Vanishing Girls

by Lauren Oliver

  “No problem.” She smiles, just a little, even though she still looks sad. “I always liked it when you called me Ari.”

  Then she’s gone.

  www.theShorelineBlotter.com_july23

  by Margie Nichols

  Have the police finally caught a break in the Madeline Snow case?

  Sources close to the investigation tell this reporter that the police have named Nicholas Sanderson, 43, an accountant with a home in the upscale beachfront community of Heron Bay, a “person of interest.”

  What does this mean, exactly? According to Frank Hernandez, the commanding officer in charge of the search for Madeline Snow, “We’re investigating a possible connection between Sanderson and the Snow family. That’s all. No further comment.”

  No further comment? Really? After a little digging, here’s what I’ve learned: Nicholas Sanderson and his wife vacation a good forty-five miles from the Snow residence. They attend different churches, and at no time have Mr. or Mrs. Snow used Sanderson for his accounting services. Nicholas Sanderson has no children, and no obvious connection to Springfield, where the Snows live.

  So what’s the connection? Post your thoughts/comments below.

  Doesn’t mean anything. Sanderson could’ve met Madeline anywhere—hanging out at the beach, shopping at Walmart, whatever. Maybe he reached out to her online. Madeline’s sister has a car, doesn’t she?

  posted by: bettyb00p at 10:37 a.m.

  Why are you assuming there is a connection? Cops are just grabbing at straws, IMHO.

  posted by: carolinekinney at 11:15 a.m.

  That guy is the worst!!! Tried to charge me 3K just to do my taxes. What a scam artist.

  posted by: alanovid at 2:36 p.m.

  bettyb00p is right. Everything happens online nowadays. Was Madeline on Facebook?

  posted by: runner88 at 3:45 p.m.

  No. I checked.

  posted by: carolinekinney at 3:57 p.m.

  Still. These sickos always find a way.

  posted by: bettyb00p at 4:02 p.m.

  See additional 107 comments

  JULY 23

  Dara

  8:30 p.m.

  Until I turned fourteen, my parents took Nick and me to Sergei’s every other week. Sergei’s is wedged between a dentist’s office and a children’s shoe store that I have never known a single person to shop at. There is no actual Sergei; the owner’s name is Steve, and the closest he ever got to Italy was the time he lived for two years in an Italian neighborhood in Queens, New York. The garlic is from a jar and the Parmesan cheese is the crumbly kind that comes in an airtight container, the kind you can keep in a pantry for years or through nuclear catastrophes. The tablecloths are paper, and each place setting comes with a different-colored crayon.

  But the meatballs are fluffy and as big as softballs, and the pizza comes in thick slices, layered with melted cheese, and the baked ziti is always bubbly brown and crusty at the corners, just how I like it. Besides, Sergei’s is ours. Even after Mom and Dad started making excuses to avoid each other, claiming late hours at work or developing colds or other obligations, Nick and I used to go together. For $12.95 we could get two Cokes and a large pizza and hit up the salad bar, too.

  Il Sodi, the restaurant Cheryl has selected, has crisp white linen tablecloths and fresh flowers arranged in the center of every table. The floors are polished wood and so slick even standing up to go to the bathroom makes me nervous. Waiters swan between tables, cranking out fresh pepper and grating fine flakes of cheese onto pasta portions so small they look accidental. Everyone has the pushed and prodded and tugged look that rich people have, like they’re just giant pieces of taffy, ready to be molded. Cheryl lives in Egremont, just next to Main Heights, in the house she inherited after her last husband got flattened by an unexpected heart attack the day before his fiftieth birthday.

  I’ve heard the story before, but for some reason she feels the need to tell it to me again, as if she’s expecting my sympathy—the phone call from the hospital, her frantic rush to his bedside, regrets about all the things she wishes she got the chance to say—while Dad sits and fiddles with a sweating glass of whiskey on the rocks. I’m not sure when he started drinking. He never used to have more than a beer or two at barbecues; he always used to say alcohol was how boring people had fun.

