The Fade

by Demitria Lunetta

  I AM IN Mr. Grant’s living room. He sits in a chair, the TV on some home improvement show. I don’t know what I expect to find—cobwebs and decomposing bodies?—but really, it’s pretty normal, with worn hunter-green couches and grayish carpeting. There’s no artwork or photos on the wall, just a large, lonely-looking mirror.

  “Hello?” I say, just to make sure he can’t hear me. When he doesn’t respond, I walk right in front of the TV. He stares through me like I don’t even exist. To him, I guess I don’t.

  The basement is cluttered and dusty. All I find are clothes and holiday decorations—the crap people seem to accumulate during their lives.

  I feel like I’m covered head to toe in dust….I wonder if dirt would make me visible to people. I saw a movie like that once; someone threw flour on a spirit so it could be seen. I go upstairs and walk in front of Mr. Grant once more, not surprised he doesn’t see me. Movies are not a reliable source of information.

  I go upstairs and peer into a bedroom. It’s girly, with white furniture and pink-painted walls.

  I turn into the master bedroom and stop short when I spot a pair of boxer shorts on the floor next to a laundry basket. I’m in Mr. Grant’s house, looking at his underwear. What if he’s just a grumpy old man and I’m totally invading his personal space for no reason?

  But the Ouija board spelled out his name, and I’ve already come this far. His dresser contains only clothes, and in his closet are more clothes and towels and shoes. Mr. Grant has got to be the least cluttered, most boring guy on the planet.

  I drop to my knees and poke under the bed. Cool metal greets my touch. I pull out a box but don’t have much hope. It’s not even locked. I crack it open and back away.

  Staring back at me from a photo are four smiling blond girls. I study the slightly rumpled picture. All the girls are in their track uniforms, red shorts and white shirts that say GLADWELL GLADIATORS across the front. Why is this squirreled away like a hidden treasure? He’s Gigi’s father, so it wouldn’t be weird for him to have photos of her around the house. It’s actually really suspicious that he doesn’t.

  In the metal box I find Gigi’s report cards. Awards. Cute pictures of her when she was a little kid. There are also pictures of a woman who I guess was her mom. When I saw the girls all together, they talked about Gigi’s mom dying. Is that why Mr. Grant did what he did? Or maybe people are just bad sometimes. There’s no excuse, no reason.

  I return to the other bedroom, looking at it in a new light. Shannon and Dad didn’t move a thing in my room; it looks like Mr. Grant has left Gigi’s room alone too. There are band posters on the wall, but no photos. Again, why did Mr. Grant take them down? I search for anything that might help: a diary, a picture. I find nothing.

  I go back downstairs and look over Mr. Grant’s desk. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Just a few bills, some junk mail. I pause. The mail is addressed to Gideon Thomas Grant. Still nothing I can use!

  I pound the desk so hard that the papers shake and a few letters fall to the floor. Mr. Grant turns around, his brow furrowed. He lumbers over to retrieve the pieces of mail, puts them back on the desk, and shuffles back to his chair.

  I don’t know what else to do, so I leave. I walk down the street toward the lake. I walk and walk until I have no idea where I am or how long it’s been.

  IN MY NEGLECTED bedroom, I wait for Kaitlyn.

  I’m ready when she appears, beautiful and ethereal. She tilts her head at me and floats across the room. I follow immediately, though dread fills me at what I may find. Despite my nervousness, I’m eager to witness her memory.

  I hope she’s the final piece of the puzzle. She has to show me evidence I can give to Coop. Something tangible that he can bring to the police. Something that will put Mr. Grant away.

  She reaches out her hand to me and I take it. Immediately I find myself in the basement once again. This time I’m standing next to the sink, behind the curtain that separates the hangout area from the laundry stuff.

  Kaitlyn sits on the couch, her long legs stretched out over the coffee table. She plays on her phone, a smile on her face. She’s wearing running shorts, and her blond hair is in a ponytail.

