Page 67 of Made for You
“Wait! Julia—” she cries just as the doors close behind us and the cameraman. Josh and I sink against the back wall. I collapse my head against him, and he meshes his fingers in mine. The floors count down. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve.
“So,” says Josh. Already, there’s a little more life in his voice.
Eleven, ten, nine.
“Neither of us wanted to,” I explain. “It isn’t worth it.”
A smile ripens slowly on his face. “Then where are we headed, Miss Julia?”
My mind is a swirl of ideas. We could ride roller coasters at Disneyland. Surf at Hermosa Beach. Play tourists on Hollywood Boulevard. Go to the movies, get a burger, or even just find a bench and watch the world go by.
“Let’s do whatever we want,” I say, tightening the tangle of our fingers. “We’ve been doing all these things that other people have planned for us. Maybe a true hometown with me is about us making our own way.”
Dimples crease Josh’s cheeks, and I see salvation in his smile—for this day, for our relationship. We were plummeting down, but our parachutes just deployed.
The elevator doors open. I can imagine the shot the camera is getting: both of us flushed, smiling. Glowing with our stolen freedom.
“Ready?” says Josh. “We’re off script now.”
“Ready,” I agree. We squeeze hands and walk confidently out of WekTech, back into the warm California day, headed into a future of our own making. My legs feel strong and my heart is beating with joy and adrenaline and the thrill of our near-escape, and I’m pretty sure I can run and run forever, as long as he’s the one I’m running with.
NOW
“Vanessa! Hi! Thank you for calling me back!”
I know my voice sounds too bright, but I’m in overdrive and I can’t seem to calm down. Don’t want to calm down, because that means breaking down, because my husband is dead, but if I stop to cry, stop to process, I could be in handcuffs before I know it, and I am now Annaleigh’s only parent, and for her, I have to be strong and save my heartbreak for some future time when I can afford to let my emotions have their turn.
I just got the name of Walmart woman from Andy via text. Deborah Reeves, a name that’s been bothering me because I feel like I’ve heard it somewhere else. Andy’s other text, I didn’t acknowledge, but it’s burning in my mind. Saw the news. So sorry for your loss. Please let WekTech step in.
Yes, I want Andy to be a safe older brother, but repossession means handing total control to lawyers who can’t possibly give an actual fuck about me. It means me waiting, helpless, for some version of justice, and, based on how Christi’s divorce battle is playing out, justice cannot be counted on. But the biggest reason I’ll never agree to let WekTech step in? Annaleigh. Any protection WekTech can give me will not include her, and there’s no way in hell I’m letting myself be separated from my baby on anything other than my own terms.
“Julia!” says Vanessa, matching my energy. “Annaleigh just went down for a nap. We got her a Pack ’n Play! She kept escaping from her nest. She’s doing great, by the way. She’s suuuuch a cutie.”
“I’m so glad it’s going well.” For once, as much as my heart is tugging at me, I can’t stop to dwell on my baby. “Listen, I need a favor. A huge favor, actually. You know that friend you have at Facebook? The one who got you all those pictures of Josh?”
“Yes—”
“There’s a picture of Josh with a redhead in your album. I need to get in touch with her. Anything he can get—her name, a current address, a phone number—” With my pen, I tap-tap on the notepad I brought up from the kitchen. Where it says GROCERY LIST at the top, I’ve crossed out GROCERY and written SUSPECTS in angry all-cap letters. Adams was supposed to take these notes. The sheriff was supposed to dig into these leads. Not me.
“Um...sure? I could call him Monday—”
“Now,” I interrupt. “Listen, the situation with Josh has escalated. Whatever it takes. I’ll pay him, I don’t care.”
“God, Julia, no, I’m sure he doesn’t want your money! I’m so sorry to hear that. I’ll call him right now.”
“Let me know as soon as you hear back.”
“Will do.”
We disconnect. I’m sitting in Annaleigh’s room, in the rocking chair by the window, one level removed from the reporters. Bob, as usual, is looking at me through binoculars from the window across the way. He has no idea he’s one of the names on my list.
The entire list is far-fetched. I know this. Josh could have been killed by someone else entirely—like an anonymous vandal. But I can only work with what I know. And the bottom line is, if I don’t find credible evidence that someone else might be guilty, this could be the end for me. Would I go to jail? Or would they turn me off like Lars and consign me to a glass display?
I gaze at the suspect list. Who would cut off Josh’s arm after he was dead and leave it in the woods? Why is his ring finger missing? Where is the rest of his body? Could it have something to do with Royce? No, that seems crazy, but...the questions pick and pick at my brain. As for his watch...an innocent accident. He dropped it... Annaleigh got ahold of it...there are so many reasonable ways a broken watch could end up under an entryway bench, right?
I make a little star next to Deborah Reeves, then chew on my pen’s clicker. I really do feel like I’ve seen her name. Not back then. Recently.
Setting aside my list, the pen still between my teeth, I grab my phone, pull up a Google search and type in Deborah Reeves Eauverte address.