Love Under Glasse

by Kristina Meister

  Coming level with the engine, El set the bag down and took every step as if creeping out of her room to use the computer while her mother was asleep. In the car’s side mirror, El could see that the driver may have gotten out, but he was hovering near the rear bumper, looking down the platform to his colleagues. The loud rumbling of the engine covered every sound as El carefully pulled the passenger door handle, but it couldn’t compare to the terrible rushing of her own blood in her ears.

  Slinking up into the seat, El reached across the console and tugged the keys from the ignition, tossing them beneath the engine. In one breath, she was out of the car and had slung her pack over her shoulder. Back down the train she ran, barely thinking to duck below the windows as her boots chewed the gravel. Her lungs felt soaked in acid and her legs ached, as she beelined for the bridge, but she didn’t stop running until she’d crossed the river and was safe inside the gas station.

  Wheezing, El stared out the window.

  “Can I help you?” asked the clerk, propped on her elbows with a sleepy look.

  Startled, El pushed a few strands of hair out of her sweaty face. She must look terrible, like the sort of person who would curl Mama’s lip.

  What else was new?

  “Yes, thank you. Can you tell me . . . where I am?”

  Riley cleared a spot on her cosmetics-cluttered desk and put her feet up. Tugging the computer into her lap, she moved between webpages. With the shades drawn and her screen at full brightness, time was illusory, measured only by each tap of the Refresh button.

  Had it been the right question?

  The @hellonaunicycle profile was a mask she’d painstakingly designed over the course of several hours to be the perfect bait. Average user, eighteen, in love with the story of Snow and R, with just a dash of extra original posts, like beautiful stock images from around the world or quotes that Riley found particularly appropriate to El’s situation. No reblogs from sites other than El’s, no content to link it to any other site on the net except @loveunderglass, no way anyone else would stumble onto it in the thousands of lives on display, except by meticulously scanning the notes on El’s entries. It was perfectly innocuous, but Riley considered that El might be too savvy to get online or fall for such a slipshod trap. The girl was at least clever enough to evade Mama Glasse, and with familial political ties, the woman had to have every agency in the world on top of the disappearance by now.

  Surely El wouldn’t . . . but if she didn’t, then Riley would have no way to track her down, something that gave her a cold chill and a full-body ache.

  The Statshunter window reloaded, and the result was so surprising it took several seconds for Riley to realize anything had changed. She must have let out a sound. Her father appeared in the doorway to watch her fingers tap as she switched programs, and entered the IP address into the tracker.

  “How does this work?”

  “I made an account on El’s blogging site with a tracking program embedded in the code. I built the profile to be innocent, but interesting to one specific person. Then I asked that one person a question.”

  “And that one person decided to research your fake profile before answering?” He crossed his arms. “And you can use that to track her?”

  “Exactly. I can track any IP address who comes to my profile page.”

  “It could be the wicked witch,” he grumbled, “checkin’ up on anyone who’d help El.”

  “She’d have to hack the account to see the question.”

  “Wouldn’t put it past her.”

  “Yeah, but if she had hacked El’s account, she’d probably know where El was going. I agree, though . . . Mama Glasse is more than capable.” The map constituted itself from the grid on the screen, and Riley zoomed out. Whoever the person was, the IP ping had not come from this state. “Well, unless the woman is using a VPN to reroute her IP, it isn’t her.”

  “Could it be another fan who noticed your page?”

  “Maybe, but I’ve been pretty obscure. There are at least ten fan blogs. I’ve looked through all of them. El’s been careful to keep the notes neutral and the contacts she’s had in DM, but I’m pretty sure none of them are combing her notes to find other fans.”

  He leaned forward and used his stubby finger to move the mouse across the screen, tracing the interstates. “Look. This is right along the railroad tracks. I just saw this town . . . Alderson, on the news! Someone parked a car right in front of a train and tried to board it.”

