Missing, Presumed Dead

by Emma Berquist

  We stare at each other for a long moment and the room feels too small to contain the both of us. Both of us, and the presence at my side.

  “He looks thin,” Jane says, her eyes roving over his face.

  “I don’t know you,” Isaac says to me.

  “No,” I agree. “But I know Jane.”

  “Have you seen her?” he asks softly, like he’s afraid of my answer.

  “No,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them he looks at me more sharply.

  “You don’t go here,” he says. “And you don’t look like a friend of hers.”

  For some reason that irks me. “Why not?”

  Isaac lifts one shoulder. “Jane’s friends are mostly boho types. You look a little, I dunno, rougher. Older. No offense.”

  I suppose that’s fair. “We grew up together,” I lie. “I already graduated.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “About what happened that day. The day she went missing.”

  Isaac narrows his eyes at me. “I didn’t hurt her,” he says. “If that’s why you’re here.”

  “You think she’s hurt?” I ask.

  “He didn’t say that,” Jane protests.

  “No,” Isaac says. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I think. But I know I wasn’t with her that night, and the police already searched my car.”

  I frown. “The police think she ran away, why would they search your car?”

  Isaac stares at me for a long moment and I grimace.

  “Oh. Right. Good old LAPD.”

  “Yeah,” he says flatly, leaning back in his chair. He has an easy grace about him, his long arms draped casually over the neck of the cello. I can see what drew Jane to him; he’s beautiful, in a languid, romantic way.

  “Sorry,” I say awkwardly. “Look, I’m not here to . . . Jane’s mom is getting really worried. I know she was supposed to go to your concert that night. I’m just trying to figure out how she ended up at that club.”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “You should probably ask one of her friends.”

  “You don’t know?” I repeat. “Well, did she cancel on you? You’re her boyfriend, aren’t you?”

  He doesn’t answer, his lips pressed together.

  “Aren’t you?” Jane asks sharply.

  “I’m not . . . her boyfriend anymore,” Isaac says awkwardly.

  “What?” Jane snaps.

  My eyes flick in her direction but I stay still.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Look, Jane . . .” Isaac rubs the back of his neck. “She’s what my dad calls a spark plug. She’s fun, energetic. I feel happier just being around her. But . . .” He pauses, chewing on his bottom lip. “She doesn’t feel the same way about me.”

  Jane lets out a cry. “You broke up with me!” She steps closer to him, her hands on her hips. “I remember. You said I didn’t care about you. I can’t believe this!”

  I let out a sigh. “You broke up with her.”

  Isaac glances up, looking miserable. “I met her here and said I was tired of feeling like an afterthought. And she didn’t even argue with me. She just left. The last time I saw her, she was getting into Macy’s car.”

  Jane swears, low and harsh.

  “She went to that club because of me,” Isaac says, his voice thick. “If I hadn’t broken up with her that day . . .”

  “It’s not your fault,” Jane says with a sigh. “You’re an ass, but it’s not your fault. I must’ve called Macy and wanted to go out to blow off steam.”

  “The thing is,” Isaac says, “I still care about her. I’m still worried. Jane is tough, but she should have called someone by now.”

  I don’t want to meet his eyes, afraid he’ll see the truth in mine.

  “Will you let me know?” he asks. “If you hear anything?”

  “Sure,” I tell him.

  “Thanks,” he says. “I appreciate it.”

  He holds out his hand then, and everything inside me cringes. I stare too long at the slight dusting of resin on his fingers, and I know I have to take it but I don’t want to.

  “Lexi,” Jane says impatiently, and she nudges me forward.

  I clasp his hand, my arm rigid and angry, and let the nausea roll through my body. His grip is stronger than I expected, and he doesn’t release my hand right away. I bite my cheek, resisting the instinct to yank myself back, tear my skin away from him, do whatever it takes to stop the pain.

