The Siren

by Katherine St. John

  I’ve been able to find little of his personal life online. He’s a registered Democrat, an environmentalist, a supporter of the Black Lives Matter and #MeToo movements. He spent a year in India after high school and had a nerdy-cute girlfriend while in college in New York, but they amicably uncoupled when he moved to LA. His friends are as annoyingly artistic and benevolent as he seems to be. I’ve swiped and swiped trying to find him on various dating apps but come up empty-handed.

  I spun my wheels for months after my run-in with Cole, but my machinations led nowhere and I’d begun to feel desperate. My ideas were all too complicated, with too many moving parts that depended upon one another to work. Was I intentionally making this harder than it had to be in order not to follow through? Surely poor Stella wouldn’t be too difficult to get close to, and if her substance abuse problem was a fraction of what it used to be, it shouldn’t be too hard to pry her secrets loose. I decided to make her my target.

  A star map purchased on Hollywood Boulevard easily led me to her address, a crumbling Tudor home in Nichols Canyon. I began following her, studying her routines. Inspection of her recycling bin revealed she’d leaped off the wagon, deep into a fondness for gin and chardonnay—at least a bottle of wine per night. Many days she didn’t leave her house except to take her little Chihuahua around the block, but I quickly learned her favorite coffee shop and dog park.

  Then, a week after I started following her, she was suddenly gone. The dog had disappeared with her, the house closed up with timers on the lights that went on at seven and off again at ten. I tried to find evidence of where she’d gone, but there was none. No production reports containing her name, no travel itineraries in the trash. Finally a new credit popped up under her name on the Internet Movie Database, and I realized she must be off shooting what appeared to be a movie about a dog for the Hallmark Channel, not big enough to have been mentioned in any of the trades.

  Two weeks went by. Three. I grew anxious. Her name was listed way down the cast list, which meant her role couldn’t be large. How long could it possibly take? One evening I wandered down to the Blue Cat, my favorite hole-in-the-wall on the east end of Sunset Boulevard, in hopes of finding someone to take my mind off my failure to even begin to avenge my mother’s death. The place was nearly empty, but I was already there, so I sat at the dimly lit bar and nursed a mezcal cocktail while watching the Mexican league soccer game play silently on the television above the bartender’s head. He was cute—an actor, I was sure—and I’d considered taking him home with me a number of times, but had always stopped myself, valuing my ability to return to the bar above whatever brief thrills he might give me in bed.

  I’d just paid my bill when Jackson walked in. He was with a guy and a girl I recognized from his Instagram account as a couple in his film school class. I’d been stalking him so long I felt as if I knew him, and not being a regular drinker, I was buzzed enough after a heavy cocktail that I nearly called out to him when his eyes grazed mine. I couldn’t help but return the half smile he gave me, then ripped my gaze away, staring into the melting ice in my glass as I tried to still my wildly beating heart.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him; I’d started coming to the Blue Cat after he tagged it in a post a year ago, but I found I liked it and kept coming back even after he failed to ever turn up. Finally, here he was, the grown version of the boy I’d met on that fateful night thirteen years ago. He was thin, but taller than I thought he’d be. He still had unruly dark hair with his mother’s wide olive eyes, and his jawline had filled out to become an echo of his father’s. He was unassumingly good-looking in fitted gray jeans and a faded black hoodie—exactly the type of guy I’d be into if he wasn’t who he was. But he was…who he was.

  I wrestled with myself over whether to chance talking to him as he and his friends seated themselves at a booth behind me. It would be so easy. There had been interest in his eyes when they’d grazed mine. It wasn’t what I’d planned, but the opportunity was there, so tangible.

  What would I say? Lying was the obvious answer—I knew enough about him that it wouldn’t be difficult to pose as his perfect girl. I could be on a date with him in a matter of days. I could probably sleep with him tonight if I wanted. But then what? It would have to end at some point. He’d never volunteer the information I needed unprompted, and as soon as I started asking questions, he’d become suspicious. But if I told him the truth from the start, I’d scare him off.