  Someone else is in the room, hiding behind the curtain. They move and accidentally bump into the washer. Kaitlyn stands up, strides forward, and yanks open the curtain.

  “James, you freak. Were you watching me?” She grabs a teen boy by the arm and tries to pull him toward the stairs, but he resists.

  Before they get more than a few feet, he reaches out and grabs her by her shoulders, throwing her to the ground. With a loud crack, her head hits the hard basement floor. Stunned, she glares at him. She struggles to get up but is too dazed. She lifts her head, her voice surprisingly strong. “You are going to be in so much trouble,” she tells him.

  A look of pure hatred crosses the guy’s face. He kicks her hard, knocking the wind out of her. I can see the exact moment her anger turns to fear.

  Unable to stand, she crab-crawls backward.

  “No,” she pleads as he pushes her down. “Don’t.”

  He sits on her chest and she swats at him with her strong arms. She’s athletic, but he’s bigger than she is. Bulkier. He tucks her arms under his knees and leans forward. She continues to fight, and a terrible snap echoes through the basement. She howls in agony. The pain must be too much for her, because her eyes roll back in her head and she passes out.

  “No!” I scream, but I can’t stop this. It’s just a memory. It’s already happened.

  Still on top of her, James looks down in horror. “Shit….Kaitlyn…Wake up! I’m so sorry!”

  He slaps her face gently and she wakes with a moan. When she opens her eyes, she uses her unhurt arm to try to push James off.

  “I’m so sorry,” he’s repeating over and over. “Say you forgive me.”

  “Get off me!” she yells. “You’re going to be locked up for this, you piece of shit!”

  As she struggles, James looks around for something, anything, to restrain her. Next to the washer he finds a lonely sock. He shoves it in her mouth and hits her head against the hard floor until she stops her thrashing.

  “I don’t want to do this, Kaitlyn.” He grabs her by her hair and drags her to the far side of the basement. “I hate you as much as I love you. Maybe if you didn’t look at me the way you do, with pity and disgust, I wouldn’t have these feelings, wouldn’t be all jumbled up inside. I don’t know whether I want to kiss you or punch you.”

  All the tools rest near the partially finished wall. He picks up a screwdriver.

  “No more!” I scream. “Please!”

  The memory stops, and I gag as I come back to myself. I crouch and hug my legs. Kaitlyn stands next to me, her steady gaze at odds with her wispy form.

  “I can’t believe what you had to go through,” I whisper. “How can you stand it?”

  She shrugs and turns, floating up the steps. I stay in the basement, wondering how I can make it right. I was so wrong. All the time I wasted on Mr. Grant! Who is James? How can I possibly bring these girls justice?

  FINALLY, WE HAVE shown her.

  She knows who killed us.

  Then.

  But does she know who he is now?

  “COOP!” I CALL as I appear in his room. I’ve caught him painting. He turns to me, brush outstretched.

  “Haley. Did you find anything?” he asks, rinsing off the brush and wiping it on a rag.

  “Mr. Grant isn’t the killer,” I tell him. He has orange paint smudged on his cheek. I resist the urge to wipe it off.

  “Are you sure?”

  “The killer’s name is James, and he knew each of the girls, but I think he had a special connection to Kaitlyn. Maybe he was a classmate who got obsessed with them.”

  “She told you all this?”

  “She show
ed me her memory of being attacked,” I tell him. “It was a teenage boy named James who hurt her…not a grown man.”

  “But you were so sure….” Coop looks genuinely confused.

  “I just assumed it was him. I was stupid. This whole time I was focused on Mr. Grant, looking for proof that he killed those girls, when he was innocent all along.” I thought one of the girls was spelling out Grant because he was the one who had killed them, but maybe it was just Gigi letting me know who she was.

  Coop catches sight of himself in the mirror, wipes at the paint on his face. “Well, at least we’re further along than we were before. Closer to the truth.”

  “So let’s ask your dad. He probably knows those files inside and out.”

  Coop grimaces. “Look, my dad isn’t a bad guy, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Last time I asked questions about Emily, about the case, he went a little crazy. He went on this three-day bender and almost got fired from his mall gig.”