  “I’ll see you around,” he says, and I nod back, tight-lipped, not trusting my stomach to stay still.

  When he lets go of my hand, I spin around and leave the room, letting the door shut behind me with a soft click. I walk stiff-legged down the hallway until I find a water fountain and use it as an excuse to lean over and wait for the acid to wash from my gut. I take short, gasping breaths and splash a handful of water on my face, the cold shocking me back to my senses.

  “What’s wrong?” Jane asks, but her attention is still on the closed door of the music room.

  “Nothing,” I say, my voice harsh. “Let’s go.”

  I walk quickly down the hallway, my body somehow remembering the turns. He lives a long life. That’s more than what some people get. But I still can’t erase the images of his body getting thinner and thinner, until there’s nothing but bones.

  12

  “TELL ME ABOUT MACY,” I ORDER JANE WHEN WE’RE back in the car.

  She frowns. “She’s my friend. My best friend, I guess.”

  “We talk to her next,” I say. The hollow feeling is creeping back into the pit of my stomach, grasping for my attention. “You think she’s the one who suggested the club?”

  Jane shrugs. “Possibly. She likes to go dancing.”

  “Then maybe she saw something that can help us.”

  “Maybe,” Jane says quietly, staring out the window. “He broke up with me.” Her voice is tinged with disbelief.

  “What, were you planning on marrying him?” I ask, and it comes out harsher than I meant it.

  “No,” Jane says, her forehead scrunching up. “But I thought . . . I don’t know, I thought things were going well.”

  “That isn’t always enough.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a real fucking downer?” Jane snaps at me.

  “Yes,” I say. “A number of times.”

  Jane glares at me and the corner of her mouth twitches. It spreads across her lips and she starts to laugh. If there’s an edge of hysteria to it, I pretend not to notice.

  “God,” she says when she finally quiets down. “I needed that.”

  “Feel better?” I ask, rolling my eyes.

  “I do, actually. You should try it sometime. Laughing. Or you know, even smiling. Any expression, really.”

  “I have expressions.”

  “Sure,” Jane says. “There’s scowling, glaring, and staring blankly. Truly a rich tapestry. Oh, and half the time you look like you’re about to throw up. That one’s my personal favorite.”

  I don’t say anything, and it doesn’t help that I know I’m glaring. I try to school my face into something smoother, and Jane giggles again. Her laugh does something to me, makes me feel tight and loose all at once.

  “Shut up,” I say.

  “Oh, anger!” she says. “That’s something, at least.”

  “Would you cut it out and focus?” I say, annoyed with her and myself. “I’m trying to help you, remember?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says, falling quiet. She turns and stares out the window, and a fist curls up in my chest. I’m mad, but I don’t want her to look away. I don’t want her to stop laughing.

  “I really thought he liked me,” Jane says after a long moment.

  “He did,” I tell her. “He does. Too much, I think.”

  “That person he was describing,” Jane says slowly, “I
don’t think I’m that person anymore. I don’t have that . . . spark inside me.” She presses a hand to her stomach, like she can feel where it used to be. “It’s gone. Now there’s just this anger. This darkness.”

  I pull up outside my apartment, but I don’t get out of the car.

  “You’re not the only one,” I say, turning to her, “who knows the darkness.”

  I don’t tell her I’m glad she’s different. I don’t tell her that the living Jane would never tease me, smile at me. I don’t tell her that something inside me recognizes her darkness as my own.

  “Where does—dammit,” I say.

  There’s a flicker in the rearview mirror and suddenly Trevor is in the backseat.

  “What the—”

  “Whatcha talking about?” Trevor asks, leaning forward.

  “Boyfriends,” Jane says.

  “Oh?” Trevor says, waggling his eyebrows. “Is Lexi finally spilling about Phillip?”

  “Who’s Phillip?” Jane asks, pursing her lips at me.

  “Nobody,” I say crossly. “Trevor, you couldn’t wait till we get inside to bother us?”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear?” Trevor asks, his eyes going wide.

