Girls on Film

by Gregg Olsen

  My eyes follow the headline.

  Port orchard murder mystery stuns neighborhood Father dead, mother and children missin.

  Hayden studies the newspaper’s front page with the same intensity as I do. Glancing at him I see that his mouth is open and I’m pretty sure his expression is a genuine jaw-dropping gawk. I pull three quarters from my pocket, damp from a night in the bathroom, and slot them into the machine. The coins fall one by one. I remove all the copies of the day’s edition and, with a quick glance around me, I shove all but two in the recycling box. I hold out one for Hayden. One for me. I don’t want him hovering over me. I need to see what the reporter scraped together in the hours after our father was murdered.

  We slide into a hard, molded plastic booth near the galley, across the boat from Princess Angeline’s portrait. Her beer-bottle glass eyes still penetrate mine when I look over at her, but I don’t care.

  My heart is pounding and wetness blooms under my arms and wicks into the only shirt I have. But right now I feel more anxious than gross.

  The victim was Rolland Cassidy, 42. Missing are his wife, Candace, their daughter, Rylee Ann, 15, and their son, Hayden Joseph, 7 . . .

  No one ever calls us Rylee Ann and Hayden Joseph, and since neither of us had those names a very long time, they don’t incite much recognition. My photo with my old hair does, however. The picture of the house does.

  The last family member seen was the 15-year-old girl, who talked to a neighbor around 4 p.m.

  “Things like this don’t happen here,” said the neighbor, who preferred not to be identified. “Things like this don’t happen to nice people like the Cassidy family either”

  I want to call Mr. Swanston, because I’m pretty sure he’s the unidentified neighbor, and tell him how this is exactly what happens to nice people like us. Did he think that evil only comes after the bad? That darkness only seeps into a corner.

  Hayden looks up at me from the paper. He reads at a third-grade level, something that Mom said could only occur because of homeschooling. It was the only thing—besides the always-available refrigerator—that was good about homeschooling. His eyes are pooling with tears.

  “Are we going to find Mom today?” he asks.

  I put my arm around him. I cannot answer that question and if I did and I told the truth, he would shatter right there in that Formica booth. I can’t have that.

  “Look, don’t cry. Don’t make a move. I’m getting you a hot chocolate”

  “I don’t want any”

  “I don’t care,” I say as I start to get up.

  “Is everything all right?” A woman in a maroon sweater and expensive jeans says to me.

  I look at her. “He’s fine. He wants a hot chocolate and I don’t think it’s a good idea. Sugar, makes him hyper”

  Her face is kind and she nods. “My boys lived on sugar and they turned out all right. One’s a doctor”

  I smile politely and shrug my shoulders. I don’t know why she had to add that her son’s a doctor. I imagine she probably worms that detail into any conversation she’s in. I get that she’s proud of her son, but honestly, why bring that up.

  I turn to Hayden. “Stay right here. I’ll get you that hot chocolate.” I look over at the woman. “And a donut too”

  As I loop around the ferry with the speed of an Olympian, I notice a man looking at the Times front page. Me and that bad school photograph again. I drop three quarters in the vending box on the opposite side of the ferry and take out the rest of the papers. I dump them in another recycle box. Even though my hair is way shorter and blond now, I’m not taking any chances.

  A few minutes later I return with the hot chocolate, a coffee and two maple bars. I don’t need the energy, but I do need something in my stomach.

  “When the boat docks we’re going to the bank,” I tell Hayden. “After that, we’re going to find a place to stay”

  “What about Mom?.

  My reassuring smile fades. “We need to establish a home base first. He won’t kill her. You know that”

  Hayden doesn’t really know it, not in the way that I do. But he nods anyway. I know that the man who has our mother wants to possess her. He won’t kill her. Killing her would take away all that motivates him. Keeping my mother, owning her, was what kept him breathing and hunting. It also kept us running. No one could help us.

