See Jane Run (4 page)

Every morning, Riley's mother set the breakfast table, and every morning it looked this same way: cereal bowl, napkin, spoon, juice glass, little white pill. It was Klonopin, an antianxiety medication that the therapist back in Riley's old neighborhood—where she lived next door to Shelby—had prescribed. It helped Riley focus, staved off her fears, and was supposed to keep the nightmares at bay. Every day, her mother set out the pill, and every day, Riley swallowed it. Every month, her mother refilled her prescription, and every month, Riley never questioned the white plastic bottle that her mother stashed in the medicine cabinet.

“Don't forget your pill, hon.”

Riley's stomach fluttered madly. This was crazy. This was
her
mother.
The tiny white pill blurred and swam in front of Riley's eyes.
What
if
the
doctor
was
in
on
it? What if this wasn't even the pill he prescribed?

She scrutinized the thing, hoping that etched there across the face would be something to put her mind at ease: RILEY'S KLONOPIN FOR ANXIETY or NOT SOME SORT OF KNOCK-OUT DRUG.

“I'm no doctor, turnip, but I'm pretty sure the pill works best when you actually put it in your mouth and swallow it.”

Her father was smiling kindly, his glasses dipping down his nose as he eyed Riley.

“What if I don't want to take it?”

Riley's mouth was dry, and her pulse was pounding in her ears. How would they react?

“Well, if you don't think you need to take them anymore, we can go see Dr. Morley.”

“Why do I need to see the doctor to stop taking them?”

“Because it could be dangerous, Ry. That's why I give them to you every morning, you nut. If you skip doses, you can get a stomachache, your panic attacks could come back, or worse.”

Riley swung her head toward her mother. “What do you mean worse?”

“You'll grow chest hair.” Her father folded the paper. “Now swallow that pill and that bowl of whats-it-snaps and let's get in the car. You're going to make me late for work.”

Riley popped the pill into her mouth and took a big gulp of juice, the bitter liquid burning her throat. She grabbed her backpack, and when her father leaned in to kiss her mother, Riley spat the slimy pill into her hand and tucked it into her jeans.

• • •

“The bus is leaving,” Riley's father said, slamming the car door hard. The reverberation echoed through the quiet neighborhood. Riley was halfway into the passenger seat before she slapped her forehead.

“Crap. Forgot my purse.”

She pushed herself out of the car but was unable to escape her mother's narrowed eyes as she stood in the doorway. “Sorry, Mom,” Riley mumbled as she jogged past her into the house.

Riley's hand was on the knob when a movement at the house across the street caught her eye. Riley squinted hard, trying to focus, but the glare of the sun bouncing off the glass hurt her eyes. She was only able to make out a shadowy silhouette—a person or a bundle of leftover construction stuff?

My
God, Ry, you're really going crazy now. Criminal parents, spies in empty houses…I'm going to kill Shelby when I get to school.

“Come on, Ry!” her father said.

Riley bounded into the car and belted herself in. As they backed down the driveway, she glanced up at the house again, but now there was nothing in the window.

“So, did someone move into the house across the street?”

“No,” her father said. “I don't think it's ready yet. I talked to one of the realtors last week, and she said the workers had broken a back window. Which reminds me—I promised your mother we'd go over the rules for your trip.”

Riley groaned. “I know Mom's rules. Don't talk to strangers, don't take anything from strangers, never leave my Coke unattended. Stop, drop, and roll.” She grinned at the last one.

“Mom and I just don't want you to forget. You were asleep by the time we got home last night, and you left the front door unlocked. A good gust of wind would have blown it wide open.”

Ice water shot through Riley's veins, paralyzing every inch of her.

I
locked
the
door,
she wanted to shout.
I
know
I
did.

She bit her lower lip to hold back tears. Her dad must have seen her expression, because he leaned over and patted her thigh. “Don't worry, hon. We're not mad at you. It happens. Just make sure you don't let it happen again.” His words sounded hollow though.

Riley nodded, clenching her jaw. She blinked, and the missing poster flashed behind her eyelids, those wide, dark eyes of the little girl burning into her soul.

“D-d-dad,” she started. Then, steeling herself, “Dad, there was some—”

What little voice she had was cut off by the shrill ring of her father's phone. He held up a single finger to Riley and pressed the answer button on his earpiece.

“Glen Spencer.” He cocked his head for a microsecond while Riley tried to gather her thoughts and then start again.
Sorry,
he mouthed,
client.

They made the rest of the drive in silence.

By three o'clock, Riley and Shelby had dumped their backpacks in Shelby's trunk and were stuffing french fries in their mouth as they watched carnies snapping together rides in the back forty.

“I can't believe we have to spend our whole night volunteering at this stupid thing. Don't they know I have to pack?”

“Shelbs, we're going to be gone for one night. How hard is it to pack for that?”

“It's one night on a college campus. And why are you so gung ho on the carnival?” She pointed a fry at Riley. “Wait. Are you all into the carnival, or is your alter ego, Jane O'Leary, all into it?”