  “Hear what?” I ask.

  “It’s all over the news.”

  I get a sinking feeling as I stare at him.

  “Trevor? What happened?”

  “They found a body.”

  It isn’t her. Jane paces the apartment while I read every article I can find in the news.

  “Twenty-four years old,” I say, my eyes scanning my phone. “Last seen at MacArthur Park.” I swear harshly; that’s right inside our boundaries. “They found her body in the lake.”

  “What was her name?” Jane asks, voice tight.

  “Veronica Lourden.”

  “She has a nice smile,” Trevor says, peering over my shoulder.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Jane says angrily. “I thought you said your boss had it under control.”

  “We don’t know if this is even related,” I tell her. “No other bodies have been found.”

  “Come on,” Trevor says, pointing at the picture on my phone. “It’s the same area, she’s young, and she was stabbed. What are the odds?”

  “Then why was she dumped and not Jane?” I ask.

  “Interrupted, maybe?” Trevor says.

  “I guess that’s possible,” I say.

  “Find her,” Jane orders. “Find her ghost and bring her here so we can talk to her.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not that simple. I would need to be at her house, or someplace she remembers. I have to have a connection, either to a place or an object.”

  “Then let’s go,” Jane says, gesturing to the door. “Take me to where she died; that’s a connection.”

  “Would you stop pacing?” I say. “The place is still a crime scene; I can’t just walk in looking for a ghost. It’s probably swarming with cops.”

  “Who cares about the cops?” Jane yells.

  “You don’t understand,” I say. “Even if I go, she might not show up. I couldn’t find Marcus, and I knew him. If you just calm down—”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down,” she yells, whirling on me. Her eyes have been filmed over since we got the news. “Another girl is dead because we did nothing, and you want to keep doing nothing.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” I tell her, stung. “Carl will call when he’s done with the autopsy, but there’s nothing we can do right now but wait.”

  “Well, I’m not waiting,” Jane says, storming toward the door. “You want to sit on your ass, fine, but I won’t.”

  “Jane—” I call, but she’s melting through the door and leaving me staring at nothing. “Dammit.” I look back at Trevor. “I have to go to work. What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Let her go,” Trevor says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll follow and keep an eye on her.”

  “Will you talk to her?”

  “I don’t think talking’s going to help,” he says. “She’s a ghost, Lex. She can’t touch or communicate or do any of the things she used to do. Anger is all she has to focus on right now, all that’s getting her through the days.”

  “So how do I help her? How do we get past the anger?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Find a way to distract her? What did she like to do before she died?”

  I pause, think back to Jane’s room and the pictures on the wall. “Art,” I say. “She liked to draw.”

  Trevor winces. “Afraid we’re shit out of luck with that one.”

  “Yeah,” I say, chewing on my lip. “I guess so.”

  “Look, don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll find ways to help her. And in the meantime, I’ll make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Be careful, okay?”

  “I will.” He heads toward the door and looks back. “Oh. If the new girl does show up?”

  I nod at him. “Bring her back here.”

  I make a quick stop before work, turning down a street lined with taco trucks and secondhand shops. A few dollars and ten minutes and I’m back in the car with a paper bag on the seat next to me.

  “You’re late,” Ilia says when I show up at the club. “And Urie’s in a bad mood. Like, really bad.”

  “What the hell happened?” I ask. “How did someone get past the protection spells? I thought we strengthened them?”

  “I have no idea. The cops are canvassing the whole area again. Everyone’s on edge.”

  I swear under my breath. A number of people here had run-ins with the cops before Urie took them in. Forging isn’t exactly a skill you can put to use in an office.

  “Did we try tracing back the attack again?”

  Ilia shakes his head. “We didn’t know in time. And I don’t know if I can ask anyone to risk what Jordan went through. Does the girl remember anything?”

