Missing, Presumed Dead

by Emma Berquist

  “Jane would never take off without telling anyone.”

  “They haven’t found a body.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Macy says, one foot tapping on the ground in an anxious pattern. “I know she’s dead. As soon as I woke up that morning, I knew.”

  “How?”

  Her foot stills, and she chews on one side of her mouth, debating whether to trust me. Finally she shrugs, taking another drag. “I know it sounds crazy, but I get these . . . hunches sometimes. I woke up with a sore throat and a really bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.” Macy rubs a hand across her neck absentmindedly. “And it was like I knew something terrible had happened. I tried texting her, calling, but I knew it was too late. She’s gone.”

  “Damn,” Jane mutters. “I had no idea.”

  Now it makes more sense; if she has psychic affinity, I’m not surprised she’s the one who suggested the club. The place draws people like her, like calling to like.

  “You’re right,” I say, looking at Macy with a newfound curiosity. “It does sound crazy. But I believe you.”

  Macy smiles at me, and she lets me see a lot of teeth. “I also have a hunch that you’re not who you say you are,” she says. And I think if I met her under different circumstances, maybe we could have been friends. “’Cause there’s no way Jane had a friend I didn’t know. So who are you really? Informant? Are you working for the cops?”

  “None of the above.” I toss my cigarette on the ground and crush it beneath my boot. “I meant what I said; I only want to help. Believe me when I say I’m just trying to figure out what happened that night.”

  Macy meets my eyes and nods slowly. “Well, you can’t do worse than the cops, I guess.”

  “Was there anyone watching her?” I ask.

  She exhales and smoke billows out from between her lips. “Yeah, people were watching her,” she says. “Jane’s the life of the party, always has been. But I wasn’t keeping track.”

  “Was anyone acting odd?”

  “I don’t know,” Macy says. “We danced with boys, mostly. Some girls. But they were just . . . people. The same kind of people you see every day.”

  Jane sighs, and I share her frustration.

  “Look, if anyone had been creeping on her, she would have told me,” Macy insists. “We would have left. It was a normal night, right up to the end.”

  “So what happened at the end?”

  “Del got tired and we finally left, at around one. But outside the club, Jane said she forgot something. We were taking separate rides anyway, so she said she’d just see me the next day.”

  I don’t say anything, and Macy’s face twists.

  “I know I shouldn’t have left her. I know that. But we’ve done it a hundred times before, and our Uber was there.”

  “You can’t blame yourself,” Jane says firmly, but I don’t know if I believe those words. We make choices, and consequences result from those choices. Shouldn’t we feel guilty for that? Shouldn’t that keep us up at night?

  “You didn’t do this,” I say, but I don’t tell her she’s faultless.

  Macy shakes her head. “Yeah. It’s not that simple, though, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Macy meets my eyes and nods slowly, and I think we understand each other. We don’t get redemption for this.

  “What did Jane say she forgot?” I ask.

  She frowns, takes a drag of her cigarette. “Her jacket, she said. She had to get her jacket from the coat check.”

  I go still. “She brought a jacket with her?”

  Macy shrugs. “I guess.”

  “Do you remember her having it earlier that evening?”

  She frowns. “I don’t know. But she must have, if she had to go get it.”

  “What is it?” Jane asks, staring at me.

  I tilt my head at her, just a fraction, enough to say later.

  No one uses the coat check; we don’t even have someone there at night. Which means Jane lied. Something else brought her back to the club.

  “That was the last time I saw her,” Macy says hollowly. “I could see her back as my car drove off. And that was it.”

  She swallows hard, wipes at her eyes angrily. I give her a moment, let her get herself under control.

  “Thank you,” I say, my pulse rapid in my ears.

  “Sure,” Macy says. She stabs out her cigarette against the palm tree and flicks it to the ground. “I have to get back to work.”

  “Okay.” I start to walk back toward the car, but hesitate. “Listen,” I say, turning back around. “I know people who can help you. If you get any more of your hunches . . .”

