Missing, Presumed Dead

by Emma Berquist

  Jane swears loudly behind me.

  “Anyway, the first time the readings were wonky, measurements all over the place. We just assumed it was a computer malfunction and ran it again and it came out with normal levels. No drugs except the cancer ones.”

  I nod, anger a hot pulse under my skin. “Thanks for everything, Carl,” I say. “I owe you.”

  “Hey, Lex?” he says, lowering the phone. “Be careful out there, okay?”

  “Yeah. I will.” I turn away from him, and Jane sees my face.

  “What?” she asks. “What is it?”

  I wait until we’re outside the building to answer. Spells mess with your body, mess with you on a molecular level. That test wasn’t inconclusive.

  “You were spelled,” I say through gritted teeth. “The bastard spelled you so you couldn’t move. Son of a bitch.”

  I want to smash something, want to let my screams out until my throat is ravaged.

  “Lexi,” Jane says, grabbing my shoulders. “Calm down. It’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay,” I say. “You were alone, and you were in pain, and I—” My voice chokes off, and Jane steps forward, wrapping her arms around me. Even though she’s angry with me, even though I should be the one comforting her.

  “It’s over, Lexi,” she says. “I don’t even remember that part. I’m right here, and I’m fine. Come on, let’s go before someone sees you hugging the air.”

  I pull away from her reluctantly, and I realize I’m still holding the fake nail in my hand. I tuck it into the pocket of my jeans, though I don’t know why. It wasn’t even a part of Veronica, not really.

  “Are you going to throw that away?” Jane asks me.

  “No,” I say, taking a shaky breath.

  “Why not?”

  I don’t have an answer, other than it feels wrong.

  “Because,” I finally say, “it’s not garbage.”

  14

  A HARVEST MOON HANGS HUGE AND YELLOW AND fat, dwarfing the million pinpricks of light from the city. It’s a fire moon, a devil wind moon, the kind that demands a sacrifice. The witches will be out in full force tonight, getting their hands sticky with lamb’s blood. Or maybe something thicker.

  I don’t mess with their pentagrams and chicken bone nonsense, but even I feel the pull. It’s hot out tonight, the air dry and charged with intent. I roll down my window, let the air buffet my face, let the light from the moon spill across the dashboard. There’s almost no atmosphere on the moon, only infinitesimal amounts of sodium and potassium. The footprints the astronauts left will take a hundred million years to fade. Imagine that kind of permanence. When the sun finally sputters out, the ghosts will be the only things left.

  Jane’s face swims in my mind, her eyes cloudy white when I left her at the apartment. Even now, part of me wants to go back, wants to sit and smooth her hair back until the blood stops dripping. I’m in too deep, even I can tell that. Did I know this would happen? I only wanted to make things right, to give her some peace and ease my conscience. I never meant to let her get so close, never meant to let her kiss me. I didn’t think she’d dig herself into my mind, into the empty pockets inside me. Deda was right; I am consumed by her, by this ghost of a girl. But he didn’t realize that I would want to consume her, too, want her bare skin to rub against mine until it smooths all the rough parts of me.

  I find a parking spot and shut off the car, lean my forehead against the smooth plastic of the steering wheel. I made a mistake. I never should have started this, but now I need to finish it; the longer it goes on, the harder it will be when it ends. And it has to end, even though the thought makes the rage scream inside of me.

  A rap on the window makes me flinch, and Theo holds up a hand in apology.

  “Sorry,” he says. “You coming in? We’re supposed to walk in pairs. Urie doesn’t want anyone caught alone.”

  I nod and slide out of the car, slamming the door shut with a finality that feels symbolic.

  “Yeah,” I say, “I’m coming.”

  We walk toward the club, our silence easy and usual. Theo and I understand each other, our friendship a surface one based on mutual recognition. I trust him with my skin and he trusts me with his gifts, and nothing else needs to be said between us. I don’t ask him questions, and he doesn’t pry at me. Not like some people, who push when they shouldn’t and slip under your guard while you’re looking the other way—

  Enough, I tell myself. I dig my fingernails into my palms and welcome the pain, a Pavlovian response.

