Free Finding Jake by Bryan Reardon Page A

Someone fucking told them that Jake is a friend of that—”
    “They aren’t friends,” I snap.
    Rachel looks at me. Only she knows what she intends with that look, but I feel accused. She must blame me for Jake being acquainted with Doug. She traces it all the way back to that baseball game, in fact, and what she considers my misguided parental decisions. At least, that is what I feel in the moment. In reality, I doubt I ever told her the baseball story.
    “Look, I just told him to be nice to everyone.”
    Rachel blinks, slowly. “What? What are you talking about?” She shakes her head. That’s when I notice the tears. Rachel is not a crier. Usually, her tears come only when she is frustrated. Seeing them now awakens me from the circuitous path of my thoughts as they rattle through my skull.
    Whether my wife and I have communication issues, or bigger issues, for that matter, is irrelevant. Thoughts vanish and instinct takes over. I go to my wife, hold her, and we cry, together, for a long time.
    “Mr. and Mrs. Connolly.”
    An officer approaches us, his hands outstretched. He looks abashed. We both stare at him without saying anything. My throat is raw and the words are buried under the shock again.
    “I can take you inside now. So you can get a few things.”
    “Get a few things?” Rachel asks. “What?”
    Although not crying now, I can hear it just below the surface of her words. The officer can as well.
    “Have you heard anything more about Jake? Has anyone seen him?” I demand.
    The officer swallows and looks away. “Detective Rose will come over when he gets a chance. He can talk about all that with you. I’m just supposed to take you inside so you can get some things.”
    It dawns on me what he means.
    “You won’t be leaving soon, will you?”
    He shakes his head. “I’m not at liberty to say. But you might want to call family, or reserve a room somewhere.”
    Rachel bounds to her feet. She looks ready to strangle the kid (because the officer can’t be more than twenty-two years old). I grab her wrist and steady her. She staggers. Under any other circumstance, such a display of vulnerability would make her uncomfortable. Years of working in the male-dominated law profession has taught her to shun such frailties. Watching her now, I see the Rachel I met decades ago, before all that, the young woman so full of smiles and wide-eyed openness. I help steady her but feel weak myself. At the same time, I notice that the officer does not flinch. He has seen this tale before.
    “Let’s go inside before they say we can’t,” I whisper to her.
    The officer leads us into our own home. I half-expect that they have ransacked the place, but everything looks eerily as it did that morning, except for the men and women wandering through our rooms, taking pictures and speaking in hushed tones. Attuned to the acoustics, I locate the center of activity, Jake’s room upstairs. Instantly, I remember something.
    “Where’s Laney?” I blurt out.
    “She’s at the Bennetts’.”
    I guess I assumed Rachel would take care of her. She cannot see all this. But I hadn’t even asked to be sure my daughter is okay. Rachel does not seem to notice this, though.
    “You can go up to your room, but I have to come up with you,” the officer says.
    I nod but Rachel lunges up the stairs as if attempting to lose him. I let him follow her up and I bring up the rear. Our room is empty of activity and appears undisturbed. As I look at our bed, my current read still resting on the nightstand, my phone vibrates as it receives a text. I yank it out, my hope spiking.
    What can you tell us about your son’s involvement in the shooting?
    Shocked, I check the ID but do not recognize it. I back into a corner and call the number, glancing around to see if the police notice (although not really sure why I do that). A man answers, his voice echoing as if he answered the phone in a basement.
    “Simon Connolly. May I record this