Page 9 of We Are All Guilty Here

She told him, “That bike is Madison’s freedom. She’s fifteen. She can’t drive. She wouldn’t leave it in the middle of a field.”

He turned back toward the parking lot, his gaze on the ground.

Emmy followed his line of sight. He was tracking the path the SUV had taken out onto the field. With the turf so new, the tires might as well have driven through clay. She could read the tire impressions like a road map.

“Dad?” she asked.

Gerald started walking toward the parking lot. Emmy followed, keeping well clear of the impressions. They’d only gone a few yards when her father asked, “What else are we missing?”

Emmy turned back toward the SUV. In the distance, she could see a wrecker was pulling up to the accident. The line of cars was backed up on Long Street. Had Madison tried to cut across the field to go home, then dropped her bike for some reason?

She told her father, “The Chevy hit the front wheel of the bike first, so it was facing west.”

“Too big. Think smaller.”

She felt her thoughts start to race again. Emmy had to remind herself that Gerald wasn’t testing her. He was teaching her. If there was one thing her father excelled at, it was listening. She mentally backtracked to when they had first walked up to the SUV. The pissy little argument between Lance, Hugo, and Angela. The answer hit her like a lightning bolt. “Hugo said the caution tape was already broken before he drove onto the field.”

“Yep.”

“If he was telling the truth, that means a different vehicle drove onto the pitch before Hugo did, probably during the fireworks display, because neither Hugo nor Lance volunteered that someone drove onto the field before they did.”

“Yep.”

Emmy pointed her flashlight back at the Miata, easily locating the deep set of impressions made by the wide tires of Hugo’s SUV. This was what she had missed. There was a shadow tracing along the impressions, a second set of prints from a smaller set of tires.

“Hugo was telling the truth,” Emmy said. “Another car broke the caution tape first.”

“Sedan,” Gerald said. “Lighter weight.”

The sedan’s shadow tire impressions branched out on their own about twenty yards from where they stood, taking a right toward a stand of pine trees that overlooked the hill. Emmy walked carefully across the field, keeping herself parallel to the path of the sedan. She willed her heart to stop shaking in her chest. There could be all kinds of explanations for Madison abandoning her bike in the middle of the pitch, not just the bad ones. Emmy kept trying to spin up her hope until she reached the edge of the pitch. The tracks ended. The sedan had come to a stop. She raised the flashlight toward the trees.

Emmy felt another lurch in her heart, this time like a knife had stabbed her straight through. There was a second bicycle. Vivid blue. Multicolored beads on the spokes. Pink streamers hanging from the handlebar grips. Matching blue basket on the front. She had seen the bike countless times, abandoned in Hannah’s front yard, blocking her driveway, scuffing the paint off her porch railing, resting a few feet away from Madison’s light turquoise bike with the yellow basket because the two girls were practically attached at the hip.

She told her father, “That’s Cheyenne Baker’s bike.”

Gerald looked down at her. He’d heard the tremble in her voice. He’d felt the same shift in the air. The tickle. The bad feeling. TheDon’t Feel Right. The good explanations were gone.

He tried, “These girls the types to run away?”

Emmy was shaking her head before he’d finished the question.She didn’t know Cheyenne that well, but Madison was too smart to abandon her bike on a soccer field and run away at ten in the evening when her parents were expecting to see her at home.

“She might run away, but not like this.”

“You got her number?”

Emmy took out her phone and tapped through to Madison’s cell. She fought the tears that sprang into her eyes as she listened to the single ring before the call was sent to voicemail. The mailbox was full. Emmy shook her head again. She ended the call. Her hands had started to tremble. This was bad. This was really bad.

“Emmy?” Hannah called from across the field.

Emmy quickly turned the flashlight away from Cheyenne’s bike. Hannah had clearly heard about Hugo’s accident. She was bouncing Davey on her hip as she jogged toward them. His eyelids were droopy as he fought off the urge to fall asleep.

“What’s going on?” Hannah asked. “I heard Hugo ran over Madison’s bicycle.”

Gerald asked, “Do you know where she is?”

“We told her to be home by eleven, but—” Hannah looked at Emmy. The color quickly drained from her face. They had been best friends since kindergarten. They knew each other’s darkest secrets and wildest dreams. There wasn’t a lot that Emmy could hide from her.

“Is she—” Hannah’s voice caught again. “What happened?”

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