  “You doing okay?” Theo asks me, his eyes on my curled fists.

  “Fine,” I lie, and make an effort to relax my hands. “You?”

  Theo shrugs. “Not bad. Considering there’s a murderer out there.”

  “Are you scared?” I ask him.

  “Not so much for myself,” he says. “But for the others, yes. Are you?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m scared. But not of dying.”

  “Of what?”

  I’m scared of failing. Scared of letting Jane down. And scared that the end will come before I’m ready.

  “A lot of things,” I finally say.

  Theo nods, and doesn’t press me. “Found a new design I want to try out if you’re game.”

  “Sure,” I say. “What is it?”

  “Something to do with light, I think,” he says, frowning. “I don’t know exactly. They come into my head, but I’m never sure what they mean until I start to ink them.”

  “Well, I’m running out of room on my arms.” I give Theo free rein over my skin, let him work out the details like I’m scratch paper. Half the time they don’t work, like the clock frozen at midnight on my shoulder, or the raven on my forearm.

  “That’s what legs are for,” he says. “You working with Nic tonight?”

  I shake my head. “She’s off.” I give him a sidelong glance. “Why do you ask?”

  If I wasn’t looking at him, I would miss the slight flush that turns his cheeks darker.

  “No reason,” he says, and quickly changes the subject. “How’s your ghost situation?”

  I chew the inside of my cheek. “I’m working on it.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Be careful,” he says. “Those tattoos will only go so far.”

  “Is this where you tell me the storm is coming?” I ask. “Or some other cryptic bullshit?”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s where I tell you to call me if you need help.”

  We reach the door, and Theo opens it for me.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, stomping inside. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You know where to find me,” Theo says. “I don’t know the rules to this game, but I know you’re on the board.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, heading down the hallway. “Well, some of us didn’t ask to play.”

  Nic is off tonight, and part of me is grateful I don’t have to even pretend to be cordial. Lila usually works the main floor and barely makes eye contact with me all night. I don’t know if she can sense my sour mood or if she’s angry about the lack of customers and tips up here, but either way I’m not complaining.

  “Can I get a gin and tonic?”

  I nod at the man across the bar and splash some gin into a glass. At least I think it’s gin; it’s clear; that’s close enough.

  “I’m David,” the man says, grinning wide at me. He’s not unattractive; he has dark, soft-looking hair and slightly crooked front teeth. But I don’t care what his name is, and he’s getting close enough for my hands to graze. I set his drink down and stare back stone-faced.

  “Thanks,” he says, the drink spilling over the side when he grabs it.

  “So is this what you do all night?” a familiar voice asks. “Glare at people?”

  I suck in a breath, lock my muscles in place so I don’t jump when a hand thrusts through David’s chest and wiggles its fingers at me.

  “He can’t feel
me, can he?” Jane asks, her head poking around him. She waves her hand back and forth. “Hi, I’m David,” she says in a deep voice. “I’m thirty but I still hit on teenagers; want to read my screenplay?”

  I bend over and cough loudly until David’s smile slips and he hastily retreats. Lila gives me a disgusted look that I pretend not to see, then goes back to ignoring me while Jane slips through the bar.

  “What are you doing here?” I whisper, trying not to move my lips.

  “I wasn’t on this level that night,” Jane says, leaning back against the ice bin. “Macy liked the dance floor. I thought I’d try walking around, see if I remember anything.”

  “And?” I glance around the room, but no one is paying close attention to me. Maybe they’ll think I’m just singing along with the music.

  “Nada. Your guy’s not that old, is he?” She cocks her head at the disappearing David, something reckless and bright in her eyes. “The one Trevor mentioned? Phillip?” She makes his name sound like a cut.

  Lila has her back to me, so I make a face at Jane. “No.”

