All the Missing Girls by Megan Miranda Read Free Book Online Page B

my head against his chest again.
    â€œThink about it?” he asked, pulling back. I wasn’t sure which he was referring to—moving in with him or taking his money—and I hated that he was bringing both up right now. That it took this—seeing me here, hovering near some indefinable edge—that made him seem to want me more.
    â€œOkay,” I said, and from the look on his face, I wondered if I had just unintentionally agreed to something.
    â€œI wish I could stay longer,” he said, pulling me into a kiss. “But I’m glad I got to meet your family.”
    I laughed. “Yeah, good thing.”
    â€œI’m serious,” he said. Then, lower, “They’re good people.”
    â€œYeah,” I whispered, and I let him pull me in so tight I’d probably have indentations from the lines of his collar on my cheek. “So are you,” I said as he released me.
    He dragged his hands down my arms as he backed away and lifted my left hand to his face. “I’ll file a claim tomorrow.”
    â€œIt might still turn up.” I cringed. “It’s probably in one of those half-packed boxes. I’ll look again.”
    â€œLet me know if you find it,” he said, pulling his suitcase behind him toward the front door. “And Nicolette?” My heart stopped, from the way he was looking at me. “If you’re not home by next weekend, I’m coming back for you.”
----
    AFTER WATCHING HIS CAB drive off, I shut the door behind me, turned the lock, and twisted the knob to double-check. I circled the house, checking them all, closing the windows that Everett had insisted on opening, and wedging the kitchen chair under the handle of the back door with the broken lock. Everything felt slow and labored, even my breathing. It was this heat. The damn air-­conditioning unit that still wasn’t fixed. I dragged myself to the kitchen—I needed a drink. Something cold. Caffeinated. I bent over and stuck my head in the fridge, debating my choices.
    Water. Gatorade. Cans of soda. I sank to my knees in front of the open door, breathing in the cold air— wake up, Nic —as the electricity hummed in my ear and the fridge light illuminated the space around me.
    There was a sudden, high-pitched cry as the chair scraped against the floor. The back door swung open as I spun around, myback to the open refrigerator, my hands grasping for anything I could use to defend myself.
    Tyler stood in the open doorway, his arms trembling, covered in sweat and dirt and something that smelled like earth and pollen. His body shook like he was wound tight with adrenaline and was fighting to keep himself still. He frowned at the chair, toppled on its side, and then scanned the room behind me.
    â€œTyler? What are you doing?” His brown work boots were coated in a thick layer of mud, and he braced an arm against the doorframe. I pulled myself upright and shut the fridge, and the house settled into an uncomfortable silence. “Tyler? What’s going on? Say something.”
    â€œIs anyone here?” he asked, and I knew he didn’t mean just anyone.
    â€œHe left,” I said. His arms were still shaking. “It’s just me.”
    He was not okay. This was Tyler at fifteen when we all went to the service for his brother, and the folded American flag was placed on his mother’s lap, and he appeared to be sitting perfectly still, but if you looked closer, you could see his entire body was trembling. I was so sure he was on the edge of cracking into a thousand pieces, and all the strangers pushing closer and closer to him were making it worse. This was Tyler at seventeen on the day we got together for real, when I scraped my car door against his, and at first he looked so tense, all coiled-up adrenaline, before he noticed me holding my breath, waiting for his reaction. “Just a piece of metal,” he’d said.
    â€œIt’s just