Girls on Film

by Gregg Olsen

  I miss him.

  I’m over him.

  We never were anything anyway.

  I try and shut him out, but instead I find myself logging on to Facebook.

  I HAVE TOLD MYSELF OVER and over not to do what I’m about to do, but I can’t help it. The familiar blue of the Facebook login looks at me from the screen and dares me. I type in my email address and my password. I stupidly accepted some of the kids at South Kitsap as “friends”—only because I’d been goaded into it.

  By Caradee Hagen of all people.

  I remember the moment when she studied me like a lab experiment as we stood by her locker. She was fiddling with her smartphone.

  I should have known better as she scrolled to my minuscule Facebook page.

  “Rylee, it looks like someone is a bit of a loner”

  Her words so dripped with fake concern that I almost wanted to pull her aside and give her lessons on how to act sincere.

  But I didn’t.

  Instead, I lied.

  “I had a stalker at my last school and had to start over,” I said.

  She shot me a look of admiration. One that should be fake, but was genuine.

  “Holy crap,” she said, a little too gleefully. “That’s so cool”

  “I guess,” I answered, knowing that Caradee is a complete attention skank and she’d no doubt welcome a stalker. Sure, she’d act all mad and scared, but deep down she’d love being in the center of such a drama.

  “I’ll friend you right now,” she said, pushing the request button on her phone and waiting for me to accept. I didn’t want to, but I logged in and accepted.

  “Let’s take a selfie right now and I’ll post it,” she said, holding up her phone and getting into position.

  And, of course, since Caradee is in control, the photo she posted is great of her. My eyes are halfway shut and the angle makes me look about ten pounds heavier.

  And that’s just my face.

  I really don’t like that girl.

  And now, here I am, on Facebook, looking to see if the only friend I really ever had is online. Immediately, my pulse quickens.

  The little green light next to his name is on.

  My fingers tremble a little and I don’t exactly know why. I take them from the keyboard and give them a shake, as though whatever was causing the tremor was physical and not emotional. I will not crack. But I will not let Caleb Hunter think that leaving town as my brother and I did was something that was easy to do.

  His picture makes me smile. He’s got his arms folded in some kind of tough guy pose and a sheepish grin on his face. I took that photo. Two days ago at school. Forty-eight hours before my world spun out of control.

  Before the knife.

  The blood.

  The truth about where I came from.

  And the mystery of where Mom has been taken.

  I put my hands back on the keyboard and type two words.

  I’M SORRY.

  I wait. Nothing. Maybe he’s away from the computer. Maybe Facebook is acting up again. Maybe he’s blocked me. I type some more.

  ARE YOU THERE.

  Another moment passes and my heart sinks so low into my abdomen, I’m sure that I will need surgery to put it back where it belongs.

  And then, like a blast of air through the room, words are thrown at me.

  RYLEE! WHAT HAPPENED? WHERE ARE YOU.

  I won’t need that surgery after all.

  I CAN’T SAY.

  He answers right away.

  YOU DIDN’T OFF YOUR OLD MAN.

  That he would even ask it makes me wonder how well I know him. Or how well I think I do. And yet I don’t blame him. Not really. He has a reason to ask. I would probably ask too.

  I type: YOU KNOW BETTER.

  Again, he responds without a beat to waste.

  WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU.

  I don’t want to lie to him. So I shut him down. At least, I give it my best shot.

  DON’T ASK. IT’S COMPLICATED.

  It doesn’t work. Not completely anyway. He answers right back.

  WHAT’S COMPLICATED IS HOW YOU JUST DISAPPEARED ON ME. WTF! YOU’RE ALL OVER THE NEWS. I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD OR SOMETHING.

  He cares. I get that.

  I look around and suck in some air. Since I’m uncertain about what to say, I type the obvious.

  I’M NOT DEAD.

  THANKS FOR LETTING ME KNOW. I’VE BEEN SCARED SHITLESS.

  His response is so Caleb. He’s angry, sarcastic. But he cares and I know it. Given all that I’ve been through in the hours since my dad’s murder, that’s all I need right now.

  I type a response and my fingertip hovers a little before I send.

  I JUST WANTED YOU TO KNOW THAT YOU MATTER TO ME.

  Caleb Hunter must have taken Advanced Keyboarding in his freshman year because his response is instantaneous.

  I KNOW THAT. WHAT HAPPENED.

  I drink in more air and type.

  I CAN’T GET INTO IT. LIKE I SAID IT’S COMPLICATED.

  He drops a tiny bomb at me.

  THANKS FOR TRUSTING ME.

  My heart sinks again. Ugh. And my hands tremble a little more. Suddenly the screen seems fuzzy and I strain to see the chat window as I put the words into order and hit the SEND button.

  IT ISN’T ABOUT TRUSTING YOU.

  Part of me wants to say more, but I know that I can’t yet. All I ever wanted was to be normal or something close to normal. Caleb made me feel that was all possible. He could be trusted. Liars like me know how to spot another phony better than anyone. Mom said more than once “it takes one to know one” when she sized up those we met when we were on the run.

