Free Finding Jake by Bryan Reardon Page B

call?”
    “What? Absolutely not! Who is this?”
    “I’m Michael, author of Blog You Later . Can you tell me anything about your son’s—”
    I hang up. Not a second later, another text hits my phone. This one announces itself as the local news affiliate and requests an interview. I jam my phone in my pocket. It vibrates once more as I stare at my bed again. Something about the sound triggers a memory. Blood rushes to my head as I lunge forward, remembering the note I found that morning.
    It lies on the carpet peeking out from under the bed. I pause, amazed that the police have not seen it. With a quick glance, I notice that the officer’s attention remains on my wife. I kneel and scoop it up. As I stand, I unfold the paper and see sprawling lines of writing in Jake’s hand. The top line reads:
    THAT’S MESSED UP
    I only have time to read that much. I quickly crunch the paper in my hand and jam it in my front pocket. My nerves tingle, sure that ifthe police see the paper it will be taken as evidence. I grab a carry-on my wife keeps stowed under the bed and focus on throwing underwear and socks into the bag, trying not to look at anything or anyone.
    “What?” I hear my wife snap. “You’re going to follow me into the bathroom?”
    A door slams. My thoughts trip and stumble. I am packing to leave my house, which is in the process of being searched because the police think my son shot thirteen kids today.
    Outside, Detective Rose finds us before we step down off the stoop. I take him in for the first time. A man in his fifties with military-cropped hair, either very short or gray at the temples, he wears a rumpled tan suit and brown Clark’s shoes. His fingers are thick and scaly. I can’t look away as he twirls a pen.
    Seeing him triggers my need to act once again. I am being shuffled forward by circumstance. What I need to be doing is searching for Jake.
    “I’m going to look for my son.”
    I move to step past him. He puts a hand up, stopping me. I pause.
    “Would you mind if we sat down? I have a few things I want to go over with you.”
    I ignore his request. “Have you found out anything yet?”
    Rachel does not react. It is almost as if the life, or at least the fight, drained out of her in the bathroom. She walks like the soulless as she follows Rose to the same café chairs we sat at earlier. The detective offers us the seats and he stands, flipping open a notebook. I remain standing as well.
    “At this time, we are unsure of the whereabouts of your son.” He is choosing his words carefully. “Was he alone when he drove to school?”
    Rachel does not react. I am surprised.
    “No. He drove our daughter this morning.”
    The detective writes something down.
    “What? Do you know something?” I ask, annoyed.
    “He was marked absent by his prime-time teacher,” Rose answers. “Your daughter did tell one of our detectives that he dropped her off.”
    My anger could register on the Richter scale. “When did you talk to Laney?”
    Rose’s eyes squint. Suddenly, I am sure he is suspicious, not just of Jake, but of me. I realize now why Rachel has remained silent. We are suspects.
    “I sent an officer over to the Bennett residence to ask her a few questions.”
    “Did you read her her rights?” I snap, without thinking. “Did she have a lawyer present?” I need to regain control.
    The detective raises a hand. He looks to Rachel for help, but gets none. She is staring at Karen’s house now, at least that’s what it looks like. I feel my grip on the situation all but vanish.
    “So you decided to question my fifteen-year-old daughter without telling me?!”
    “I understand that you’re under a lot of stress right now, Mr. Connolly. We are doing everything we can to locate the whereabouts of your son.”
    The word “whereabouts,” used for the second time, cuts through me and I want to lash out. Just then, Rachel touches me lightly on the outside of my hand. I look at her but she is still