  “Still working on it,” I say. “What else can we do?”

  “Keep our heads down,” Ilia says. “Keep everyone calm, and—”

  “Ilia,” a voice calls out.

  We both look over to see Theo practically running down the hallway.

  “What is it?” Ilia asks.

  “We got a problem,” Theo says.

  Ilia and I exchange a worried glance. If Theo, steady-handed Theo, thinks we have a problem? We move forward to meet him halfway.

  “What happened?” I ask hurriedly.

  “Jordan’s been rotating the witches responsible for upholding the protection spell so no one gets drained,” Theo says, voice grim. “Adam was in charge tonight. Something happened, and he let the spell lapse.”

  “Shit,” Ilia says, speeding up. “Of all the damn times . . .”

  We turn the corner, headed for the office, when I hear the muffled cry from behind the door.

  Ilia lunges forward and twists the handle, and Adam falls back into the hallway. Urie is framed in the doorway, shoulders wide, his face a dark storm. Smoke curls from his right hand and I smell burnt hair and something worse.

  “I’m sorry,” Adam says. I don’t know him well; he mainly works the first floor, a jittery chain-smoker with deep-set eyes.

  “Get your things and leave,” Urie tells him. “Don’t bother coming back.”

  Ilia heaves Adam to his feet, and I catch a glimpse of the angry red burn at the back of his neck, right where a tattoo used to be.

  “Ilia,” Adam begs. “It was a mistake.”

  “I know,” Ilia says, face set.

  Urie finally notices the rest of us, and he gives Theo and me a quick scan with his eyes.

  “Get him out of here,” he says calmly. “Make sure everyone knows he’s no longer one of us.”

  “Please, no,” Adam says. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I don’t know how it happened.”

  Urie ignores him, turning back to his office.

  “Uncle, wait,” Ilia says. “It might be time to consider cl
osing the club. Just temporarily.”

  Urie looks back over his shoulder, and I take a step back.

  “You think I can’t protect our people?” he asks, his voice deadly quiet.

  Ilia swallows. “No, sir. That’s not what I meant. I just think—”

  “I don’t need you to think,” Urie says. “I need you to do your job. So do it, Ilia.”

  Ilia nods sharply as Urie steps into his office and shuts the door. It would be better if he slammed it, but he closes it gently, with an awful finality.

  Adam looks up at Ilia, desperate.

  “Ilia, please,” he says. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “I’m sorry, Adam,” Ilia says. “I’ll . . . I’ll make sure you have something to keep you going. Lexi?”

  I blink and look away from Adam. “Yeah?”

  “Get Nicole on the main floor tonight. I need her watching the crowd and I need you watching her back. Any hint of a disturbance, you call me. Got it?”

  “Yeah. I got it.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  Adam starts to cry as Ilia helps him down the hallway, a lamb being led to the slaughter.

  Theo watches the retreating forms, a frown wrinkling his usually smooth face. I wonder if he feels it when his spells are destroyed. If it hurts him like the ghosts can hurt me.

  “Ilia’s right,” I say quietly. “We shouldn’t stay open.”

  “What else are we going to do?” Theo asks. “Stay inside and hide? This is our home. At least here we can protect one another.”

  “Like we protected Adam?”

  Theo lifts one shoulder. “He fell asleep—”

  “Bullshit,” I say. “I don’t believe that for a minute. Someone did this to him.”

  Theo stays quiet for a long moment, then lets out a breath.

  “Nothing we can do now,” he says. “Someone’s out there killing, and Urie needs to show a strong front to our people.”

  “Adam’s one of our people,” I tell him. “We’re supposed to keep him safe, not throw him to the wolves. One of us is doing this, Theo, and it’s not going to stop.”

  “It will,” he says. “I’m not psychic, but even I can feel it.”

  “Feel it?” I repeat.

  “Have you ever been sailing?” he asks.

  “Do I look like someone who goes sailing?”