  The people who were hiding, running, trying to blend in without being noticed—Mom insisted she could smell the fear on the people like us.

  I blink hard and the screen clears, but only for a flash.

  I CAN HELP. I WANT TO HELP. YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO WHATEVER YOU ARE DOING ALONE, RYLEE.

  I know Caleb means it. But I also know that what I’m about to do, I need to do alone. I can’t involve another person that I care about, even though all I want to do is go to him and tell him that he means more to me than anyone.

  Except my little brother. My mother. My dead stepfather.

  And the man I’m going to find and kill.

  I type what I hope are not the last words that I’ll ever direct toward him.

  I HAVE TO GO.

  I think about adding something about my feelings, but I’m not good at that. I don’t know how to say what I’m feeling and, really, I don’t want the distraction of those feelings. Not now.

  Probably not ever.

  I look sideways at the screen, as though facing it head on would hurt more.

  DON’T SHUT ME OUT.

  I turn away from his message on the screen. I can’t answer. I leave those words to twist in the vast void of internet.

  I REFOCUS ON WHY I’M HERE. The clock is ticking. I read how Megan had been dropped off by her best friend in front of the Kmart where she worked—a fact that made me like her a little bit. I mean, Kmart. That had to be a come-down for a cheerleader. No wonder her friend dropped her off.

  And she was never seen again.

  Alive, that is.

  A headline wraps around my neck like a strangler’s hands.

  missing cheerleader Found in dumPste.

  No one deserves that. Not even a cheerleader. I scan the article for the salient points. Missing twelve days. Found battered and partially decomposed in a dumpster behind the Kmart where she worked. Her boyfriend, Kim Mock, found guilty of her murder and imprisoned for life.

  I search the local directories and find out that her mom has moved. Her dad might still be at the address in the paper, but I’m not taking any chances. I print out the articles and the directions to both.

  The third girl was Leanne Delmont, also sixteen. According to the news articles, Leanne had been missing for more than three weeks when her body was found,
east of Seattle. The case went unsolved until the arrest and a deluge of confessions made by a notorious deal-seeking serial killer named Arnold Cantu. His admittance of guilt meant that he was spared the death penalty. It seems Mr. Cantu was afraid of being on the receiving end of something so barbaric—and deserving—as the gallows, the method of capital punishment reserved for the worst offenders in Washington.

  I recall that same article among the papers from the bank. Mom had made a notation. I fish it out of the envelope.

  She was one too. I saw her.

  Saw her? Saw her when? Where? I don’t understand.

  In any case, I capture Leanne’s family’s local address. I wonder what connection Arnold Cantu had with the case. If any. Mom seemed emphatic in the way she scrawled that note with a heavy hand, next to Leanne’s name.

  I saw her.

  I gather up all the printouts, more pages than I could manage to read at the moment. I have to get moving. I need to get closer to where he did his hunting, his capturing and his killing. I have to find out everything I can. My time is measured. And it’s running out.

  “Did you pay for your copies?” the annoying pervy kid says. “Ten cents a page”

  “Do you pay to look at pornography?” I ask. My eyes steady at him, unflinching.

  I don’t understand where this new, aggressive me is coming from. It scares me a little when my mind races to the changes in my behavior. It isn’t like me to confront anyone. I was always the person in the background trying to fit in, trying to be a part of something without really being a part of it. It was like I was the puzzle piece from the wrong box. I could be made to fit in, but not so neatly.

  “You think you’re real smart, don’t you?” he says. “Real tough”

  I keep my expression completely flat. “You don’t even know”

  He seems undeterred. “Well maybe I want to know,” he says.

  Wrong response. Right there behind the new books rack I kick him in the nuts so hard that he can’t yell out.

  “Do not mess with me, perv,” I say.

  He slumps to the floor. In my past life I’d tell Mom about my attempts to try on a new persona whenever we moved. I’ve never tried this one before. I’ve never been the tough-talking bitch.

  Seems I am now. And I kind of like it.

  ON MY WAY TO THE front door I glance over at the gasping kid and linger like I’m not afraid that he’ll tell on me by looking at the community bulletin board. That’s the place where people try to sell things, give away stuff nobody really wants, and promote local events that promise to fill an afternoon with fun, but seldom do. Sometimes I see flyers with missing kids’ pictures there, but not today.

  Not mine or Hayden’s. At least not yet.

  An idea comes to me. Somehow in the nightmare that my life has become, I manage a smile. I take a lost cat poster from the board. Seconds later, I turn the key on the ignition and pull out into the trickle of traffic.

  I STOP IN AT THE local newspaper. I’d seen the sign on the drive in to the library. I remember almost everything. That’s one thing I know I’m good at. The North Bend Courier is in a nondescript strip mall. It smells of pizza—the restaurant next door has a powerful kitchen exhaust system.

  “Is it free to put in a classified ad for a found cat?” I ask, my face melting into a look of worry, hope, and concern.