  IT HAD ALL STARTED SO innocently. I remember my mother telling me about it. It was before Hayden was born. I was about his age when I first started to understand that we were a little different from other families. It might have been earlier, but when you’re not of school age, you don’t mark time the same way. Seasons blend together and time seems to go on forever. No rituals divide the months. No back-to-school shopping. No carnivals. No winter breaks. I’m not even sure where we were living then, except I remember the smells of the country. Cow smells. A dairy farm was nearby. The land was flat, long, and green all the way to the edge of the horizon. Later, I learned we had been living in eastern Nebraska, not far from the Iowa border.

  Mom was on the sofa talking to somebody on the phone. It wasn’t a cell phone, but a landline that ran from the wall in the kitchen all the way to the living room. Her voice carried a sharp edge that brought me from my bedroom upstairs. She was crying. Seeing Mom cry made me cry too. I watched from the hallway. Something told me to stay put. Just listen.

  “ . . . what am I supposed to do now?” she was asking.

  I moved a little closer, but still out of view. It was nighttime and I was wearing a pale yellow flannel nightgown. On my feet were slippers made to look like pink bunny rabbits. I loved those slippers more than anything. I never saw them again after that night.

  “ . . . tell me just how that’s supposed to work?”

  After a long silence, Mom hung up the phone. She stayed very still on the sofa and wrapped an old crocheted blanket around her shoulders.

  I recall something else just then. It was Christmas time. Our tree was up next to the fireplace. Why hadn’t I remembered this before.

  I take my mind back to that place. I stood there frozen, watching Mom. I had the impulse to run over and hug her, but I was too scared. Later, when I thought about the reasons for my reluctance to interfere, I figured that it had to do with the fact that my mother was a private person. To see her crying almost seemed like a violation of her privacy.

  Then she saw me. I felt a jolt go through my body. I was caught. She recovered a little and motioned for me to come closer. I followed the trajectory of her finger to a spot next to her on the sofa.

  “Honey,” she said, “I’m all right, but I do have something to tell you. It’s about tomorrow. We’re going to take a little trip tomorrow. It’ll be fun”

  Her eyes were red and nothing that came from her lips seemed like it could possibly be fun.

  “Where?” I finally asked.

  “That’s the fun part,” she said, trying to sound upbeat. “I don’t know. We don’t know.” Her eyes left mine and wandered around the room. I followed them until her gaze stood still.

  On our coffee table was a travel magazine with the image of a log cabin in the woods.

  “We’re going out West,” she said.

  Her random choice scared me. It felt desperate. “Why?.

  But my mother had pulled herself together now. She was in full-on survival mode, an affectation that I later knew to be a complete façade. “Because we have to get away from someone. Someone bad. Someone who wants to hurt me”

  I didn’t understand exactly what she meant. But the funny thing about it was that I didn’t even ask. I just accepted it. The next morning, I found her in front of the fireplace burning papers and photographs. I watched my own image get licked and then devoured by orange and blue flames.

  Ten minutes later, we were gone and my name was no longer Shelly. We took nothing with us. Not even those pink bunny slippers. I always missed those slippers so much.

  “Anna,” she said, trying out my new n
ame as we drove toward the highway, “starting over will save us. Starting over is the only way we can survive”

  Chapter Five

  Cash: $107.80.

  Food: Coffee and a maple bar for me, hot chocolate and a maple bar for Hayden.

  Shelter: None at the moment.

  Weapons: Same scissors.

  Plan: Stay calm.

  BEFORE WE LEAVE FOR THE bank, we make one more stop. If I’m going to get into the safe deposit box, I’m going to have to look like her. Mom. Her backup ID is in Dad’s wallet. My hair is pretty much Mom-ready right now. But my clothes still look like a teenager’s. A hoodie and jeans might work, depending on the bank cashier’s mood. I can fake her latest signature no problem—she doesn’t know that I’ve done it a time or two to get out of speech class. It isn’t that I mind getting up in front of a group to give a speech on a subject, like how social networking is driving people further apart and not closer together. Or maybe a demonstration speech on how to make fortune cookies with subversive messages like.

  Holy crap! You’re a loser.

