Free The Night She Disappeared by April Henry

She never got mad, she was never depressed. She was just”—he runs his flat hand in a straight line across the table in front of him—“even.” He can’t decide what tense to use.
    “Why did you break up?” It’s hard to believe I’m asking this question of Brock. Harder still to believe he’s answering it.
    “It was her idea.” I wonder if I’m imagining it, but his voice sounds rough. “We’ll be going to different schools in the fall. She said she knew we wouldn’t be together then, so there was no use putting it off. Except I’m wondering if that was the real reason. Because she asked you to trade so she could have Friday off, right?”
    I nod. It seems like everyone knows this.
    “So who was she going out with on Friday? Do you know?”
    What do I say? Do I say I don’t know? That’s true. She never said a name. Or do I tell him another truth, how Kayla’s face softened and her eyes lit up? She looked like someone in love. That’s true, too.
    I settle for “She didn’t say why she wanted to trade. Just that it was a favor.”
    “Do you think it was a customer? Someone at school? Did she say anything about him?”
    Everyone keeps thinking I know something, but I don’t. And even if I did, would it matter? Whoever wanted to take her out on Friday night probably didn’t kidnap her two days before.
    “She didn’t say anything at all. She just said there was something she wanted to do on Friday.”
    “I hear the guy asked about you. Do you know who it was that took her?”
    I stiffen. “What? Why are you asking me that? Don’t you think I would have told the police if I did?”
    He waves his hand. “I know, I know, sorry. It’s just that—maybe there are things you would tell me that you wouldn’t tell them.”
    “To be honest, Brock, if I was going to tell anyone anything, it would be the police. Because I want Kayla found.”
    He makes a small wordless sound, and again I wonder if I hear the beginnings of tears. “What will there be to find? Whoever did it is not going to just let her come walking home again.” And even though it’s his table, not mine, he stands up, picks up his tray of uneaten food, and says, “Thanks for talking to me,” before he walks off.
    On my way back to class, I pass what must be Kayla’s locker. Now it’s decorated with yellow ribbons. On the floor in front of it are a half dozen bouquets of flowers, still wrapped in plastic. But the flowers are already fading, their heads hanging limp from the stems.
    If I disappeared, who, besides my parents, would really miss me?

The Sixth Day
     
    Kayla
     
    AT SOME POINT I noticed the water bottles lined up along the bottom of the bookshelf underneath the TV, and I drank some. There was a box of granola bars, too, but they are long gone. Mostly, I’ve just been sleeping. Maybe it’s a bad thing to sleep when you have a concussion, but I do it anyway. Sometimes I scream for help, but less and less often. I try to ignore how my stomach hurts, how it spasms.
    This time when I wake up, a man is standing over me. His arms are crossed.
    “Help me.” I reach my hand toward him, but he steps back with a frown.
    I push myself up so my back is against the wall next to the bed.
    He stares at me, expressionless, and doesn’t make a sound. He’s wearing tan pants and a navy blue short-sleeve shirt with a row of pens in the pocket. He’s got thinning dark hair and little round wire-framed glasses. He looks kind of familiar, but I can’t place him.
    “Scream as loud as you want,” he says, and smiles. The smile changes his face, makes his eyes go flat.
    I don’t scream. I don’t even cry. Or beg. Instead I say, “Who are you? Why am I here?”
    “You belong to me now.” He says it as if it’s a simple fact.
    The collar on his shirt is buttoned up tight, but right above it are three parallel marks, like the tops of angry red furrows. I think they’re scratch marks.
    And I think I made them. Looking at them, I