  “You follow Mexican soccer?” I spun to see him suddenly beside me, his hair falling into his eyes, the shadow of a dimple as his lips curled into a smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He laughed.

  I gaped at him, my mind spinning through the options so quickly I felt dizzy. “You startled me,” I managed.

  “Let’s start over,” he said easily. “I’m Jackson.”

  I didn’t take his extended hand. “I’m sorry,” I sputtered, gathering my purse and jacket. “I have a boyfriend. I have to go.”

  I dove off the barstool and hastened to the door without a backward glance. When I was safely outside, I sprinted all the way up the hill to my apartment, impervious to the blisters forming on my heels from my impractical shoes. Finding I no longer felt the warm buzz of the mezcal, I poured myself straight tequila—the only liquor I had in the house—and sat on the couch, beating myself up.

  Why was I so shaken? I was a terrible spy. First I botched the encounter with Cole, now Jackson. Luckily, it was dark and he’d seen my face for only about ten seconds, so I was sure he’d forget me in a matter of days. But I should have been cool. I should have been prepared. Now what? I opened my phone and stared at his Instagram account, willing him to post something. It would be so easy to slide into his DMs under one of my fake accounts…and what, ruin everything? I’d already been through this!

  If I were going to contact him, it needed to be as myself—under an email he couldn’t track and without a picture that would immediately lead him back to the girl who’d just run from him like Cinderella at midnight. Poor guy. I was sure his friends were still teasing him.

  As I thought about him, my fingers began striking the keys on my computer to open a new email account. I should let it go, but I suddenly found I couldn’t. I needed to know, and I needed to know now.

  Hi Jackson,

  I met you in Miami thirteen years ago behind your dad’s house while my mother was inside. Her name was Iris and she was everything to me, the only person I’ve ever loved. Did you know she died that night? They said she’d been driving high and wrecked her car into a tree, but that’s not true. Your father was driving the car, and she was already dead when he and Stella loaded her into it. I know you weren’t responsible—you were a kid like I was. Did Cole force you to lie to the police? What did you really see that night? I know this will seem out of the blue to you, but I have thought about it every hour of every day since, and I have to know what really happened to her.

  Please.

  Phoenix

  I attached a picture of my mother smiling on the beach a few weeks before her death with her arm around a chubby little blond me, keyed in the email address I found on his website, and hit send before I could second-guess myself.

  But second-guess myself I have, a million times in the six weeks since I sent the email. He never responded. I considered sending a follow-up, but I never quite worked out what to say.

  Stella came back, and I resumed my plan to ingratiate myself to her, though I’ve yet to succeed.

  And now, like a lightning bolt from a blue sky, Cole’s hired Stella and Jackson to shoot a movie—the three of them together, for the first time in thirteen years.

  I finish my tea and set my mug on the windowsill, staring out at the wind whipping the pepper trees. Why now? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I will be on that movie set, and I will find out once and for all what happened to my mother.

  Friday, June 28

  Taylor

  I was on the treadmil
l when the first wave of nausea hit. I slowed the belt and gulped down half the water in my thermos, figuring it was my body’s payback for not having run in over a week. But the water only made it worse. Out the fogged window, the electric-blue horizon seemed warped, the phosphorescent green of the golf course too bright.

  Thankful that I was alone in the ice-cold gym, I grabbed a eucalyptus-scented wet towel from the refrigerator and rubbed it over my face. My mouth watered; my peripheral vision darkened. I sat heavily into the chair next to the water dispenser and rested my head in my hands. What the hell? I’d been fine this morning. Well, fine-ish. But hangovers didn’t usually make me nauseous.

  I immediately thought of Cole and what he might have done to me while I was passed out—what that might mean in the context of my sudden nausea. Though surely I was being alarmist. Please, God. I was probably just hungry. It was early afternoon, and I’d had nothing in the way of sustenance today, other than the coffee I’d drunk this morning during my meeting with Jackson, Stella, and Felicity.