  “And of course it was just devastating for Avery and Josh.” Josh is Cheryl’s eighteen-year-old son. He goes to Duke, a fact she has found ingenious ways to work into almost any conversation. I met him once, at a meet-and-greet dinner for the new “family” in March, and I swear he spent the whole dinner staring at my tits. Avery is fifteen, about as much fun as a Band-Aid, and just as clingy. “To be honest, even though we lost Robert five years ago, I don’t think we’ll ever be done grieving. You have to give yourself time.” I shoot my dad a look—does she think this is good dinner-party conversation?—but he’s studiously avoiding my eyes and instead using his phone under the table. Despite the fact that this dinner was his idea—he wanted some “quality time” with me, to “check in,” which I guess is why he didn’t invite Nick—he’s hardly said a word to me since I sat down.

  Cheryl keeps prattling on. “I wish you’d talk to Avery. Maybe we can have a girls’ day. I’ll treat you to the spa. Would you like that?”

  I’d rather spend the day sticking needles under my nails, but of course at that precise moment Dad’s eyes tick to mine, both a warning and a command. I smile and make a noncommittal noise.

  “I’d love that. And Avery would love that.” Three things about Cheryl: she loves anything having to do with “girl time,” “spa time,” or “sauvignon blanc.” She leans back while three waiters materialize and deposit identical plates of what look like bean sprouts in front of us. “Micro greens,” Cheryl clarifies, when she sees my face. She has insisted on doing the ordering. “With chervil and fresh chives. Go on, dig in.”

  Digging in is the wrong expression. I’ve finished the plate of rabbit kibble in about two bites, and I can’t help but think of the all-you-can-eat salad bar at Sergei’s: the electric glowing cubes of cheddar cheese, the proud trays of iceberg and individual tubs of store-bought croutons and pickled green beans. Even the beets, which Nick and I both agree taste like an open grave.

  I wonder where Nick is eating tonight.

  “So how’s your summer going?” Cheryl says, once the plates have been cleared. “I hear you’re working at FanLand.”

  I shoot Dad another look—Cheryl can’t even keep Nick and me straight. For Christ’s sake, there’s only two of us. It’s not like I sit around asking how Avery likes Duke. But once again, he has returned to his phone.

  “Everything’s fine,” I say. No point in telling Cheryl the truth: that Nick and I have been completely avoiding each other, that I’ve been bored out of my mind, that Mom floats through the house like a balloon, lashed to the TV.

  “Listen to this.” Dad speaks up suddenly. “‘The police have named Nicholas Sanderson, forty-three, an accountant with a home in the upscale beachfront community of Heron Bay—’”

  “Oh, Kevin.” Cheryl sighs. “Not here. Not tonight. Will you put your phone away for once?”

  “—a ‘person of interest.’” Dad looks up, blinking, like a person emerging from sleep. “I wonder what that’s about.”

  “I’m sure the Blotter will tell us,” Cheryl says, swiping the corner of her eye with one perfectly French-manicured fingernail. “He’s been obsessed,” she says to me.

  “Yeah. Mom too.” I don’t know why, but I get pleasure out of talking about Mom in front of Cheryl. “It’s, like, the only thing she can talk about.”

  Cheryl just shakes her head.

  I turn to Dad, struck by an idea. I’m still thinking of what Sarah Snow said: You look familiar. “Did the Snows ever live in Somerville?”

  He frowns and returns to his phone. “Not that I know of.”

  So that’s a dead end. Cheryl, who can’t stand to keep her mouth shut for mo
re than .5 seconds, jumps in. “It’s terrible, just terrible. My friend Louise won’t even let the twins out on their own anymore. Just in case there’s a”—she lowers her voice—“pervert on the loose.”

  “I just feel so sorry for her parents,” Dad says. “To keep on hoping . . . to not know . . .”

  “You think it’s better to know?” I say. Once again, Dad looks at me. His eyes are red, bloodshot, and I wonder whether he’s already drunk. He doesn’t answer.

  “Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Cheryl says, as once again waiters appear, this time bearing thimble-size portions of spaghetti on vast white plates. Cheryl claps her hands together, and a massive ruby sparkles on one of her fingers. “Mmm. This looks delicious, doesn’t it? Spaghetti with garlic scapes and fresh ramps. I absolutely love ramps. Don’t you?”