  I trail off, but Macy looks up, a spark of interest in her eyes. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll give you my number.”

  I rattle it off for her and she puts it into her phone.

  “Just give me a call,” I say. “If you get a feeling, or you ever want to talk to someone about it.”

  “Thanks,” Macy says. “But, um . . . what if I don’t want to talk about my hunches? Can I still call?”

  I blink, and one side of her mouth quirks up in a small smile.

  “Oh,” I say. “Well. I guess that’s up to you.”

  Macy’s grin gets bigger, and Jane clears her throat loudly.

  “Are you finished?” she asks, her eyes narrow.

  “I’ll, uh, see you around,” I tell Macy, and she raises her hand and watches me walk away.

  “What do I you mean I lied?” Jane asks from the front seat of my car. She’s angry, her eyes going back and forth between white and brown.

  “We don’t have a coat check,” I say again.

  “That doesn’t mean it was a lie,” Jane protests. “Maybe I was confused.”

  “Or maybe you lied.”

  Jane glares at me, the silence between us hanging heavy and dark.

  “Why would I lie?” Jane finally says.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe . . . maybe you wanted to meet someone.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “You don’t know that. You don’t remember.” I try to say it gently, but it sounds wrong, hanging harshly in the emptiness.

  I need the footage from that night. I need to see what happened when she came back in.

  “I know me,” Jane says, her voice tight. “And I know you’re wrong. And what was with giving Macy your number?”

  “She’s showing signs of psychic ability,” I say. “That doesn’t just go away if you ignore it. She needs someone to teach her control.”

  “That doesn’t have to be you, though,” Jane argues. “You get she’s going to ask you out, right?”

  “So what if she does?” I ask, tension buzzing under my skin.

  “What about Phillip?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. “I didn’t even know you liked girls.”

  “You didn’t ask,” I say. “All you asked was if I’ve ever been in love. And what difference does it make?”

  “None,” Jane snaps. “Not a damn bit.”

  And then she’s gone, too, and I’m alone in the car with nothing but the smell of copper and wires to keep me company.

  13

  THERE ARE POLICE CARS PARKED DOWN THE BLOCK from the club, and the air feels tense and electric as I dodge people on the sidewalk.

  “I need that footage,” I say to Ilia when I finally get in the building. He’s in the hallway, slick hair mussed up, a pen dangling out of his mouth while he looks over a delivery list.

  “You’re late,” he says.

  “Did you hear me? I need the footage, and I also need whatever police files you can get me on the other missing people.”

  There has to be something that connects all of them, something the killer is drawn to.

  Ilia takes the pen out of his mouth, strain in every line of his body. “Yeah, I heard you. I’m working on it, Lexi, but things aren’t easy right now. We have cops parked outside, Urie’s gonna have an aneurysm, everyone is jump
y as hell—”

  “Ilia, I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” His eyes travel over my face, and the lines around his mouth deepen. “I’m doing the best I can, Lexi.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, and I can almost see what he’s going to look like as an old man.

  “I know you are,” I say, feeling guilty. “Everyone knows you’re doing everything you can, Ilia.”

  He gives me a tired smile. “Look, I’ll have it for you soon, I promise. I talked to one of our guys on the force; they should release it in the next couple of days. I’ll ask about the files.”

  “Just keep me posted.”

  Ilia nods. “I’ll call you if anything changes.”

  “Thanks.” I head for the floor, but pause. “Any more attacks on the protection spell?”

  “No. Maybe it’s finally—”

  “Ilia! Dad wants to know—”

  Phillip cuts himself off as he appears in the hallway, and I close my eyes. Perfect. Just perfect.

  “Well,” Ilia says, glancing from me to Phillip and back again, and a spark of humor comes back into his face. He’s enjoying this far too much. “I’ll just go see what dear old uncle wants, won’t I?”