  You will never find love.

  Your best moment was so five minutes ago.

  I did that demo speech in January and got an A-minus. What I don’t like are the impromptu speeches—the ones in which the teacher tells you to share a story from your childhood, to talk about family traditions that you value most. Or anything genuinely personal. I’m a good liar, but not to people that I see every day. I can lie to strangers without even the tiniest flutter of remorse.

  I drag Hayden to the Lost and Found office in the ferry terminal at Colman Dock. It isn’t open yet, so we sit and wait, mostly in silence. We watch people come and go. We also notice a homeless man with a garbage bag of cans. I hope we never end up like some sad soda-can forager.

  Finally, a door opens and we pounce on a young man with a faint moustache and stubble on his chin behind the counter.

  “Our mom left her jacket on the ferry the other day,” I say, as if my inquiry is more out of boredom than urgency.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Hayden says.

  I shoot him a look. This is my deal. My little brother is just supposed to keep his trap snapped shut.

  The man catches my vibe and I give him what I know he wants.

  “She’d forget me if she could,” I say.

  He nods. “Yeah, I have a mom like that too. Can you describe what it looks like?.

  I shake my head. “Mom-boring. That’s what it looks like. I’d know it if I see it”

  “That’s not the way it works. We have a lot of crap back there. You have to tell me what it looks like”

  “God,” I say. “Dark, ugly. She just said she left it. I’ll just tell her someone took it.” I turn and start walking nonchalantly. Inside I’m waiting. I’m hoping.

  “Hey,” the man says. “It’s against rules, but go ahead and look around”

  “Really?” I say, a little relieved.

  “I have to pee,” Hayden says.

  “Just a second,” I answer.

  “No. I can’t wait”

  “We’ll never find that jacket. And Mom will yell at us. She’s such a bitch to me”

  The man looks at my brother. “I’ll take him and stand outside and wait.” He turns to me. “You look for the ugly-ass jacket”

  I return the wry grin on Hayden’s face. He’s not so terribly awful after all. He can take direction. Even if he is a homeschooler.

  The door shuts and I instantly feel like I’m in one of those shopping spree videos. I only have a few minutes to get what I need. I paw through the coats and jackets like a wild woman. I can easily see why no one came back for any of them. They’re all totally Ross Dress-For-Less rejects. I find one, a black jacket from the Brass Plum that looks mommy-desperate enough. Next, I grab a bag. It’s black leather with a fake Chanel clasp. It’s the same purse Gemma had at the beginning of the school year. I wonder if she lost hers. I’ll never see her again, so I guess none of that matters. It’ll work better than my backpack, that’s for sure. I find a cool graphic T-shirt for Hayden and wad it into a ball and stuff it in my new purse. My eyes scan the small room.

  A white silk scarf. Stained. Gross. But it’ll work. My heart is racing. I know I’m not on a game-show video, but I feel that kind of a rush. Hurry! Ten seconds to go! You’re running out of time! I pick through the sunglasses— there are dozens of pairs in a big plastic tote next to the shoes. Who loses their shoes on a ferry? It seems like everyone whoever rode that ferry left their glasses aboard. I find a Kate Spade pair that might even be real. Those go in my new purse too.

  The door opens and my brother and the Lost and Found guy are there.

  “Looks like you found it,” LFG says.

  I nod with a sour look on my face. “Yeah. I’d know this anywhere. If my mom had any sense she’d have left it here. But no. It’s her favorite jacket of all time”

  LFG looks at me and nods. He pays no attention to the black leather purse which I slip casually over my shoulder as though it were mine.

  Which it now is. Sort of.

  THE BANK IS ON FIFTH Avenue and as I look I see a mix of the wealthy and the street people congregating around its big brass-framed doors. I know that Hayden and I fit in somewhere between the two factions vying for coffee, money, and whatever people in crisp, new suits think is important. A black mongrel,with a white spot under his chin that looks like he’s just finished slurping up a bowl of milk, curls up next to a man. At his feet, facing the movers and shakers of that Seattle sidewalk, is a cardboard sign that says in crudely drawn letters.

  homeless. alone. Please helP.