  After dinner, Dad drops Cheryl off first, a sure sign he wants to talk to me—which is funny, both because he was almost entirely silent at dinner, and because I’m 90 percent positive he’ll drive straight back to Egremont when he’s done dropping me off. I wonder what it’s like to sleep in the bed of Cheryl’s dead ex-husband, and I have a sadistic urge to ask. He white-knuckles the wheel as he drives, leaning forward slightly, and I wonder whether it’s because he’s tipsy or so he doesn’t have to look at me.

  Still, he doesn’t speak until he’s pulled up in front of the house. As usual, only a few lights are burning: Nick’s, and the one in the upstairs bathroom. He jerks the car into park and clears his throat.

  “How’s your mother holding up?” he asks abruptly, which wasn’t what I expected him to say at all.

  “Fine,” I say, which is only half a lie. At least she goes to work on time now. Most days.

  “That’s good. I worry about her. I worry about you, too.” He’s still gripping the steering wheel, like if he lets go, he might go flying off into outer space. He clears his throat again. “We should talk about the twenty-ninth.”

  It’s so typical that he refers to my birthday by the date, as if it’s a dental appointment he has to keep. Dad is an actuary, which means he studies insurance and risk. Sometimes he looks at me like I’m a bad return he’s made on an investment.

  “What about it?” I say. If he’s going to pretend it’s no big deal, so will I.

  He gives me a funny look. “Your mother and I—” His voice hitches. “Well, we were thinking we should all get together. Maybe go to dinner at Sergei’s.”

  I can’t remember the last time Mom and Dad were in the same room. Not since a few days after the accident—and even then, they stayed on opposite sides of the minuscule hospital bedroom. “The four of us?”

  “Well, Cheryl has to work,” he says apologetically, as if I would have invited her otherwise. Finally he releases his death grip on the wheel and turns toward me. “What do you think? Do you think that’s a good idea? We wanted to celebrate somehow.”

  I’m tempted to say Hell no, but Dad isn’t actually waiting for an answer. He slides his fingers behind his glasses and scrubs his eyes. “God. Seventeen years old. I remember when—I remember when you were both babies, so small I was terrified to hold you. . . . I always thought I would crush you, or break you somehow. . . .” Dad’s voice is thick. He must be drunker than I thought.

  “Sounds great, Dad,” I say quickly. “I think Sergei’s would be perfect.”

  Thankfully he regains control. “You think?”

  “Really. It’ll be . . . special.” I lean over to give him a peck on the cheek, extracting myself before he can wrap me in a bear hug. “Drive home safely, okay? There are cops everywhere.” It’s weird to have to parent your parents. Add it to the list of the two thousand other things that have gone to hell since the divorce, or maybe since the accident, or both.

  “Right.” Dad seizes the steering wheel again, bobbing his head, obviously embarrassed by his outburst. “Looking for Madeline Snow.”

  “Looking for Madeline Snow,” I echo, as I slide out of the car. I watch Dad reverse in the driveway and hold up a hand as he passes me again, waving to his dim silhouette in the window. I watch until his taillights turn to tiny, glowing red points, like lit cigarette tips. Once again, the street is quiet, silent except for the constant throaty humming of the crickets.

  I think of Madeline Snow, somewhere lost in the darkness, while half the county searches for her.

  And it gives me an idea.

  JULY 28

  Nick

  It turns out that my failed turn as the mermaid wasn’t so failed after all—apparently the kids thought it was so uproariously funny that Mr. Wilcox decides to make physical comedy, and specifically my face-plant, a permanent part of the act. Since we can’t count on a real dog to reliably chomp down on Heather’s tail feathers, Wilcox invests in a big, floppy-eared dog puppet, and Heather works both identities at the same time—strutting in her costume while wearing the puppet on her right hand and miming a contest of wills until the culminating moment, when the dog gets hold of her butt.

  Unfortunately I’m stuck in the role of the mermaid for the foreseeable future. No one else can fit into the tail, and Crystal never comes back to work. Rumor is that she got busted for something really bad—Maude even claims the police are involved.

  “Her parents caught her posing for some porn website,” Maude says, gesturing with a french fry for emphasis. “She was getting paid to send naked pics.”