Riley rolled her eyes. “Neither of us are really into clowns and carnies, but both of us are into getting volunteer hours.”

“So you admit it! You're one of those kids on a missing poster!”

Riley rolled her eyes. “You know what? I can't wait until you get a concussion in the dunking booth. Anything to make you stop talking about the birth certificate. You have me freaking out and thinking horrible things about my parents.”

“They have done horrible things.” She made the universal face for “gag.” “Like buying rice chips and seaweed.”

Riley wiped her palms on her jeans and straightened her green and white Hawthorne Hornets bow. “Are you ready to go?”

Shelby leveled the giant hornet head over her own. “I really can't believe they let you run the change booth and they made me the stupid hornet.”

“Hey!” Riley frowned. “Henry the Hornet is a beloved mascot. And if you didn't fail math this year, Mr. Rose would trust you to count money. Your stinger is sagging, by the way.”

Shelby grunted inside the giant, fabric-covered hornet head. “Just for that, I'm sending all the creepy clowns to your booth.”

Riley spent the evening making change and nursing a large Coke. Shelby hadn't made good on her promise, but Riley kept an eye on her anyway, catching Henry's giant hornet head as Shelby waddled through the crowd, her antennae bobbing with each step. The crowds were starting to die down, and Riley yawned then waved across the midway to where Shelby was hiding out—a little shadowed
V
underneath the Tilt-A-Whirl.

Riley beckoned her over.

“I can't believe you're still in that ridiculous costume. I thought you would have ditched it hours ago.”

Henry the Hornet shrugged.

“Can you watch my booth? I've had to pee since we walked in.” Riley edged her way out of the booth and beelined through the crowd, not waiting for Shelby to answer. She was halfway back when Shelby—sans Henry costume—sidled up next to her.

“Hey! Who's watching my booth?”

Shelby shrugged. “I give up. Who's watching your booth?”

“It's not a joke; it's a question. You were supposed to be watching it.”

Shelby's eyebrows rose. “Did you find one of those vodka Slurpees?”

“Shelbs, I'm serious! How did you get out of your Henry costume so fast?”

“I've been out of that thing for hours. Paid Trevor Gallagher ten bucks to take over.”

Heat snaked up Riley's spine. She pointed. “Trevor Gallagher is right there.”

“No, he's—who the hell is wearing the Henry costume?”

Henry's big head bobbed up and cocked, his enormous bug eyes seeming to pin Riley back. He raised a hand and waved then turned on his heel and disappeared behind a bank of food carts.

Riley yanked her purse out from under the booth and searched through it then pulled out the cash box. “It doesn't look like he took anything.”

“But who the hell was that? Hey, Trevor!” Shelby yelled.

Trevor trotted over, giving a short nod to Riley.

Shelby put her hands on her hips. “You were paid good money to be Henry. He's a beloved mascot!”

Trevor shrugged. “You paid me ten bucks to be Henry for an hour.”

“Then who is Henry right now?”

“I don't know. I took that thing off the minute the hour was up. That head smells like ass. I should have asked for fifty bucks.”

“Well, where did you put it after you took it off?” Riley asked.

“Back in the band box. Geez, lay off.” Trevor turned away, disappearing back into the crowd.

Riley found Henry again.

“There he is. Stay here.” Riley jogged across the fairway, poking her head behind the food carts. She saw Henry's giant antennae snaking around a taco truck. “Hey!” She followed him around the corner, but it was only Henry's head, settled over the folded hornet costume.

“So?” Shelby jogged up behind her, Riley's purse slung over her shoulder, the change in the cash box rattling as she ran.

Riley shrugged. “I don't know. Whoever it was changed and left the costume right here.”

“OK, so we have a random person who likes to run around in a stolen hornet costume. That is gross on so many levels.”

She handed Riley her purse and the cash box and gathered up the Henry costume.

“I have to go turn this back in. Turn in the cashbox and meet me at the car, OK?”

Riley nodded, even as unease pricked out all over her. She grabbed the back of Shelby's shirt and followed her out of the food truck shadows and onto the well-lit fairway.

“I just got the chills.”

“I'm thinking someone in a stolen hornet costume will do that to you,” Shelby said with a grin.

Riley dropped off the cashbox and was waiting at Shelby's car, tapping her foot. “Where the hell are you, Shelby?”

She rooted around in her purse, looking for her cell phone. When she pulled it out, there was a postcard half sticking out of the case.

Riley frowned. It was a black-and-white photo of some kids—teenagers, mostly—dressed in funky 1970s clothing. They were all slouching in front of a brick wall, a fading four-leaf clover painted just above their heads.

“Love note?” Shelby asked as she came up over Riley's shoulder.

“No, I just found it in my purse.” She turned the postcard over and read the note:

“
Something
lost
has
now
been
found
. And there's a red circle around the word
found
.”

“Um, OK. In terms of love notes, I've read better. Who's it from?”

“I have no idea.” Riley waved the card. “There's no signature, and I don't recognize the writing.”

