—needing to set eyes on something yourself to prove it.

“Okay. We can leave the car here, it’s as good a spot as any. We probably only have a couple hours of daylight.”

He pivoted to face me, eyes searching mine. “No, I think they’re right. You should start knocking on doors. You know this town. They know you.”

I swallowed dry air. Trevor knew the basics of what had happened here twenty years earlier.

He knew that my roommate had been accused of a terrible crime and disappeared.

He knew that the people who’d died were residents of the town and that it had strained the relationship between the locals and the college.

He knew the college had asked me to take a leave.

But I hadn’t told him about the feeling of dread whenever I looked out my bedroom window to the same view I once loved so much. He didn’t understand that between the college and the town, you couldn’t be both. You had to pick. This town may have known me once. But not anymore.

I shook my head. “There’s no way you should go in alone.” I felt a flutter of panic, like I might lose track of him, too.

“We can cover more ground if we split up,” he said. “I’ll share my location with you, just in case.”

“You’ll lose signal,” I said. “You don’t know the woods here—”

“Beckett,” he said sharply, his raised tone surprising us both. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly I could see the veins in his forearms. And then, more calmly, he added: “Please. I have to do this.”

He stared at me, and in his haunted expression I could see a piece of Delilah—it was the way she would ask for something, eyes wide, holding her breath, knowing she needed my permission first.

My heart thundered in my chest. I swallowed, then nodded. “We check in,” I said, my hand shaking as I opened my phone to share my location with him, too. “Every thirty minutes.”

“Got it,” he said.

I took a deep breath, then exited the car. “Trevor,” I said, leaning back inside, one hand on the open door. What I wanted to say: Please find our daughter. Please bring her home. Instead, I looked toward the mountains, eyes narrowed. “The dark falls fast out there. Faster than you think.”

I started at the far corner of College Lane, canvassing the homes on what was once Fraternity Row. The houses looked nearly identical from the outside, differing only in their orientation, the types of window coverings, and the items left out on the small front porches.

I knew many of the homes here used to be rented by professors or people associated with the school. I hoped I would run into someone who knew Delilah from campus—who might be able to provide some added insight into what had been happening with her.

I felt on edge, imagining who might open the door and recognize me—or my name. But time was running out. I didn’t care what they thought as long as they pointed me in the right direction.

The first home—porch flowers, beige curtains—appeared empty. But at the second home—tricycle on the porch, plantation shutters—I could hear voices just inside.

A woman answered the door with an impatient expression and a toddler on her hip. The boy was in a diaper, face covered in the remnants of dinner. I was probably interrupting bath time.

“Hi, I’m looking for a student from the college. Delilah Bowery. Have you seen her around recently?” I showed her the photos from my phone, scrolling between the school ID and the first day of orientation.

“Sorry, no,” she said, shifting the little boy to her other hip.

And then, as I scrolled to the last image from the backpacking trip, she leaned closer.

“I don’t know. Maybe. There are college kids walking down this street all the time.

They kind of funnel through on the way to downtown.

” She jutted her chin toward the corner of the street.

I nodded, thanking her for her time even as she was shutting her door.

By the time I made it to the end of one side of College Lane, about half the residents had opened the door. Some seemed apologetic, while others seemed intrigued, a flash of interest behind their eyes.

This wasn’t the first time someone had canvassed the area.

But twenty years earlier, when the police went door-to-door showing a printed-off picture of Adalyn, they were looking for a fugitive.

Judging by the ages of most people who came to the door now, I doubted they’d been here for that.

It seemed an entire new generation had cycled through.

My phone rang with a call from Trevor—our first check-in.

“I’m on a pretty well-marked trail near campus,” he said. I could hear him breathing heavily as he walked; I imagined he was trying to cover as much ground as possible. “Still have signal.”

“Just finished the first side of the street here. No updates yet.”

“Okay,” he said. “Talk in thirty.”

I checked his location, could envision him hovering in the woods on a trail that must’ve forked off somewhere between lower and upper campuses.

I crossed the street, making my way down the opposite side, and got more of the same. A pattern of no-answers, even when I could hear people inside. Or, when they did come to the door, I’d get a fleeting glance: Sorry, haven’t seen her .

Another check-in from Trevor, his marker showing him a little deeper in the woods.

Time was passing, and I was getting frustrated. This was proving to be a useless endeavor—I should’ve gone with Trevor. The sky was turning a golden hue in the twilight. I sent Trevor a text as I walked up the porch steps at the house next door to Cliff’s: You should start back soon.

I barely had a chance to ring the doorbell before the front door opened.

A short woman who seemed about my parents’ age stood in the entrance, brown eyes large behind thick bifocals.

I assumed she’d been watching me making the rounds and had been standing by, ready for me.

“Can I help you?” she asked, blinking twice.

“I hope so,” I said, pulling up the photos on my cell, turning the phone her way. “I’m looking for a student from the college. Her name’s—”

“Delilah,” she said, leaning closer to my phone. “Yes, I remember.”

I sucked in a breath, felt my stomach flutter in anticipation. “You know Delilah?”

She nodded, lips pressed together. “Is this about the fire?” She raised her hand to the side of her gray bun, brushing back any stray pieces.

“What?” I said, barely able to get the word over the lump in my throat. In that single statement, I smelled the smoke, saw the haze rising over the trees—

“The fire, ” she said, drawing the word into two distinct syllables, head tipped in the direction of Cliff’s house and the empty plot beside it.

I was trying to keep up, find my footing. “You talked to Delilah about the fire?”

Her eyes appeared even wider, if possible.

“Well, she came around asking about these old buildings and safety codes. She asked if I was home when that house went up. I was, of course. I was the one who called 911.” She shook her head, remembering.

“I told her she could just ask Dean Simmons. I’m sure he knows more. ”

“How come?”

She started to smile, then stopped like she realized I wasn’t in on the punch line.

“Well, he was supposed to be living in that house when it burned down. Signed the lease and everything but hadn’t quite finished moving in.

He’s so lucky he wasn’t there, sleeping.

Or his son— ” She shook her head, a visible shudder working its way through her. “It went up so fast.”

I felt a chill in the settling dusk—a gust of mountain wind descending from above. “I didn’t know that.” I’d assumed he’d been moving into the house he was currently in, next door to the fire. Not that he was supposed to be living in that very same one.

I pictured Cliff staring at the empty plot of land earlier today—another almost . His son’s picture beside his desk. How near a miss was that tragedy? It must’ve shaken him to the core, taken him right back to twenty years earlier.

I remembered him at the top of the bell tower, looking down. The way he’d poked his head out the door after, looking to make sure no one was watching. I’d assumed he was afraid of getting caught. But maybe he’d been afraid that something was out there. Something after him.

“When did you last see Delilah?” I asked.

The woman frowned, considering. “Oh, it was just the once. Maybe a week or so ago.” Then she tilted her head to the side like she was finally seeing me clearly. “Is everything okay? You look just like her.”

I shook my head. “She’s my daughter. I can’t find her.”

She sucked in a breath, then reached for my arm, warm fingers pressing into my skin like she was trying to hold me here. “I’ll keep an eye out. Let me get your number, honey. My son Dill works nights on security patrol up there. I’ll see what he might’ve heard when he’s back.”

He must’ve been the man I’d seen leaving this house earlier in the day, when I was visiting Cliff. The man Cliff had seemed like he was trying to avoid.

“Thank you,” I said as she retrieved a yellow pad of paper from the console in the foyer.

“Beverly,” she said as she tore off a piece of paper. “My name’s Beverly Lawrence. I’ll be keeping you both in my thoughts tonight.”