  “Well, which one is he then? Is he here?” She leans over the bar, propping her arms on the wet counter. It distracts me, the smooth skin of her forearms, the dusting of freckles on top.

  “Why do you want to know so bad?” I ask, and I can’t resist leaning next to her, letting our shoulders brush.

  She looks down at my inked arms, the opposite of her own.

  “How many tattoos do you have?” she asks.

  I blink. “Oh. I don’t know, actually. I stopped counting after a while. I let Theo practice on me.”

  “What do they mean?”

  I shrug. “Different things.”

  Jane makes an annoyed sound. “That one,” she says, pointing at the compass on my shoulder. “What does that one mean?”

  “That’s in case I get lost. It directs me toward the club.”

  “What about this one?” she says, poking at the circle near my elbow. “It looks like a wheel.”

  “That’s a ward against coercive spells.”

  “And this one?” she asks, pressing a finger to the shield knot at the inside of my wrist, the lines oddly broken in places.

  “That one’s for protection,” I say, looking away.

  “Protection from what?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” That was one of the first tattoos I got. I asked Theo for something that would block my powers, to keep me from seeing death, to hide the ghosts from my sight. It burned going into my skin, and no matter how much power Theo tried to channel, the ink wouldn’t stay connected.

  “You keep a lot of secrets, don’t you?” Jane asks, tilting her head.

  “I have to. It’s another kind of protection.”

  “Lexi,” a voice calls, and I jump, my elbow slamming into something warm.

  “Watch it,” Ilia says, stepping back.

  I flinch away from him, cursing myself for getting distracted.

  “Uh, sorry,” I stammer out, shaking out the tension and the images inundating my mind.

  Ilia frowns at me as I curl my arms around my center.

  “You okay?” he asks slowly, like I’m a wild animal he’s trying to soothe.

  “Fine,” I snap back, but he doesn’t look convinced. I almost never bump into people; I always look where I’m going, always try to minimize the chance of touching.

  “Is that Phillip?” Jane asks, her tone disapproving.

  “What do you want, Ilia?” I stress his name just slightly.

  His face goes serious. “Our folks came through. I got the footage back.”

  My pulse speeds up until I can feel it in my throat.

  “Think you can get your little friend down here?” Ilia asks, raising one eyebrow.

  “Guess it’s our lucky day,” I tell him, glancing at Jane.

  “Wait, she’s here? Right now?” Ilia eyes dart around the bar like he’s looking for her.

  “He’s not that bright, is he?” Jane says.

  “He does his best,” I tell her. “Ilia, meet Jane. Jane, Ilia.”

  Ilia chooses to focus on a spot to Jane’s left. “Um. Nice to meet you?”

  “Likewise,” she says wryly.

  “So, are we doing this?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  Ilia heads toward the hallway and I follow a step later. Even without turning around, I can sense Jane behind me, feel the gravitational pull of her. I can’t escape it; she’s like my compass, like a lodestone. I always know where Jane is.

  Ilia opens the door to Urie’s office, shutting and locking it behind me. Jane seeps through the wood and slowly spins, taking in the large room with its wall of TVs. All the lights are off, but the flash of illumination from the screens plays across Ilia’s face, leaching all the color from his skin.

  “Give me one sec to load it up,” Ilia says, plugging a flash drive into the control. “Are you ready?”

  Jane’s face is tense, and she jumps when I touch her shoulder.

  “Jane? You okay to do this?”

  She nods, lips tight. “Yeah. I want to see it. I need to see it.”

  Her voice is even, but her eyes are starting to get milky and the TV flickers.

  “Keep it together,” I order. “Jane—”

  “I’m fine,” she snaps, closing her eyes. When she opens them, they’re brown again. “I can do this.”

  Ilia turns back to us. “I’m sorry about what happened to you,” he says, talking to a spot over my shoulder. “But we really need your help. We can’t trace whoever’s doing this, so anything you can remember, no matter how small. . . .”

  “Yeah,” Jane says, swallowing hard. “I get it.”