  You and me both, I think, as my little brother and I go inside.

  Even though it is against my better judgement, I tell Hayden to wait on one of those black leather sofas next to the spires of a stiff green plant that looks like it could be a weapon—if I was really desperate.

  Hayden is not to talk to anyone. Look at anyone. Trust anyone. Just stay put. My heart could not beat any faster if I’d had a gun in my pocket and had planned to actually rob the bank. Which, of course, isn’t my mission. I wait in line with my mother’s ID—the one that had my age at thirty-something. Part of me dreads that I could pass for someone that old, but the other part—the part that wants to survive and find my mother’s captor—desires nothing more than to have the clerk look me over, think I’m my mother, so that I can retrieve whatever is so important from the vault.

  I leave my stolen sunglasses on and I make sure my scarf is draped messily around my neck as though I was in a hurry. I am in a hurry. A hurry to get out of here as fast as I can.

  The clerk, a young man with an x-acto blade-sharp nose and unibrow, looks over my ID and compares it with the signature card that he pulls from a file cabinet behind him. It seems like a very, very long time, but it was probably only a second. His hair is blond—golden, really. I wonder if my hair looks as bad as his.

  “This doesn’t look like you,” he says curtly.

  “I get that a lot,” I answer in a throatier version of my voice, one that I assume sounds like my mother —or at least someone older than fifteen. I offer no excuse. Sometimes the less yo.

  say, the better the odds are of getting what you want.

  “Did you change your hair or something?” he asks.

  I shrug as if the remark doesn’t challenge me, which it does. “I change my hair about three times a year, so . . . yeah, I changed my hair”

  He raises his unibrow and I instantly think of a big, hairy McDonald’s arch.

  “Looks better the way it is now,” he says.

  I wonder if he’s hitting on me and if he is, he is breaking the law. I am underage, no matter what that ID card states. At least I am pretty sure I am. I couldn’t be eighteen. Or could I? I don’t have time to pursue that thought now. It’s creepy, but if this guy thinks I’m a woman and not a girl then I must be doing something right.

  “Follow me,” he says, dangling th
e vault key like a dog treat— not quite ready to give it to me, but reminding me how much is at stake and how he literally holds the key over my head. He’s wearing corduroy trousers and as he walks he makes a swishing sound. I almost want to laugh, but I feel so scared and sick inside I think a laugh would just make me throw up.

  He leads me over to a little iron gate at the end of the row of cashiers and unlocks it with a big flourish, eyeing me with a look I feel unsure about. A leer? With suspicion? I’ve seen looks like that before, but the teller’s face shuts down like a sea anemone poked with the tip of a clam digger’s shovel and I’m unsure about what he’s thinking. Maybe about his job? Maybe he caught that unibrow in the reflection of the tellers’ booths and finally realizes he has to do something about it? I follow him to the safe deposit room, down a tiled corrido.

  that is impressively bleak.

  He stops at the doorway and turns to face me.

  “Passcode?.

  “What?” I ask, my pulse quickening.

  “You need to enter your passcode,” he says, his eyes riveted to mine.

  I feel sweat collect on the back of my neck. Passcode? I don’t have any passcode. His nicotine stained index finger points at a keypad.

  “I thought all I needed was my box key,” I say, running every memory through my mind that could lead to a passcode. I knew the code Dad had left in blood meant to get away. But a passcode for a safe deposit box?.

  “I have a passkey and you need to give me your personal passcode,” he says. “We need both to enter the vault”

  I think hard and fast. Now my face is hot. It must be red. Great. Nothing’s coming to me and I think Unibrow knows it.

  He shifts his weight. “If you don’t have the passcode, you can’t go inside,” he says.

  “I’m having a brain freeze,” I say, really hating this guy right now. “So many passwords to remember”

  “We haven’t got all day,” he says, turning to go back down the corridor.

  I punch the numbers for my birthday—at least the date that I think it is.

  Nothing.