“And it was in your purse?”

“Yeah, that's so weird.”

“Not if it's from your birth parents.” Shelby waggled her eyebrows. “Or maybe it's from Jane O'Leary, trying to contact you from beyond the grave.” She did her best impression of spooky fingers and ghost voice, but Riley was not amused.

“You really need to stick to your stories, Shelbs. Am I the missing kid, or is the missing kid my knocked-off big sister?”

Shelby gunned the engine. “I don't know. You're the one getting ghost posts.”

• • •

Shelby pulled the car into Riley's driveway and pushed it into park. “So tomorrow morning, bright and early?”

“Definitely. I can't wait.” Riley slammed the door shut, and Shelby rolled down the window, grunting with the effort of cranking the handle.

“Don't let the fake hornet get you. Oh! I bet it was your birth mother, closing in on you! She's sending you mystery postcards to warn you…”

“Shelby! If I were adopted, my parents wouldn't have changed my age and my birth date. Stop with this!”

“But if your—”

“Drive away, Shelby.”

Shelby rolled down the street, giggling, as Riley headed for the front door. She paused when her hackles went up, her whole body stiff with the sudden fear that she was being watched. She spun slowly, squinting at the vacant houses that lined the street around her. When nothing jumped out, she let out a long sigh.

She tried to brush the feeling off but it stuck; she sped up the walk and locked the door behind her.

“How was the carnival, turnip?”

Riley jumped when her father came down the hall. “Creepy.”

Her father looked alarmed. “Did someone bother you?”

She thought briefly of telling her dad about the fake Henry or the weird postcard, but she knew it would only lead to two things: her parents' insane overreaction and her parents' insane overprotection. They would call the police, and Riley would never be able to leave the house again, let alone go on the school trip.

“It was nothing. Just some stupid kids or something.” Riley paused. Maybe it was the strangeness of the night or a sudden boldness at being allowed to spend the weekend away, but she asked, “Did you and Mom ever want another kid?”

Her father paused then sat down on the stairs, patting the space next to him for Riley to sit. She did.

“Is this because you didn't win a goldfish?”

“What—no!”

“Honey, I know how hard those carnival games can be. If you really want a goldfish, Mom and I will get you one. It'll be a lot faster than making you a baby sister.”

Riley rolled her eyes when her father laughed.

“I was being serious, Dad.”

He swung an arm over Riley's shoulder. “Why would we want another kid when we've got perfection right here? We hit pay dirt the first time around.” He gave her a loud, smacking kiss on the forehead then patted the top of her head and shuffled up the stairs. Riley didn't move from her spot even when he turned off the hallway light, leaving only the faint upstairs glow bleeding in the hallway.

Was
it
weird
that
he
immediately
mentioned
a
sister?
Riley thought absently.

• • •

Shelby was standing in front of the school the next morning, checking her phone and glancing up occasionally. She broke into a wide grin as Riley waved good-bye to her parents. “I. Am. So. Excited.” She was talking in fully punctuated sentence-words and flapping her arms—Shelby always did when she got excited. Riley grabbed her friend and brushed down her arm-wings.

“Calm down, Shelbs. You're about to take flight.”

But Riley didn't quite feel as cool as she acted. She looked around, little goose bumps rising on the back of her neck. She always found being on campus eerie when classes weren't going on—even more so on a Saturday morning like this. It almost seemed like school should cease to exist between Friday night and Monday morning.

“Hey!” Shelby calmed down and pinched Riley. “I called you, like, three times last night. No answer. What'd you do?”

“Nothing. Ate pizza, ran a few more Google searches.”

“Oh, on your parent-felons?”

“My parents aren't felons!” Riley hissed. “Besides, it didn't turn up anything, felons or not.”

“Did I hear someone mention felons?”

As if Jonathan “JD” Davison's voice wasn't distinctive enough—it was deeper and smoother than any other high school guy Riley had ever encountered—the fact that he showed up once the word “felon” was mentioned was all kinds of indication.

JD was the kid every parent hoped didn't hang out with theirs—and Riley's parents topped that list. He had been dubbed JD—for juvenile delinquent—from his numerous stints in the principal's office and his not-so-private run-ins with the Crescent City Police Department. Normally a guy like JD wouldn't cross into a world like Riley's—accelerated classes, the “good” kids on college tracks—but Riley's new, longer trek to Hawthorne High paired with her love for sleep landed them smack dab in the same detention period for a week straight almost a month ago. She had pushed the “I overslept” envelope, and he was warming his usual spot.

She remembered the scrutinizing way he looked at her when she walked into the empty classroom.

“You're new,” he muttered.

Riley
gripped
the
straps
of
her
shoulder
bag
and
slipped
into
the
desk
furthest
away
from
JD. She was horrified to be in detention and not exactly eager to make friends with someone who always seemed to be in trouble for something. Her parents were going to freak out
enough already.

JD
turned
in
his
seat, his dark eyes following her every move. “What are you in for?”

She
pulled
her
knees
up
to
her
chest. “Tardies. You?”