  “It’s worth the risk….”

  “Maybe to you—you’re already dead.”

  “Is that when he hit you?”

  “Yeah. I’ve learned to stay out of his way when he’s been drinking…which is all the time now.”

  “We have to do something, Coop,” I plead. “For Emily.”

  We walk through his house, through the kitchen, to the side door, which Coop holds open for me. Without thinking, I walk through the wall as if it were made of mist. Or as if I were. I’m getting better at being a ghost, better at no longer thinking of walls and solid objects as obstacles. I’m not sure whether this is a good thing or a bad thing.

  I stand over the files in the garage, scared. The person who killed me is loose. He might kill again.

  Anger crashes through me, replacing my fear. How could he do this to me? How could he take away my life and leave me in limbo? I hope he never has a happy moment again.

  I reach for the top file box and my hand goes through it. I jerk my arm back.

  Coop is staring at me. “Haley…”

  “It’s fine,” I tell him. Maybe I’m getting too good at being an apparition. At not being at all. I shake out my arms, focus, and try again. This time the box moves when I lift it. “See!” I say triumphantly. With an overwhelming sense of relief, we search the files for any suspect named James.

  Combing through page after page takes a long time. The worst thing is that I vaguely remember the name James, but it’s so common, it could come from anywhere. I think I’ve got it when I see that the last name of one of the FBI investigators is James, but he wasn’t in Gladwell until after three of the disappearances, so it couldn’t have been him. Especially since it’s Kaitlyn who knew the James I’m looking for—not to mention the age disparity.

  I jump when Coop’s father appears and Coop panics.

  “What are you doing in here?” Mr. Cooper roars.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I just…” He looks at me.

  “I told you never to mess with this stuff!”

  “I wanted to know more about Emily,” he whispers. For a moment it looks as if his dad is going to hit him, but then he calms himself.

  “Just go…,” he says in a defeated voice.

  “I’ll catch up with you,” I assure Coop. He ducks out hesitantly, looking back at me.

  Mr. Cooper stumbles to the chair, carrying a bottle of amber liquid. He looks at the chaos we’ve created and sighs. Taking a long sip, he doesn’t so much sit as collapse.

  How many hours has Mr. Cooper studied these files over the years? If only I could speak to him somehow. If only I could reach him.

  He takes something out of his pocket and rubs it between his fingers. It glints in the pale light: Emily’s ring. He took it from me last week….No, that wasn’t last week. It was a year ago, when I was still alive.

  I stand over him. “Do you know who James is?” I ask. “A classmate of Emily’s, maybe? Or an older boy from the neighborhood?”

  I lean down and scream in his ear, “WHO IS JAMES?”

  He doesn’t hear me. Of course he doesn’t.

  His eyes are bleary. He’s drunk himself almost to oblivion. I get an idea and look around for something to write with but see nothing but garden tools and dirt.

  I gather a pile of dirt and use it to spell out JAMES on the garage floor. I tap the concrete to get Mr. Cooper’s attention, but he doesn’t notice, he’s so drunk. I take the lamp and lower it to the floor. I position it so the shade points toward the dirt, illuminating the name. I give his chair a little kick.

  “What the…?” Mr. Cooper tries to jump up but doesn’t quite make it. He slumps over the arm of the chair, his eyes trying to focus. For a long time, he looks at the lamp; then his gaze follows the light and falls on my hastily written letters.

  “James?” he slurs quietly. “James?” He lunges for a file box, knocking papers everywhere. It’s the box marked KAITLYN I was just going through, and I hope beyond hope that he knows who James is. He pries open the top and digs around until he pulls out a folder and collapses back onto the chair. He gingerly places it on his lap but doesn’t open it. Instead, he raises his bottle to his mouth and gulps down the rest of the liquid. His head tilts back and lolls to the side as he passes out, the bottle clanking to the floor.

  I carefully pick up the file, trying not to disturb him. I read through the pages until I find the name James. I almost drop the folder in horror. Poor Kaitlyn.