  Riley began to pace, her thoughts exploding in every direction. El had been on foot when Riley saw her at the parlor. Without a car, there was no other way for El to escape but to take the train. Could someone have tried to block her train in West Virginia to capture her?

  He pulled up the news story and scrolled through to find an image of two State Troopers looking perplexed by the black SUV parked before a locomotive just itching to pull out of the station. “That’s a rental car.”

  “How can you tell?”

  He glanced at her sardonically. “The license frame and the air freshener.”

  “What happened to the guys?”

  “All arrested. Their car got towed away, because I guess they couldn’t find the keys.”

  Riley took back the laptop and shuffled maps with ticketing information. “If she caught the train and they figured it out, they’d intercept it, so of course she would have to ditch early. But then, who’s they?”

  Her father stood up and stretched, easily capable of grazing the ceiling with his knuckles. “So what? This crack team of stupids park a car across the tracks so they’d have time to search the train? Or did she do it to strand them there while she made a getaway? Newswoman didn’t say anything about the guys looking for someone.”

  Riley stared at her own frowning reflection in the wall mirror and wondered if El had that kind of subterfuge in her. If so . . . she was one hell of a chick.

  To look at her website, El had to be connected to a network. She wouldn’t be stupid enough to do that with her own phone, since her mother would definitely be able to use that to find her. Yet the tracker program indicated that the user had logged in from a smartphone. This meant El had to have a secondary device like a pay-as-you-go phone purchased with cash, but those had limited cell data, and it would make sense that El would conserve it. She had to have logged in on someone else’s wi-fi, which would tie her to a location.

  Mama Glasse would never be able to follow that, but Riley could.

  She returned to a Google street view and tapped the arrows until she could estimate approximately where on the avenue the user had been. As the signs came into focus, Riley’s face split into a smile. She jumped up from the table and snatched her motorcycle coat from the bed. Flinging herself at his bulk, she slapped her dad’s beard with a kiss. Then she was gone.

  On the road, she had to remind herself to pay attention, and that traffic laws weren’t just theories, but indicated consequences. Aella growled through the streets, drawing stares and head shakes. With careful maneuvering of the large bike, she swam upstream, and it wasn’t long before she had freed herself from the tangle of traffic. Soon the streets widened, the houses grew fatter, and the gates more imposing.

  White stone and columns, giant trees and palatial estates. Riley scanned the brass numbers for the one she remembered from the night she’d given El a ride.

  Riley should have known something was terribly wrong. She should have known to give El another hug, or reassure her that she could divulge any secret without betrayal. She should have given off a vibe, or kissed El’s cheek, or anything other than act like a stupid, awkward tomboy.

  If she had kissed El, would the girl still have run away?

  Her heart skipped, and she almost didn’t see the bronze plaque embedded in brick. Riley stopped the bike so hard it screeched, and looked up at the house. Yup, the one that looked like a fucking plantation.

  She punched the buzzer.

  “Hello?”

  “Uh .
. . I’m here to talk to Mama Glasse. She home?”

  It was a practiced customer service voice who replied. “May I ask who this is?”

  “Tell her it’s R.”

  “Like the letter?”

  “Yup.”

  “One moment.” The intercom went dead with a brisk pop. Riley picked her teeth beneath the lifted visor and looked up at the security cameras. The place was like a goddamn prison. El really had executed an escape worthy of any criminal. If Mama Glasse ever found her daughter, she’d likely install a moat and alligators so that the next breakout saw El swimming for her life or building a raft out of shower curtains.

  With the squeaking of metal pulleys, the gate slid aside for her. As slowly as she could without falling over, Riley rolled Aella down the lane. She’d expected to see conspicuously unmarked cars, men wearing nondescript suits, or at least some sign that a girl was missing and that the authorities cared, but the manicured lawn and well-maintained shrubs were unassailed.

