You Make Me ▶▶A Hunter Hayes Fanfiction◀◀

Chapter 19

A/N: Sorry, but this one is a little short :/ The next one will be longer, I promise!! Also, it's still in Hunter's point of view right now. Thanks for all of the comments, reads, and votes! Stay crazy!

I don’t know why, but I think that Stan had something to do with Harper being missing. There are only two reasons why; one, he called Harper his fiancee when they have been broken up for two years and he knew what kind of snake bit her (without her telling him), and two, I’m pretty sure he was the one who attacked me two times. The first time, when I was jumped at night and got punched, I swear I saw his unmistakable bright green eyes. The second time, when I was leaving Steak and Shake, I’m pretty sure he was the one who pulled a knife on me and pressed it against my neck. He pushed me against the wall, but I couldn’t see his face because a hood was covering it. I pushed him away, causing him to accidentally cut his arm a little, and I guess some of the blood dripped onto my sleeve. The guy ran away, but not before I saw him get into a scuffed green truck.

I never told Harper about the second incident, not wanting to worry her any more than she was.

I slam my hands on the steering wheel in frustration and desperation. If only I hadn’t taken her phone this wouldn’t have happened. If I just listened to her and comforted her while she was crying instead of demanding for an answer, she would still be with me. I would still have her.

Tears of anger start to blur my vision. I furiously blink them away as I drive.

I need to focus.

After about an hour of driving, I reach the house. It’s in the middle of an eerie woods with mud and long grass everywhere. Even the trees send me on edge. The house has white trim and a broken roof, a big hole on the left side of it. The porch is crooked and stained with water damage.

This is exactly how I imagined Stan’s house when I first saw him at the hospital.

Stan’s green truck isn’t in the driveway, but he could still be inside. Harper can be inside.

I kill the engine and jog up to the door. I knock.

Nothing.

I knock again.

Again, no answer.

I peer into a smudged window. All of the lights are off. It actually looks like no one has set a foot in there for days.

I twist the doorknob, but it’s locked. Growing impatient, I take a step back, then run and kick the door. With a jolt, it flies open.

I’m genuinely impressed that I was capable of doing that.

Getting over myself, I take a cautious step inside. “Hello?” I call into the vacant home. The wooden floors creak under my shoes as I move into the kitchen. I open up all the cabinets. I’m not sure what I’m looking for in there, but you never know. When I lean against the counter, I set my hand into something wet. I look at it, then where I placed it. Right next to the sink. I step closer to it, turning my head to the side and bending over slightly so I can look into the faucet. A drop of water is clinging onto the faucet tip. There are more drops of water inside the sink and around it on the counter.

Someone has used it recently.

“Stan?” I call, walking up a flight of wooden stairs. “Harper?”

I reach the upstairs and check every room. I creep into another room, which has to be Stan’s bedroom. There’s nothing suspicious or off about it; maybe I’m wrong about Stan being the culprit?

I peer out the window, then make my way to his closet. I try to open it, but it’s locked, too. I take a step back, then kick it open, just like I did with the door to the house. What’s inside makes my stomach churn.

There are pictures covering every inch of the three walls to the closet. Every picture is of Harper. Most of them look like she wasn’t even aware that the pictures were being taken. There’s one with her at a pool in an orange one-piece swimming suit that matches her orange hair, one of her checking out items at a store, looking at cereals in an aisle at a supermarket, brushing her hair in her room, and so many more. A few are of her working at the carwash. Others are of her in random places. What’s even scarier is that some are pictures of her in her apartment window. I look at every picture, bile rising in my throat. There’s even a small ziploc bag with a small lock of her orange hair inside. My heart nearly stops at the sight of a picture of Harper and I together, laughing. We’re both looking at each other, and it reminds me of how my parents used to look at each other in the pictures they showed me of when they were young. A big red circle is around me, a slash going through it.

I stumble out of the room, my mind racing.

What the hell did I just see?

I go back downstairs and search the rooms down there. Still, there’s nothing. The only thing that I’ve found that’s useful is the mural-type-thing.

I collapse onto one of the chairs in the living room, emotionally and physically exhausted. When I rock back, my arm knocks over the landline phone onto the wooden floor. It makes a beep before saying, “Stan, it’s your mother. There’s another pesky raccoon that keeps trying to get into the trash. Could you come over real quick when you get this? Thanks, love you.” Another beep, and the woman’s voice stops talking.

I suddenly get an idea and pick up the phone. I push voicemails and an arrow. I listen to three voicemails, each of them from Stan’s mother. The fourth one, however, gets my attention. It sounds like a young male.

“Mr. Brown, your hotel room is ready. Just as a reminder, it’s Springs and Johnson on Fourth and Park’s Street. Enjoy your stay.”

I look at the date. He got it the day before Harper went missing.

I jot the address down after playing it again, then run out of the house. My phone goes off as I fasten my seat belt over my body, but I ignore it.

I have to find Harper.