Chapter Eight: The Disappearance
Fabiola's POV - Age 13–14
Evan stopped coming to school the day after the funeral.
One week passed. Then two. Then a month.
His desk sat empty beside mine, a constant reminder of his absence. I stared at it during class, willing him to appear. To walk through the door with his cold eyes and quiet voice and that way he had of making her feel seen.
But he never did.
"Maybe he moved away," Maria Chen suggested at lunch. "Rich people do that. Send their kids to boarding school after trauma."
"He didn't move," I said, pushing her food around her tray.
"How do you know?"
Because I'd ridden my bike past the Harlow estate every day after school. Had seen the lights on in the windows. Had seen the cars in the driveway.
Someone was home.
Evan was home.
He just wasn't coming out.
I started writing him letters.
She didn't know if he'd read them. Didn't even know how to get them to him. But she wrote them anyway, late at night, pouring her twelve-year-old heart onto lined paper.
Dear Evan,
I hope you're okay. I know that's a stupid thing to say because of course you're not okay. Your brother died. But I hope you're... surviving.
School is boring without you. Mrs. Patterson asked where you were and I said you were sick. I don't think she believed me.
I miss you.
Your friend,
Fabiola
I sealed the letter in an envelope, wrote his name on the front in careful letters, and added it to the growing pile my desk drawer.
Unsent. Unread.
But written anyway.
By month three, the rumors started.
"I heard he had a breakdown," whispered a girl in the bathroom. "That he's in a psychiatric hospital."
"My mom said he tried to kill himself," another added. "That's why they're keeping him locked up."
"I heard he killed Lucas," said Marcus Webb, the meanest kid in eighth grade. "Pushed him in the lake on purpose. That's why he won't show his face."
I slammed my locker shut so hard it echoed through the hallway.
"Shut up, Marcus."
He turned, smirking. "Why? You got a crush on the psycho?"
"He's not a psycho."
"He let his brother drown. What do you call that?"
My fists clenched. "An accident. What do you call being a heartless jerk? Oh wait that's just your personality."
Marcus's smirk faded. "Whatever. You can defend him all you want. Everyone knows he's messed up. The whole family is. Probably why his mom looks like she wants to murder someone every time you see her."
He walked away, laughing.
I stood there, shaking with rage and helplessness.
Because what could I say? I didn't know what was happening with Evan. Didn't know if he was okay, if he was hurting, if he even remembered me.
I just knew I missed him.
Missed the boy who looked at me like she was sunlight.
On a cold February afternoon, four months after the funeral, I made a decision.
I was going to the Harlow estate.
Not to bike past it. To actually go to it. To knock on the door and demand to see Evan.
My mother would kill me.
But I didn't care anymore.
I waited until my parents were at work, told Sofia she was going to the library, and walked the two miles to the estate in the biting wind.
The house looked different in winter. Darker. The trees were bare, skeletal fingers reaching toward the gray sky. The lake was partially frozen, a sheet of black ice that looked like a wound.
My courage wavered.
But she'd come this far.
I walked up the long driveway, climbed the stone steps, and rang the doorbell.
It echoed inside the house, deep and hollow.
No answer.
I rang again.
Nothing.
I was about to leave when the door opened.
Margaret Harlow stood in the doorway, dressed in black despite the months that had passed. Her gray eyes were cold as she looked down at me.
"Yes?"
My voice came out smaller than she wanted. "I'm here to see Evan."
"Evan isn't receiving visitors."
"Please. I just want to know if he's okay..."
"He's fine." Margaret's tone suggested the conversation was over.
"Can I just..."
"No." Margaret started to close the door.
"Wait!" I stuck my foot in the gap. "I'm his friend. I just want to talk to him for five minutes. Please, Mrs. Harlow..."
"Evan doesn't need friends right now. He needs time. Space. And distance from... distractions." Her eyes raked over me with thinly veiled disdain.
"I'm not a distraction.."
"You're exactly a distraction. A little girl with a crush who doesn't understand the complexities of grief and trauma." Margaret's voice was ice. "My son is fragile. He doesn't need you making things worse."
"I wouldn't.."
"Go home, Miss Morales. And don't come back."
The door slammed in my face.
I stood there, stunned, hurt burning in my chest.
Then I heard it.
A tap. On glass.
I looked up.
Second floor window. Far right.
Evan stood there, one hand pressed against the glass.
He looked terrible. Thinner than ever, his skin almost translucent, dark circles under his eyes like bruises. But he was looking at me. Seeing me.
I raised her hand in a small wave.
Evan mouthed something. I couldn't hear through the glass, but she could read his lips.
I'm sorry.
But I stepped back, heart pounding, and watched as Evan
The curtain fell closed.
And I was left standing in the cold, staring at the house that had swallowed the boy I
Loved?
No. I was thirteen. I didn't know what love was.
But whatever this feeling was this ache, this need, this certainty that Evan Harlow was hers to worry about it was close enough.
I walked home slowly.