  He winks at me as he walks away and I bare my teeth at him. But then he’s gone, and I’m left standing in the hallway, trying not to make eye contact.

  “Hey,” Phillip says.

  “Hey.”

  “You left without saying good-bye the other night.”

  “You were . . . busy.” That’s one way to describe it, I suppose. I angle my body toward the door, away from him. “How’s Jordan doing?”

  Phillip winces. “Not great. But better. He’s healing, just slowly.”

  “Good. I should get to work.”

  “Okay.”

  I frown at him, suspicious. He doesn’t usually give up this easy. “Okay?”

  “Yeah,” he says, and I realize he’s taken a step toward me, his bright eyes on my lips. “I won’t keep you.” Another step.

  “Good. Because I’m already late.”

  And now he’s standing right in front me, close enough to touch.

  “Then you better hurry,” he says, and I can feel his breath on my face. I could turn, I could leave, but my feet don’t move from this spot.

  “Goddammit,” I mutter, and then of course we’re kissing.

  I open my mouth even as my brain screams at me that this is stupid. But it feels good, and who cares if I’m not really in love with him; Jane’s never been in love, either. Suddenly I’m thinking about the dip above her lips and the way it moved when she teased me about the pancakes.

  “No,” I say, tearing my lips away. Phillip reaches for me, his eyes worried, but I twist out of the circle of his arms.

  “Lexi, wait,” he says, but I’m already halfway down the hallway.

  “I’m sorry,” I say over my shoulder, but it’s meaningless. I’m always running from him, too selfish to end it and too spineless to stay. Eventually he’ll get tired of watching me walk away.

  I work my shift, serving up drink after drink to beautiful people without really seeing any of them. We’re busier than usual, the edge of danger a compelling draw for a certain kind of customer. The mood is jittery, fear and lust bleeding into the air and mixing into something unpleasant and potent. Nicole smiles and slides coasters under glasses, spreading her calm while I sink deeper into myself, my hands by my sides and my mind on the dead.

  My shift doesn’t end until well after midnight, and my eyes are hot with fatigue as I drive the dark streets. I pull up to the curb by my apartment, and even before I get out of the car I can hear the deep thump of bass coming from the building.

  I sigh and press my head against the steering wheel, hard enough to hurt. I’m tired enough that I doubt any amount of noise will keep me up long.

  The music gets louder as I walk up the stairs, a snaking, shimmery beat that echoes off the walls and vibrates in my chest. Someone’s laughing loudly somewhere, the tang of cheap beer permeating the hallway and mixing with the smell of stale smoke. I don’t know which of the units is throwing the party, but it doesn’t matter. This isn’t the kind of place where you knock on your neighbors’ doors.

  I shove inside my apartment, half ready to drop into bed with my boots on, when I pull up short.

  “What are you doing?” I ask before I can stop myself, straining to be heard over the blare of the music.

  Jane and Trevor come to a stop and she laughs, a full-bodied, throaty sound.

  “We’re dancing,” Trevor yells at me. “What does it look like we’re doing?”

  I don’t know what to say to that. It looks like two ghosts are spinning each other around in my studio apartment.

  Trevor grabs Jane again and starts to twirl her, over and over until she finally stumbles. He catches her and tilts her back in a mockery of an elegant dip.

  “Mademoiselle,” he says, flourishing a hand.

  “Monsieur.” She giggles back.

  Trevor releases her and Jane staggers forward, clutching at my arms.

  “Lexi,” she says, her eyes fever bright. “If you spin enough, it’s almost like being drunk!”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “You get dizzy because of inertia and endolymph fluid in your inner ear; if you’re a ghost—”

  “Would you just shut up and dance with us,” Lexi says, tugging at my hand.

  “Yeah, come on,” Trevor says, his grin a wicked thing. “Live a little.”

  All I really want to do is go to bed, but the beat is pounding through the walls and Jane is pulling me forward and my body is alive and can still move, still breathe, still dance.