  Riley sat for a moment on the silent bike. She’d always been an apt pupil, and aside from idolizing her father, she’d also learned a great deal about the criminal element. All it would take were a few timed comments composed of specific phrases, a general disregard for authority, a cautious negotiation style, and Riley could appear to be a budding, avaricious miscreant willing to break the law. Tiny threads began to weave, and Riley’s plan took shape. It was a web, all right, but it was one she was fairly certain she could navigate, if she was careful and trusted no one.

  Especially Mama Glasse.

  She took her phone from her pocket and flicked through a few apps, then let the thing lock.

  A lady in a tacky maid’s uniform answered the door, shoulders hunched in exhaustion and face sunken from worry. She ushered Riley to a large sitting room with a whispered, “Let me go get Mrs. Glasse.”

  Fairly certain her entire house could fit into this one room and completely disgusted by that fact, Riley walked to the couch that was about where her bed might be and took a cue, stretching herself out, muddy boots and all. The whole room was done up in hunter green and pink pastels. Inset paneling and white shutters spoke to the time before the war they deserved to lose, and the Victorian furniture and ornate scrollwork made the place look like a museum. The air was cold like a mall and every shoe clicking across the tiled floor carried through the entire estate.

  Riley grinned.

  “What are you doin’!”

  The shrill voice echoed, enough to rouse anyone with a conscience, but Riley made full use of her delinquent genes. “Some lady told me I lacked respect. I think it’s cuz it’s fucking tiring. So I thought I’d take a nap. Save up my strength.”

  Mama Glasse wheeled around the couch and glared down at her. She was wearing twice as much makeup as usual and the dark circles still showed. “What do you want?”

  Picking at her tasseled zipper, Riley shrugged. “Your daughter is missing . . .”

  The woman crossed her arms and scowled. “I’m aware of that.”

  “I don’t see any cops, no signs you’re out looking for her. But someone like you . . . I mean, you gotta be curious.”

  The eyes glazed over, less a dewy motherly concern and more a malevolent sheen of reptilian reasoning. “I’m not sure I take your point.”

  Riley sat up. “What’s she gonna do? Out there, all by herself, knowing what she knows about what hurts you? I wonder if her coming of age story would damage your husband’s reelection campaign.”

  In a blink, Mama Glasse was bristling, quivering as if about to linguistically backhand her with a perfect southern drawl.

  “You’re implying what?”

  The H in the word was heavy, like a sledgehammer.

  “Just that you might want her back . . . and that you might not want the world to ever know she was gone.” Standing up, Riley was about an inch taller than the woman. It filled her with accomplishment when her host was forced to her full height and had to lift her pointy chin just to reassert control. To needle her, Riley put on an exaggerated accent and shook her head woefully. “What did you tell the othuh ladies at church this mornin’, Mama? I gotta wonder. ‘El’s at home, so sick she just can’t move, the po’ baby!’”

  “Get out of my home,” the woman spat back.

  Chuckling, Riley raised a gloved hand. “Whatever you say, lady . . . just thought you might want someone to actually find her, instead of getting stranded on the railroad tracks.”

  Her gambit was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. “How did you . . .”

  With a smoky glance, Riley clucked her tongue and cast the whole mess into the realms of the mysterious. “What would you say if I told you I not only know how to find El . . . but that I’m probably the only one who can?”

  “Her name is Elyrra, and I’d call you a liar.”

  Riley let out a snort. “That’s not very nice! Where’s that Southern charm I’ve heard so much about?”

  “And how are you gonna do it?” The woman tilted a hip and was the very picture of impatience. “If you think you’re just gonna call her cell phone, you’re an idiot. She must’ve turned it off and taken out the SIM. Neither I nor the phone company can track it. I’ve tried.”

  Riley looked around the room and raised a brow. The whole place gave her the creeps, and the itchy sofa, hives. “Look . . . I could go into all the details, but I’m pretty sure you don’t want me to. I mean, my daddy is an ex-con, after all, your old man’s a politician, and there’s this thing called ‘plausible deniability,’ so . . .”

