“You’re looking for Ella!” she exclaimed, eyes twinkling, and I felt my heart leap in my chest.
“You know her?” I asked. “Did you talk to her? Did she say where she’s going?”
Demi’s eyes had grazed over me, then over the rest of the guys, her grin widening. “She’s on her way to New York to meet up with her band,” she said. “You can probably still catch up to her, if you hurry.”
So here we were, packed into our van between our equipment. I hadn’t slept a wink the night before, but I felt wired, jumpy. I stared out the van window, unseeing, as the scenery rushed by. Chris drove, his eyes fixed on the road. Every once in a while, I saw his gaze meet Lester’s in the rearview mirror, and the two would share a smile. I was happy for them, really, but seeing the tenderness between them now made my heart clench. We needed to find Ella. I wouldn’t lose anyone else.
In the back seat, the rest of the guys gathered around Darren’s phone, trying to track down any information they might be able to find about Ella online. Between them, they pieced together fragments of information Ella had shared the night before, anything that might help to find her now.
“I think she said she grew up in West Virginia,” Jason said. Saul nodded.
“And her dad was a mechanic,” he added. He looked to Darren. “Try searching for auto shops in West Virginia.”
“Really?” Darren said skeptically. “There’s going to be thousands of results.”
“Probably not thousands,” Howie deadpanned. “It is West Virginia, after all. There are more cows than people in the entire state.”
“Do we know her last name?” Saul asked. “That could help narrow it down.”
We all glanced at each other. “Didn’t she say during her set?” Jason said. “Ella . . . Peters?”
“Pierce,” I said suddenly. “Her name is Ella Pierce.”
“Great,” Saul flashed me an encouraging smile. “That’s something, at least.” He nodded at Darren. “Search for auto shops in West Virginia and the name Pierce.”
We all held a collective breath as Darren tapped away at his phone screen. He squinted, the bright light of the screen blinding in the darkness of the van. “This might be something,” he said. “Don’s Autos, owned and operated by Don Pierce.”
“Let me see,” I said eagerly, reaching for the phone. Darren passed it to me. I blinked at the screen in surprise. The webpage Darren’s search had turned up looked like it had been made at least ten years before, and not been touched since.
I kept scrolling, eyes scanning for anything that might tell me more about Ella, where she might be. My eyes fell on a photo of two young girls, maybe twelve years old. I examined their faces closely. Could one of them be Ella?
It didn’t seem like it; neither of them had her dark, straight hair. They looked like sweet, all-American girls, with their bright grins and clear gazes. Neither of them looked like they would grow up to be the mysterious, sensuous woman who had walked into my life and turned everything on its head before leaving just as soon as she’d come.
“This won’t be any help,” I said, sighing. Darren took the phone back. “Can’t you find a website made in this decade?”
“I didn’t know West Virginia had the internet yet, to be fair,” Howie said, and I smiled despite myself.
“Damn it, Howie, will you stop trying to cheer me up?” I said.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re right. We wouldn’t want to accidentally let slip that underneath that mysterious, brooding exterior there’s a man who actually knows how to have fun,” Howie said, eyes twinkling, and I smiled again.
“You’re going to ruin my image,” I said.
“Believe me, you’ve been miserable enough lately, I think you’ve banked up enough brooding to get away with a few smiles now and again. Hell, you might even be able to risk a laugh.”
I punched him lightly on the shoulder. Of course, he was right. I had been a miserable dick for months. When this was over, I swore I was going to make more of an effort: to enjoy myself, to be a good friend.
Before I could open my mouth to voice this, the car behind us began to flash its brights. “What the hell,” Chris muttered, glancing in the mirror. “What do they want?”
“Maybe they want to pass?” Lester suggested. “Slow down for a minute.” Chris tapped the breaks, but the car behind us only slowed to match our pace, still flashing its lights.
“This is just like that urban legend,” Howie said in an exaggerated hush. “You know, the one with the girl who notices that the car behind her is following her home and keeps flashing his lights, and when she gets home it turns out there was an axe murderer in her backseat and the guy in the other car flashed his brights whenever the guy stood up to axe murder her.”