  “She knows,” I tell him. “Go ahead and play it.”

  Ilia nods, and he presses a button and the TVs skip and start to play. I watch the footage of the club, the bodies pressed close together, swaying to a silent beat. Lights flash overhead, the blues and greens slightly muted and grainy.

  “I’ll start it at midnight and go forward,” Ilia says. He fiddles with some knob and the footage skips choppily, going from day to night, faces disappearing and reappearing in different places. He stops and the video starts to play, four screens filled with different angles of the same room. I glue my eyes to the screens, but it looks like every other night in the club, beautiful people packed in as tight as they’ll go. I move closer, until I’m directly in front of the TVs, searching through the mass of the crowd for the face that’s right at my shoulder.

  We don’t talk while the scene plays, the reality of that night too heavy, too full of memories for the both of us. Every movement someone makes feels like a choice leading to the inevitable finish. Maybe if this DJ had played a different song. Maybe if this drink hadn’t been spilled on the floor. I watch the night spool out in front of me, a movie I’ve watched a hundred times but still hoping for a different ending.

  “There,” Jane says finally, and I shake myself out of the guilt. She points at a group of people on the left screen, filing into the club, and I catch Delilah’s shiny blond hair first. Then I see Macy, in a bright red dress, and then Jane. She’s laughing, her head thrown back, revealing a long expanse of neck. Jane, alive and whole, and happy. I glance at the girl next to me, and I would never mistake her for the girl on the screen. They may look the same, but my Jane is not this Jane. My Jane has never looked this carefree, this innocent. My Jane is angry and wild and a little cruel. I know which one I prefer.

  “I think . . . I think I remember this part,” Jane says softly. “I remember feeling light. I remember music.”

  She touches herself on the screen, her fingers melting through the glass. There’s an aching hunger on her face, raw and vulnerable. The picture goes static for a millisecond, and she snatches her hand away.

  “Sorry,” she murmurs.

  “That’s her, isn’t it?” Ilia asks. “That’s Jane?”

  “Yeah,” I say curtly.

 
Ilia sighs heavily as I watch as the girls dance with one another in a small circle, drinks in hand. A boy joins in, spinning Macy around until she laughs and clutches at him. Eventually his friend calls him over and he leaves. Another boy joins in, then a girl with bangs, but none of them stay long. I pause on each face, commit them to memory and take a grainy picture with my phone. Each of them is clean-shaven, cheeks still round with youth. None of them look like killers.

  “I remember dancing,” Jane says slowly. “My shoes were pinching my toes.”

  I don’t know how long we watch the girls dance and drink and giggle. I see some of our people in the corners; Lila and Theo are behind the bar, serving drinks as fast as they can pour them. Adam and Jordan push through the crowd, brushing past the girls with stoic security faces on. I’m afraid to skip forward, afraid I’ll miss the split second that will finally give us an answer. Another boy comes to dance, this time looping an arm around Jane’s waist. I try to pause on his face and frown; he’s wearing a black ball cap, tugged down low. I can’t get a good look, so I go to a different angle and look again, but in this one his head is turned the wrong way. In every view, his face is blocked, almost like he knew where the cameras were. Almost like he’d been scoping out the club.

  “Him,” I say, my voice somewhere below a whisper. Jane moves closer to the screen, her eyes filming over as she stares at the man. I very gently lay a hand on her arm, my fingers just touching the fuzz of her hair.

  “It’s okay,” I breathe.

  “What?” Ilia asks, and I drop my hand. “The ball cap?”

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “I don’t recognize him,” Ilia says, squinting at the screen. “He could be one of ours.”

  “He could be anybody,” I say.

  When he’s done dancing with Jane, the man whispers something in her ear and then walks away. I try to track his movements, but he loses himself in the crowd, disappearing between one breath and the next. Is this the man who killed her? Or is this just some stranger, trying to hit on a pretty girl?

  “He spoke to me,” Jane says, her rage a wounded animal. “He said something to me. I let him speak to me. I let him dance with me.”