  Before I leave, I put the file back on Mr. Cooper’s lap, right the lamp, and sweep aside the dirt. It’s time to end this.

  “JAMES IS KAITLYN’S brother,” I tell Coop.

  “Haley, how…?” I’ve caught him pacing his room, waiting for my return.

  “I asked your dad.”

  He shakes his head. “Of course you did. And he just told you?”

  “Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that, but we know who James is now. Kaitlyn’s brother killed her, killed Emily,” I continue. “He killed them all.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks. “That doesn’t make sense. I remember Kaitlyn’s brother…though I guess he was older, so he wasn’t really on my radar.”

  “You didn’t remember Kaitlyn’s brother was named James?!” I ask, frustrated.

  “He didn’t stick out!” Coop defends himself. “He was kind of just there. I don’t even think I’d recognize him if I saw him again. Also,” he continues, “You made it sound like the person was attracted to Kaitlyn. Like he wanted to be with her.”

  “That’s what made him snap.”

  “That is seriously messed up.” He sits on his bed. “And the other girls? Why kill them too? Why kill Emily?”

  “She looked like Kaitlyn.” I think back to the memories they shared with me. “They didn’t have a reason to suspect him, so he may have just asked them over one by one. He maybe didn’t even have to—they hung out down there a lot. The lock on the basement door was broken. It would have been easy for him.”

  “Why wasn’t he a suspect?” Coop asks. He stands and begins pacing again.

  “He was home when the girls went missing. His parents, even the neighbors gave him an alibi.”

  “Of course he was home. That’s where he killed them. And no one saw them go down there?”

  “Brandy snuck around a lot. And Kaitlyn was already home. They all lived so close, he could have just gotten lucky with the others, or planned it perfectly.” I close my eyes. “I don’t know.”

  Coop sits at his computer. “So let’s try to find him.”

  He turns from his keyboard and looks at me. “James Pratt. There must be thousands of people with that name.”

  “Well, check Gladwell first. If we don’t find anything, we can expand the search to all of Wisconsin. Sera and Josh had a theory the killer moved away or went to jail, so I gues
s if we can find a way to look at arrest records, maybe we can find out if he’s in prison or was released or something.”

  “Let’s start with Kaitlyn Pratt, Gladwell, and see if it leads us to James.”

  He types away, then scans articles while I sit on his bed. I’m bored and my fingers crave movement, so I grab a sheet of paper and a pencil and draw him. I get lost in his serious expression and his dark eyes. I barely have to glance at him for reference. Even though his hair is smooth and gelled today, I make sure to draw it all sticky-up, just like the first time I saw him.

  “Haley? I think I found something.”

  I look up. “Really?”

  “What are you drawing?” There’s a slight smile on his lips.

  “Just another sketch.” I shove it at him.

  “It’s really impressive. You’re so talented.”

  “I was talented,” I say quietly.

  “You’re still here. You’re still you.”

  “But I’m not. Not really. I feel it always, at the back of my mind,” I admit. “What I could have done, what I could have been. If it hadn’t all been taken from me.”

  His gaze lingers on me and it looks like he wants to say something, but instead he turns back to the computer screen. “There are a few places that mention that Kaitlyn had a brother named James, and it looks like the Pratts moved to a different house in Gladwell after she was gone for about a year. After that, it seems that Jim went to study at UW–Madison.”

  The temperature in the room has dropped at least twenty degrees. The window closest to me forms tiny ice crystals across the glass.

  “Haley, what’s wrong?” Coop asks, grabbing his hoodie and pulling it on.

  “Did you say Jim?”

  “Yeah, it’s a nickname for James.”

  “So Jim Pratt goes to Madison?” I get a flash of the boy I saw, his handsome face and chiseled features. His already-broad shoulders and strong, athletic build.

  “But he doesn’t go by Pratt anymore,” Coop continues. “They don’t say it in the article, but if you dig a little, you can find out that he changed it to his mother’s maiden name…his last name now is—”