  After a few minutes, the wave passed, but I was left feeling too weak to finish my workout. I grabbed another refrigerated towel and headed slowly back through the steamy day to my bungalow. I ate a nutrition bar and downed acetaminophen, which seemed to help some, then took a lukewarm shower.

  Afterward, I wrapped myself in my bathrobe and lay down on the soft white bed, staring up at the steeply pitched thatched roof, light-headed. The light from the water bouncing off the walls was too much; I fumbled on the dresser for the remote control and lowered the blackout shades. The relative darkness provided some relief, but the water still reflected through the window in the floor. I forced myself off the bed and threw a blanket over the glass.

  To make matters worse, I’d agreed to dinner with Rick after Jackson called off tonight’s shoot and was very much looking forward to it, but I would obviously have to cancel if I continued feeling like this. Surely I’d be fine by then. I stumbled into the closet and yanked out the first clothes I saw. My favorite bra felt like it was strangling my tits, so I clasped it on the widest hook; still I had double boob. And they were sore too. Not a good sign. Please let it be a bad case of PMS. I hadn’t gotten my period when I was supposed to last week, but that often happened when I was working crazy hours and stressing like a madwoman. It must be coming now, right?

  My mouth watered in the bad way. I braced myself against the dresser.

  I circled back to the obvious answer. If this had happened yesterday, I would have disregarded the idea: I couldn’t be pregnant; I hadn’t had sex. Cole told me point-blank we didn’t sleep together.

  But Cole had lied. Of course the asshole had lied. All evidence pointed to the fact that he’d drugged me, assaulted me, and then made out like I’d gotten too drunk and thrown myself at him. Acrid rage burned the back of my throat.

  I ran to the shockingly sunlit bathroom and hurled into the toilet.

  When there was nothing left in me to upchuck, I pulled on a baseball cap and dark glasses and grudgingly slogged down the pier, across the sand, through the trees, and along the cobblestone road to the lone drugstore on the island, praying I wouldn’t see anyone I knew. No such luck. One of the camera ops was in line with a basket full of stuff, and the two wardrobe girls were perusing the limited nail polish selection. I nodded and smiled at them, pretending to examine the vitamins and supplements until they’d vacated the store, at which point I grabbed a handful of different pregnancy tests and rushed to the cashier.

  She smiled when she saw what I was purchasing. “Good luck, honey.”

  “Oh, they’re not for me,” I lied.

  Back at the bungalow, I selected one of the tests at random and read the instructions as though it were more complicated than peeing on a stick. When I finally got down to business, I was shaking so much I could hardly keep the thing in place. I capped it and placed it on the slate counter beneath the giant window, then set the timer on my phone for three minutes. In thirty seconds, there were two blue lines in the window. I knew what it meant, but I consulted the instructions, hoping I was wrong.

  I chugged a bottle of water and sat on the edge of the soaking tub staring across the mottled sea at the green hills of Saint Ann in the distance, waiting for the water to work its way through my body so that I could try again. Somewhere nestled among the palms was Rick’s house, which I’d never see now.

  A gull landed on the back of one of the loungers on the deck and cocked its head, judging me for my naivete. I’d wanted so badly for this movie to be my salvation that I’d willingly ignored all the blatant warning signs it was anything but. Now I was caught in the undertow, and this time there would be no one on a WaveRunner to save me.

  When I could finally pee again, I took another test. Two lines appeared immediately.

  I was pregnant.

  Stella

  I trudged up the over-water walkway toward my bungalow, impervious to the breathtaking explosion of color reaching across the sky as the sun sank into the salmon-tinted sea. The hot stone massage Felicity had insisted I submit to had done little to dull the throbbing in my head, and my oiled skin felt sticky in the heavy air.

  I was exhausted. I’d been unable to go back to sleep in the wake of this morning’s meeting, strangled by panic over what would happen to me should Jackson decide to pull the plug on the film. I kept flipping between the things Cole had told me about Jackson the other day and what Jackson had said about Cole. Their stories didn’t match up, but I couldn’t piece together which of them was lying or why, and there was no one I could talk to about it.

