Cryer’s Cross

Jacián’s eyes narrow, then soften. “Fine.” He steps back, turns sharply, and walks up the stairs. Kendall hears his feet and the click of the front door closing.

She glances over her shoulder nervously as she packs the beef in the freezer. By size and shape. It’s the only way she can stand to do it.

She rushes through her shower and gets ready. Waits until almost noon for him to show up. And then she calls Nico’s house. Nico’s line is busy. Kendall hangs up and calls the home line instead. Mrs. Cruz answers.

“Hey, Mrs. Cruz. Nico there?”

“Kendall! No, haven’t seen him up yet this morning. Leave a message?”

“Hmm.” Kendall thinks. “We’re supposed to go to Bozeman today. Maybe you should wake him up.”

“Sure thing. I’ll have him call you in a minute.”

“Thanks!”

“Bye, hon.”

“Bye, Mrs. Cruz.”

Kendall hangs up and flips on the TV. The news anchor talks about that sixteen-year-old serial killer in Brazil again—the girl who killed twelve people. Wow. Just wait until she tells Nico. Makes Jacián the teenage kidnapper look just a little bit lame.

Twenty minutes pass, and Kendall grows concerned that Nico hasn’t called. Just when she’s about to call him again, the phone rings.

It’s Nico’s mother.

“Kendall,” she says, her voice distressed, “Nico’s not home. His bed is made. There’s no note.”

Kendall’s stomach jumps into her throat before she can think rationally. “Is his car gone?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Well, that’s good, then, right? He’s probably just out somewhere.” Kendall’s tongue is thick. She swallows hard. Breathes.

“Yes, that’s probably it,” Mrs. Cruz says, and then she laughs anxiously.

Kendall whispers, “Maybe he went to Bozeman without me.”

They find the car. It’s not in Bozeman. It’s parked at the school.

And Nico’s not there.

After a cursory search through the town and all around the school grounds, Nico’s parents start contacting everybody they can think of, asking if they’ve seen him.

There is no sign of Nico Cruz.

Nico’s car engine is cold, and according to Sheriff Greenwood, there are no clues inside. Not in the car, or in the school. Still, they tape off everything as a precaution. After what happened with Tiffany Quinn, it’s never too soon to suspect a missing person. Everybody’s on edge.

When Kendall hears the news about the car, she runs the mile from her house to the school. The car looks so lonely sitting there, surrounded by onlookers. Air crushes her chest. She sinks to her knees, can’t catch her breath. People start crowding around her to see the car, the school . . . as if there is something to see. But there’s nothing. Just a car, a building. Yellow tape.

“He could be fine,” someone says. “Maybe we’re all overreacting. He’s practically a grown man. Maybe he’s out for a hike.”

“Maybe he’s hunting back in the woods.”

“Maybe his car ran out of gas and he pulled in here.”

“Yes, let’s not jump to conclusions.”

But the other whispers are there too, growing louder. “Another one. What’s happening to our safe little town? All the children are disappearing.”

Kendall tries, fails to tune them all out.

It’s all she can do to just breathe. And count.

Count breaths: thirty-six. Count stones in the dirt: more than fifty. Count people saying stupid things: all of them.

Count all the days she’s known him: infinity.

Maybe he’ll be back before she’s done counting.

Maybe not.

The buzzing noise of the people grows louder and louder, and Kendall can’t think. She can’t count with so much distraction. She stands up and shoves through the crowd, screaming, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! All of you just shut up!” Tears blur everything.

Someone grabs her sleeve. Blindly she whips her arm away and runs, runs like hell. Runs almost all the way home, until her feet can’t keep up with her and she plunges forward, down onto the gravel, shredding her palms and knees. And then she just lies there as a huge splash of hurt rips through her body, and she’s so grateful for the pain, because she can feel it. It lets something else loose. She sobs. There in the gravel on the side of the road in front of Nico’s farm, she sobs, under the old rusty mailbox where she used to put notes for him, grasshoppers and bees fly and buzz around her in a panic.

It’s not long before she hears feet crunching on the gravel. When the sound stops next to her, she lifts her head and looks up, squinting into the sun. Her lip starts quivering again. “Mom,” she says.

“I couldn’t run quite as fast as you,” she says, “but at least you ran in the right direction.”

Kendall slowly pushes herself up to her feet. Tries to wipe the gravel out of her hands and knees, but some of it’s stuck hard. She starts crying again and gives up as Mrs. Fletcher wraps her arms around the girl.

“Come on inside,” Kendall’s mom says. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Sheriff Greenwood is coming over in a few minutes. He wants to talk to you.”

Kendall jerks her head up. “Why?”

“Just to get an idea of who saw him last. Nobody thinks you did anything. They think he left the house late last night.”

“Why would he do that?” Kendall limps up the long driveway to their farmhouse. “I think my brain is going to burst,” she says. “My OCD is going crazy.”

“I know, honey. This is hard. But we’ve got to stay hopeful, okay? He’s a big strong guy. He can take care of himself. We just need to figure out what happened. Find out where he is.”

Kendall nods. Inside the house she works on cleaning her wounds. Mrs. Fletcher turns on the news, but there’s nothing about Nico yet. Takes a while for word to travel to civilization from way out here.

Sheriff Greenwood arrives, cowboy hat in hand. With him is someone Kendall doesn’t recognize.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher, Kendall. This is Sergeant Dunne from the Montana State Police. He’s here to help us find Nico.”

“Hello, please sit down,” Mrs. Fletcher says, pointing to the dining table. She walks through the great room into the kitchen, gets cups, saucers, and the coffee pot, and pours coffee automatically, as if the two cops come over for coffee every day.