It's morning again and I'm getting ready for school again, no closer to figuring anything out. I wasn't expecting to become the next Sherlock Holmes overnight, but it would've been useful.
Thanks to the bunch of sleeping pills the doctor prescribed me to help me sleep, the night was restful — even if it was a false rest. But with my mum administering them very strictly at 8:30 every night, I can't stay up long and brainstorm about Chance, or Max, for that matter.
She keeps the sleeping pills locked in her bathroom cabinet. I guess she's worried about me taking one too many.
Just as I'm pulling my shoes on, there's a knock at the door. I frown; who could that be?
It's not gonna be Chance, I doubt it's Max or Lilia.
"I'll get it." Mum hurries past me before I can get to my feet — avoiding sudden movements is essential when recovering from a concussion.
Mum unlocks and swings open the door to reveal two serious-looking people dressed in blue and grey.
"Mrs Brewer?" The man on the left checks. My mum nods. He continues, introducing himself and his partner, "I'm Detective Jones and this is Detective Barrow."
"We're part of the CID unit at the Ridgeshire Police Constabulary," the woman, Barrow, explains. "CID stands for—"
"Criminal Investigation Department," I pipe up, ignoring my face beginning to burn as the detectives' beady eyes settle on me. "I — uh... I looked it up a while back."
That's the truth; when the police weren't doing anything about Chance's disappearance, I looked into other alternatives. Yet I'd have to report a crime — like a kidnapping — to get the CID involved. The CID were the real deal; the plainclothes police officers all granted the title of 'detective'.
"May we come in?" Barrow looks back at Mum. It's the words of a question, but the tone of a statement.
"Of course, of course." She lets them in and then bustles off to make tea. She doesn't seem bothered by the fact we need to leave for school in five minutes; I don't complain.
Dad left for work half an hour ago, so I don't even have his effortless charm to act as a buffer between me and the detectives that have shown up far too late to be of any use.
Wordlessly, the detectives and I move into the living room and sit in uncomfortable silence until Mum brings in two steaming mugs of tea.
After a nod from her colleague, Barrow begins, "Do you know why we're here, Rory?"
I nod stiffly. "Why only now?"
"Pardon?"
"Why didn't you come and ask me any questions after Chance disappeared?" I grit my teeth and set my eyebrows in a permanent scowl. "I was the one who reported the fact she was missing — I made a statement at the police station. But you're only coming to ask me questions now when Chance is in a fucking coma and it's too late."
Too little, too late.
Mum reaches her arm out to touch my knee, but I move away from her. I don't need to calm down right now.
"When you reported the missing person," Jones explains slowly as if he's talking to a child, "The uniforms come out and ask questions. They asked Chance's dad, and they were on their way to ask you, as well, but Mr Harn insisted you were just a bystander."
My frown creases deeper into my forehead. I can't bring myself to believe what he tells me — not the fact that Martin Harn defended me or the fact the CID refused to get involved as soon as Chance disappeared. It just seems like they were lazy.
"Typically speaking, 80% of missing children are found in 24 hours. 90% are found in two days," Barrow tells me, recounting word-for-word what I already know from the missing persons' website. "Only 2% are missing longer than a week."
"So what?" I exclaim, getting to my feet. "You figured Chance was MIA for more than a week and called it quits? Or did you just watch the 24 hours pass by while you had a nice cup of tea and a biscuit?"
Mum doesn't stop me this time, so I guess she's thinking the same.
"Originally, this was just a simple missing person case—"
I cut off Jones before he can continue, "Whereas now?"
"Whereas now, we suspect foul play," Jones concludes.
Incapable of stopping myself, I bring my hands together in a halting, slow, exaggerated and ungenuine clap. "Well done, you tossers. Obviously, there was fucking foul play involved — people don't just jump off waterfalls wasted in the middle of the night for the hell of it."
Well, some probably do, I allow myself to think but don't air it aloud.
"Did you see anyone else out in the woods on that night?" Barrow asks.
I like how they're taking turns with their questions; I think irrelevantly, strongly disliking the individuals involved but strongly appreciating their equality.
"No. As far as I could tell it was just me and Chance." I fight the urge to ask them questions back and sit back down on the sofa.
"Are you certain no one pushed Chance?" Jones has his notepad out now.
"She decided to fall." Shifting uncomfortably, I clear my throat and then ask, "How come no one found her for weeks?"
Barrow and Jones share a glance. I've disrupted their flow; I've asked the question they don't want to answer.
Maybe I should be a detective.
"We searched the woods for weeks."
"That's a lie," I spit out before my brain can filter my thoughts. "I've been out in the woods almost every day since that night, walking my dog. I never once saw signs of anyone searching for Chance."
Guilt rises in me. Because for the first few weeks after Chance's disappearance, I was too shaken and too traumatised to go look for her myself. I completely forgot about her treehouse; how she could've been staying in that.