  In actuality, nothing she was doing was in any way illegal, but if she tipped her hand at all, this witch would just pay someone else to do what she was doing. Better to let her think it might tarnish the Glasse name, and make her comfortable with the idea of hiring an expendable teenaged girl from the wrong side of the tracks.

  Mama Glasse eyed her, and Riley could almost smell the Coco Mademoiselle baking off her flesh as the skin gave a promising flush.

  “Come with me,” she said finally, and turned crisply toward the receiving hall.

  Led into the depths of the place, Riley took a journey through time, as each successive room became more modern. Finally, at the back of the house, she was practically shoved into a doorway that opened onto a state-of-the-art studio. Canned lighting and reflective umbrellas, computer equipment and sound mixers—this must be where all Mama Glasse’s famous vlog posts were created. As she scanned the room, Riley recognized the backdrop and gave a tiny shake of her head.

  The acoustics were fucking perfect in the belly of the beast.

  “So what, precisely, are you offerin’ me, sugar?”

  “Now I’m your sugar, huh, Mama?”

  The smile didn’t even try to look human. “You’re willin’ to break the law to protect my baby girl. You’re sweetness and light and everythin’ right.”

  Riley had a moment then, in between heartbeats, to give this all a second thought. Looking into those feline eyes and feeling like the canary in a gilded cage, Riley’s soul ached for El. It was sudden and strong, and it nearly wrecked her Mercenary-AF persona. Riley forced down the urge to punch the woman in the nose and made as if to check the time on her phone.

  The app was working perfectly.

  “I can track her down. The only proof I’ll give you of that is the fact that I knew about the car.” She set her helmet down on the prop table and put her phone beside it. “What jokers did you hire, because that’s a rookie fucking mistake. I’m a teenager, and I know that.”

  The lines around Mama’s mouth ticked. “Well, it hardly seems fair to tell you about your competition. They’ve signed NDAs after all.”

  Nondisclosure agreements? Jesus, she was thorough. “Huh. Hope you didn’t put down too big a deposit.”

  “I’m paying them each three a day plus expenses . . . including legal.”

  Riley coughed out her shock. “For real? Shit. I’d do it for two and never get caught.”

 
Mrs. Glasse’s scathing appraisal came to an abrupt halt. Either Riley had convinced her, or she was too desperate to care. She slid into the desk chair and removed a thick wallet from a drawer.

  “You still haven’t told me what your plan is.”

  “I plan to find her. That’s all you need to know. Once I do . . .” She shrugged. “You don’t care what I tell her to get her to come back, yeah?”

  The French twist tilted to one shoulder. “Not a bit.”

  “It’s like that, then.” Riley propped herself against the wall, slouched in comfort with such shady dealings. “But uh . . . I might have to, you know . . .” She licked her lips suggestively.

  Mama’s face shriveled up on itself in disgust, but in spite of that, she didn’t object. “Whatever it takes.”

  Riley’s gut clenched down on her disdain, but her voice had to come out just right, or Mama would know she was playing a game. “I want two hundred per day, plus expenses, and five to kit my bike.”

  “How long do you think it’ll take?”

  Riley looked at the backdrop, recalling the several videos she’d seen while researching this woman’s online presence. To her ear, every single artfully constructed word was obviously backward, insane propaganda designed to instill fear and teach people to hate others. To her ear, it sounded like cartoon super villainy, either completely unaware of its own hypocrisy or not concerned with it in the least. To Riley, this woman was a manifestation of everything she hated about the world, all the phobias and prejudices that had darkened her days.

  But here she was, about to shake hands with it.

  Then again . . . Riley had heard it all before, had it all thrown in her face in brawls. She was either too dark-skinned or too gay, not respectful enough or from an untouchable family, a “wetback” or “white trash.” She’d been down that road. In that moment, she decided the hardship didn’t matter to her.

  “Let’s say a week at first, but that might change if I can’t pin her down.”

  Mama filled out a check, tore it with a flourish, and held it out to her. “This is the deposit. But for the day-to-day, I have an idea.”