  “No way.” Douglas, who is thin and sharp-beaked, like a bird of prey, shakes his head. “She doesn’t even have boobs.”

  “So? Some guys like that.”

  “I heard she was dating some old guy,” a girl named Ida says. “Her parents flipped when they found out. Now she’s on lockdown.”

  “She was always bragging about money,” Alice says thoughtfully. “And she always had really nice stuff. Remember that watch? The one with all the little diamonds?”

  “It was a website,” Maude insists. “My cousin’s girlfriend’s brother’s a cop. There are, like, hundreds of girls on there. High school girls.”

  “Didn’t Donovan get busted for the same thing?” says Douglas.

  “For posing?” Ida squeaks.

  “For having access.” Douglas rolls his eyes. “A perv’s dream.”

  “Exactly.” At last Maude pops the fry in her mouth. Then she drags her finger through a thick glob of ketchup on her plate. That’s how she eats fries, in stages: potato, then ketchup.

  “I don’t believe it,” Alice says.

  Maude looks at her pityingly. “You don’t have to,” she says. “It’ll all come out soon enough. You’ll see.”

  The worst part about being the mermaid is the costume itself, which requires special cleaning and so can’t be washed more than once a week. After three days, the tail reeks, and whenever I’m suited up, I make it a point to stay as far away from Parker as possible.

  But after a few performances, I find I don’t mind being onstage so much. Rogers even shows me how to cushion my fall safely—he was a thespian in college, he tells me, with no hint of irony and embarrassment—and after one show, a little cluster of kids even crowds me behind the potted palms and asks for my autograph. I sign: Stay cool! Love, Melinda the Mermaid. No idea where Melinda comes from, but it feels right. And suiting up as Melinda keeps me from having to skim the Piss Pool, or scrub puke out of the Whirling Dervish.

  Slowly I’m getting the hang of FanLand. I no longer get lost on my way around the park. I know the shortcuts—cutting behind the Haunted Ship brings me straight to the wave pool. Walking through the darkness of the Tunnel lops a full five minutes from the walk between the Lagoon and the dry lands. I know the secrets, too: that Rogers drinks on the job, that Shirley never locks up her pavilion properly because she can’t be bothered with the faulty lock on the back door, and that some of the older employees swipe the occasional beer from the cooler as a result, that Harlan and Eva have been screwing around for three summers running and use the pump house as their own personal sex den.


  Every day we do more and more prep for the anniversary party: blowing up mountains of balloons and tying them in thick clusters to every available surface; scrubbing and re-varnishing the game stalls; stringing up banners advertising special promotions and events; performing vigilant, military-style maneuvers to keep bands of marauding raccoons (the source of Mr. Wilcox’s greatest anxiety) from decimating the frozen corn dogs and sugar cones we’ve stored in all the pavilions.

  Mr. Wilcox grows increasingly excited, as if he’s popping larger and larger rations of caffeine pills. Finally, the day before the party, he’s practically vibrating with enthusiasm. He doesn’t even speak in full sentences anymore, just walks around repeating random sentence fragments like: “Twenty thousand people! Seventy-five years! Oldest independent park in the state! Cotton candy free for the under-sevens!”

  But his enthusiasm is infectious. The whole park is buzzing with it; a sound perceived but not exactly heard, a sense of anticipation like the moment just before all the crickets start singing at night. Even Maude’s permanent scowl has flattened out into something close to a normal expression.

  Four of us are assigned to the graveyard shift the night before the party: Gary, a sour-faced man who runs one of the stalls and who has worked at FanLand through three changes of admin—a fact he repeats loudly whenever Mr. Wilcox is around; Caroline, a grad student who has spent four summers working at the park and who’s struggling through a thesis paper about the role of spectacle in American carnival entertainment; me; and Parker.

  Things have become easy between us again; we eat lunch together most days, and time our breaks together, too. In only six weeks, Parker has become a never-ending source of FanLand trivia, much of it related to the park’s design and engineering.

  “Do you study this stuff at night when you go home?” I ask him one day, after he’s been going on and on about the difference between potential and kinetic energy and its application to roller coasters.