  I close my eyes, let the sound of the bass fill up and swallow the pressure inside me, let my limbs go loose and easy. Lexi is on one side and Trevor on the other and we’re spinning and they’re laughing and their bodies press against me. The music swells and my lips curve up, drunk on contact and the taste of iron under my tongue.

  “Oh, my god, you’re smiling,” Jane says, her own face lit up with a grin.

  “So?”

  “So I’ve never seen you smile.”

  “That’s not true,” I tell her, shaking my head.

  “Trevor?” Jane asks.

  He nods in agreement. “She’s right; you never smile.”

  “See?” Jane laughs, spinning me around.

  “You’re both wrong,” I say.

  “Oh, a scowl!” Jane says, wagging a finger in my direction. “Now that, I’m used to.”

  I fight it, but not hard enough, and the smile creeps back onto my face. And then a laugh, dredged up from the place the scream lives inside me. I open my lips and it escapes, tumbling across my tongue, rough as sandpaper.

  Jane claps, delighted, and Trevor slings an arm around both of our waists. And then just as suddenly, the pumping bass stops, and we’re left in silence.

  “Damn. Fun time’s over,” Trevor says as we come to a halt. His voice sounds strange in the quiet, like I’m hearing him from underwater.

  “Lexi can put some music on,” Jane says, staring into my face hopefully.

  “Some other time,” Trevor says, running a hand through his floppy hair. “Party’s over; that means the bars are out. If you’ll excuse me ladies, WeHo is calling my name.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Voyeur.”

  Trevor elbows me as he moves toward the door. “Prude!”

  “Perv!” I call after him, and he gives me the finger as he glides through the wall.

  “Where is he going?” Jane asks, her eyes trailing after him.

  I make a noise in the back of my throat. “The bars are closing, which means boys will be making out on the sidewalk.”

  “Oh.” Jane blinks. “Does that, uh, do something for him?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess it’s better than your imagination?”

  “No, I mean . . . he can still do that? As a ghost? We can still do that?”

  “That?�
��

  Jane tilts her chin and I suddenly understand.

  “Oh, that,” I say. “Yeah, I think it’s like the clothes or the chair. If it’s real in your head, it’s real to you.”

  “Huh.”

  I rub my arms, trying to shake off the spell of the music.

  “I should get some sleep.”

  Jane starts to nod and then stops, biting her lip. “Can we . . . can we dance for just a little bit longer?”

  I look wistfully at my bed, but the longing in Jane’s eyes is much greater than my own.

  “Sure,” I say.

  I don’t have any kind of stereo, but I turn my phone up as far as it will go and play what pops up first. It’s a slower song, the singer’s voice clear and sweet, and my pulse stutters.

  “Sorry, I can change it,” I say, starting to turn back.

  “No, don’t,” Jane says. “It’s pretty.” She smiles at me and offers out her arms.

  I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, and step closer. Jane closes the distance between us and wraps her hands around my waist. She’s smaller than me, only coming up to my chin, and her hair tickles my nose as we start to sway.

  “I asked Ilia about the footage,” I tell her softly. “He said he’ll get it, and the files on the other missing people.”

  Jane’s head nods, but she doesn’t say anything. Is she anxious? Am I doing this wrong? I don’t know how to dance like this, with my body pressed against someone.

  “It won’t be long,” I say, to reassure her. “A day or two, maybe.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that,” she says, her voice muffled.

  I stop dancing, slowly push her shoulders away.

  “I thought you wanted answers,” I say.

  Jane hugs her arms to herself, like she’s trying to keep something inside. “I did.”

  “And?”

  She won’t meet my eyes. “And maybe now I don’t.”

  “What happened to ‘I have to do something’? What happened to ‘you have to help me’?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Jane,” I say gently. “What is it?”

  Finally she looks up, her face almost translucent in the moonlight.

  “What if . . .” Her voice catches in her throat. “What if I lied because I wanted to meet someone? What if—god, what if I went to be with whoever killed me?”