Chapter 13: Silas

It’s dark now. I’ve been driving for over two hours without a clue as to where to go next. I can’t go back home. I can’t go to Charlie’s house. I don’t know anyone else, so the only thing I can do is drive.

I have eight missed calls. Two are from Landon. One from Janette.

The rest are from my father.

I also have eight voicemails, none of which I’ve listened to yet. I don’t want to worry about any of them right now. None of them have any clue what’s really going on, and no one would believe me if I told them. I don’t blame them. I keep repeating the entire day in my head, and it seems too ridiculous for me to even believe—and I’m the one living it.

It’s all too ridiculous, but way too real.

I pull over at a gas station to fill up my car. I’m not even sure if I’ve eaten anything today, but I feel light-headed, so I grab a bag of chips and a bottle of water while inside the store.

The entire time I fill my tank with gas, I wonder about Charlie.

When I’m back on the road, I’m still wondering about Charlie.

I wonder if Charlie’s eaten anything.

I wonder if she’s alone.

I wonder if she’s being taken care of.

I wonder how I’m possibly supposed to find her when she could be anywhere in the entire world right now. All I’m doing is driving in circles, slowing every time I pass a girl walking on a sidewalk. I don’t know where to look. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know how to be the guy who saves her.

I wonder what people do when they have no place to go and no place to be.

I wonder if this is what it’s like to be crazy. Certifiably insane. I feel as though I have absolutely zero control over my own mind.

And if I’m not the one in control…who is?

My phone rings again. I look at the caller ID and see that it’s Landon. I don’t know why I pick it up to answer it. Maybe I’m just tired of being inside my own head and not getting any answers. I pull over to the side of the road to talk to him.

“Hello?”

“Please tell me what the hell is going on.”

“Can anyone hear you?”

“No,” he says. “The game just ended. Dad is talking to the police. Everyone’s worried about you, Silas.”

I don’t respond. I feel bad that they’re worried, but even worse that no one seems to be worried about Charlie.

“Have they found Charlie yet?”

I can hear people shouting in the background. It sounds like he called me the second the game ended. “They’re looking,” he says.

But there’s something else in his voice. Something unspoken.

“What is it, Landon?”

He sighs again. “Silas…they’re looking for you too. They think…” His voice is heavy with worry. “They think you know where she is.”

I close my eyes. I knew this would happen. I wipe my palms down my jeans. “I don’t know where she is.”

Several seconds pass before Landon speaks again. “Janette went to the police. She said she thought you were acting strange, so when she found Charlie’s things in a backpack inside your gym locker, she turned them in to the police. You had her wallet, Silas. And her phone.”

“Finding Charlie’s things in my possession is hardly proof that I’m responsible for her disappearance. It’s proof that I’m her boyfriend.”

“Come home,” he says. “Tell them you have nothing to hide. Answer their questions. If you cooperate, they’ll have no reason to accuse you.”

Ha. If only answering their questions was that easy.

“Do you think I have something to do with her disappearance?”

“Do you?” he asks immediately.

“No.”

“Then no,” he says. “I don’t think you have anything to do with it. Where are you?”

“I don’t know.”

I hear a muffled noise, like he’s covering the phone with his hand. I can hear voices in the background.

“Did you get hold of him?” a man asks.

“Still trying, Dad,” Landon says.

More muttering.

“You there, Silas?” he asks.

“Yeah. I have a question,” I say. “Have you ever heard of a place called Jamais Jamais?”

Silence. I wait for him to respond, but he doesn’t.

“Landon? Have you heard of it?”

Another heavy sigh. “It’s Charlie’s old house, Silas. What the hell is wrong with you? You’re on drugs, aren’t you? Jesus Christ, Silas. What the hell did you take? Is that what happened to Charlie? Is that why…”

I hang up the phone while he’s still in the middle of spouting off questions. I search Brett Wynwood’s home address on the Internet. It takes me a while, but two addresses pop up in the results. One I remember, because I was just there earlier today. It’s where Charlie lives now.

The other is one I don’t recognize.

It’s the address to Jamais Jamais.

THE HOUSE SITS ON SIX ACRES, OVERLOOKING LAKE BORGNE. IT WAS BUILT IN 1860, EXACTLY ONE YEAR BEFORE THE CIVIL WAR BEGAN. THE HOUSE WAS ORIGINALLY NAMED “LA TERRE RENCONTRE L'EAU,” WHICH MEANS “LAND MEETS WATER.”

IT WAS USED AS A HOSPITAL DURING THE WAR, HOUSING WOUNDED CONFEDERATE SOLDIERS. YEARS AFTER THE WAR, THE HOUSE WAS PURCHASED BY A BANKER, FRANK WYNWOOD, IN 1880. THE HOME REMAINED IN THE FAMILY, PASSED DOWN THREE GENERATIONS, ULTIMATELY LANDING IN THE HANDS OF THEN THIRTY-YEAR-OLD BRETT WYNWOOD IN 1998.