"0.04% of missing person cases result in the discovery of a body. It was highly unlikely that we would've found Chance if she was alive — which, as we now know, is the case." Jones throws more statistics at me, refusing to acknowledge why the useless cops weren't out looking for Chance.
"So you just assumed that she'd run off and wanted to be left alone." Incredulity rises within me by the second; indignation is about to boil over.
Barrow swallows — I'm making her uncomfortable now, guilty even. She should feel guilty; it's partly her fault that Chance is lying in a coma because she was out there alone for too long.
"I don't know what you want me to tell you," I snap at them both. "Chance jumped off that fucking waterfall of her own free will."
"One last question, Rory." Barrow's tone is light, tentative. "Is there any chance that she had a fall or encountered any untoward aggression before that night?"
They're talking about her pre-waterfall-jump head injury. The reason why the doctors put her in a coma.
I shake my head slowly. "I'm not sure... But Chance was never clumsy; she wouldn't've just tripped up or something. I think—"
I bite my lip, unsure if I want to give up my suspicion — my one advantage over the police.
"What do you think, Rory? Any information you can give us is valid," Jones prompts gently, pen pressed against paper, poised to write.
Deciding against it, I swallow my words — pressing them close to my heart once again.
"I think you should go," I tell them.
"That's right," Mum speaks up before the detectives can protest and begins ushering them out of the living room and out of the house. "Rory has to get to school. He's very busy studying for his A Levels, as I'm sure you're well aware."
"If you think of anything else, Rory," Barrow calls through to me as she leaves a business card on the side in the hallway. "My number's on there."
I nod.
Mum shuts the door.
She doesn't say anything to me. I don't say anything to her.
The car ride to school is silent.
The corridors are empty when I finally get to school. Mum and I got caught up in rush-hour traffic, so I'm around half an hour late for my first lesson of the day — which I think is computer science.
"Have a good day at school, love." Mum smiled at me gently as I got out of the car. "Don't worry, I'll talk to your dad before we all have a conversation tonight."
"Okay," I mumbled, knowing that I have officially broken the one rule they gave me when I told them I was trying to figure out what happened to Chance.
They said not to get in trouble with the police, and this morning said police finally came knocking.
I run my hand along the lockers on my right, feeling their worn texture as I near my own.
My phone buzzes impatiently in my pocket, demanding my attention. I drag it out to see that now I'm connected to the school's Wi-Fi, there's a message from Max early this morning, along with the link.
Max
you should see this.
After skimming the words and seeing New Ridge's local newspaper mentioned in the URL, I click on the link. It redirects to Google and I'm staring at a headline about Chance Noah Harn, underneath there is a photo of the hospital.
Missing girl Chance Harn was found early last week and brought into the ICU with a head injury.
Chance was missing for almost four weeks before her friend found her in New Ridge Forest late on Sunday night.
My breath catches in my throat, suspended. A slow, yet gradual and inescapable red mist descends. Indignation boils in my veins — indignation at the lack of people's understanding.
Chance's tragedy isn't some celebrity news to be sensationalised. Yet, at the same time, it's probably one of the most eventful things happening in New Ridge. And people in a small town never stop being fascinated with the unknown, even if it's macabre.
I land a fist in my locker before I even realise that I've balled up my hand. It's bizarre; I was never really the violent type. Not until that night, not until that night changed everything.
Swinging open my locker, I grab the spare skateboard that I keep in there for occasions just like this. Occasions like this where I don't think I can waste hours of my life sitting in lessons and having to put up with people who, for the vast majority, mean nothing to me.
I tighten the straps on my backpack and even though I know I shouldn't, I drop down my board on the smooth corridor floor and jump on it. This skating is seamless, yet I could get kicked out of school for doing it — so I make it quick.
A couple of scoots and I'm already at the double doors. I push them open, face the transition to concrete and keep skating.
Directionless, I follow the winding streets of New Ridge with no destination in mind. I cruise down the slight hills and I scoot up them again so I can make the turn a little better. I flick off any cars that beep at me for using the entirety of the road. But for the most part, it's quiet.
Everyone's out at work or school; nothing really ever happens on Tuesdays.
Pent-up anger flows out of me as the wind tangles with my hair and I become one with my skateboard.
Technically, I shouldn't be skating while recovering from a concussion. But fuck it. It's been nine days now; and I know that if I didn't get out of school when I did, I would've lost it big time.
An ambulance comes careening past me, snapping me out of my thoughts and making me grateful I opted to skate on the pavement for this part of the road.
I look up to see I've ended up at the hospital. Even though I had no intention of coming here, or anywhere else, for that matter, she still drew me here all the same.
I strap my skateboard to my bag, and I wander into the hospital's main entrance. I find my way to the ICU easily.
Hours elapse as I sit and watch Chance's fabricated breathing. She's dormant; neither alive nor dead.
Even now, I know that if she doesn't ever wake up, a large part of me will stay dormant with her forever.
I take her hand in mine.
If you go, I go too.