  Jackson had everyone believing that Cole had drugged me, and while that made logical sense, it made as much sense for Madison to have been the culprit—especially now that she seemed to be involved with Cole—or if Cole had been the one telling the truth, even Jackson himself. I wished I could remember a damn thing about what happened at Coco’s, but my memory of the evening was nothing but a black hole.

  Mary Elizabeth yapped excitedly when I pushed open the door, and I scooped her up, allowing her to shower me with kisses. I didn’t know where Felicity had gone but was glad to have some time to myself. Obviously I couldn’t breathe a word to her of my suspicions about Jackson’s motives, but it was hard to think of anything else, which suddenly made her constant companionship tedious.

  The reflection of the sunset through the floor-to-ceiling glass bathed the deliciously silent bungalow in an otherworldly light. I considered the half-drunk bottle of rum on the counter. I knew with the renewed scrutiny of the insurance company and whatever was still coursing through my veins after last night that I shouldn’t drink, but I also knew a glass of rum was the only thing that could make me feel better. I’d get sober when this was all over. I really would. But now was definitely not the time.

  I poured the rum over ice and marched through the bedroom to the gorgeous bathroom, where I opened the sliding glass doors to the salty breeze and the sound of the sloshing ocean slapping the pilons beneath the bungalow then ran a bubble bath in the giant soaking tub. I did so love a hot bath. The sea was alive this evening, its surface rippled by the wind. A pelican dive-bombed a school of fish, coming up with a wriggling flash of silver in its large beak. The local rum was smooth and sweet on my tongue as I downed an extra anxiety pill, sure my current dose was insufficient for the amount of stress I was under.

  I shed my clothes and slipped into the hot water. There was no denying the wound had been reopened inside of me; I was teetering. I could see the abyss, and I knew it would swallow me up if I let it. I’d sweat blood to bury the past; now it was all resurfacing, distorted from years of submersion. The harder I tried not to think about it, the more the memories pushed through. I wanted to run away and never see Cole or Jackson Power again. What had I been thinking, accepting this role? My psychic had said there would be forgiveness and healing, but for once she was wrong. My only recourse was self-medication.

  When I emerged from the bath, my fingers wer
e wrinkled and I was sufficiently anesthetized to face the rest of my evening. The sun had slipped beneath the horizon, leaving in its place a pearly sliver of moon that peeked through low clouds hovering above the luminous sea.

  “Stella?” Felicity called out from the other room as I pulled a maxi dress over my head.

  “Come in,” I replied.

  She entered holding Mary Elizabeth. “I’m going to take her to do her business. Want to come?”

  After the bath and the rum, I was feeling better than I had all day, but I still didn’t quite have it in me to put on makeup. “I’d love to, but I don’t think I can pull myself together,” I said, running a brush through my wet hair.

  “Come on,” she protested. “You look beautiful. And anyway, it’s about to storm, so no one’s out there.”

  I knew she was only being kind, but she was right that no one would be around, so I poured myself another splash in the darkening living room and we set out, barefoot. Stepping onto the pier without a stitch of makeup on, I felt more naked than if I’d walked out the door without any clothes. It was surprisingly freeing. The wind whipped our hair and dresses. I looked up to see clouds obscuring the stars. “Tut-tut, looks like rain,” I quipped.

  But Felicity apparently had not been exposed to Winnie-the-Pooh as a child.

  When we reached the windswept beach, I set Mary Elizabeth down, and she immediately ran yapping toward the only occupied lounger on the beach. I chased after her, calling out an apology to the occupant of the lounger, who was curled up beneath one of the resort’s oversize green and white beach towels with his face obscured by a raised hoodie.

  The person turned, and I saw I’d been wrong. It wasn’t a he. It was Taylor, and she looked an awful mess, her face puffy and streaked with tears. “Taylor,” I exclaimed, kneeling next to her in the sand. “Are you okay?”