  A girl looks up from a desk by the front door. She is in her twenties with a halo of black hair that I admire for its sheer mass, if nothing else. She sits in a cubicle by the door and if the space were any smaller I think she’d have to cut her hair. Or I could. I didn’t do that bad of a job of my own on that ferry boat ride.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Tracy can help you”

  I go over to a desk in a deadly quiet newsroom. Tracy is her early twenties too. Her hair is long, black, and flows like a silky curtain. Her nameplate says she’s the assistant editor, but when I look around, I think that she’s probably the boss of the whole sad little office.

  “I’ll take the info,” she says in a clipped and excited voice. I wonder what she’d be like on the scene of a homicide if she’s this thrilled about a found cat.

  I give her bogus contact information, including Leanne’s name and a phone number culled from a boy offering home clean-up services. Then I provide the specifics of this phantom cat and for some reason I lay it on thick. Her unbridled appreciation for what I’m doing for the cat kind of makes me head in to the realm of over-the-top.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I kind of want to keep her. But my boyfriend’s allergic”

  “So unlucky,” she says.

  “He’s kind of a creep lately. I actually caught him looking at disgusting porn. I’ll probably dump him, but the landlord says I can’t have a cat anyway”

  “That’s so wrong. Pets are people too”

  I wasn’t sure if she really said that or if I’m going crazy.

  “Can you describe her?.

  I nod wistfully.

  “She’s kind of creamy and orange. Like a big orange sherbet float. I know I shouldn’t name her, but I’ve been calling her PC for Peaches and Cream”

  “That’s so sweet!.

  “She’s cute. Cuddly and cute.” I’ve got what I wanted so I wrap it up. “I know someone is probably crying their eyes out right now”

  “We’ll find her family,” she says, her almond eyes telegraphing complete certainty.

  If I actually had a lost cat, I’d take my information to Tracy, for sure.

  A moment later, I’m out the door. My name, at least on my business card, is Tracy Lee. I’m not Asian. But Lee could be any kind of name. It’ll work for what I need it to do.

  Chapter Ten

  Cash: $226.50.

  Food: Three granola bars.

  Shelter: Car.

  Weapons: Gun, scissors, ice pick.

  Plan: Find out what happened to Leanne, Shannon and Megan.

  THE HOUSE LOOKS JUST AS it did when it appeared in the papers online. It is a single-story rambler with white shutters and matching window boxes, though they are empty now. In front stands a monkey-puzzle tree that has grown nearly as tall as the roofline. That’s the only difference that I can really discern as I get out of my car. It is almost lunchtime and the sandwich made me sick. I had to stop at a McDonald’s in Burien to use the bathroom. It might have been the turkey and pesto. But it’s more likely nerves. Judging by their photo in the paper, Don and Debra Blume would be in their mid-sixties by now, which I hope means they are retired and at home. My hope is confirmed when I peer through the window of the garage and see two cars. One, surprisingly, is a Ford Focus. I’ll act as though I love my car or hate it. Depending on whatever they say about theirs. If that comes up. You know, while we’re chatting about their dead daughter.

  Mrs. Blume answers the door with a wary but kind smile.

  I tell her I’m with the North Bend Courier.

  “You probably heard about our series on Marilee Watson? She was murdered last year. My publisher wanted me to do a new series about how people cope after a tragedy. Can I talk to you and Mr. Blume?.

  “You can’t cope after a tragedy, miss . . . ?” she searches for my name. A pause hangs in the air.

  “Tracy Lee.” I hand her my business card.

  “That’s kind of the point of my article,” I say. “My Aunt Ginger was killed in a car wreck and I know it’s not the same as what happened to Shannon, but my mom has never gotten over it either. I’m including my thoughts about that in the article too. But it can’t be about me”

  She studies me with flinty eyes. I wonder if she’s reminded of her daughter. If she thinks I’m too young for the job. If she’s just having a bad day. Maybe every day after you lose a child to murder is a bad day.

  “It was a long time ago,” she says, her eyes still on mine. “We really don’t like reliving it. I’m sure you can understand that”

  Of course I can. I hate that I’m opening some old, never-really-healed wou
nds, but I have no choice.

  “Look, it isn’t my intent to hurt you again. I’m looking for understanding. I’m trying to tell a story that will bring awareness to community,” I say, my brain on overdrive trying to find a way to a yes. I’m not lying to Mrs. Blume. All of those things are true. Except the part about the article that I’m writing.

  And the part about the real reason why I’m there.

  Mrs. Blume takes a step back.

  “Please,” I say, “I think it is really important that people learn the truth”

  Mrs. Blume reaches for the door handle, but hesitates.

  “What truth?” she asks.

  This is my opening. This is the only moment that I’ll have with her if I can’t win her over.

  “That some hurts never go away,” I answer. “That others who have gone through what you have experienced aren’t alone and they don’t need to feel bad about the lingering pain”

  She nods. “All right, Tracy”

  I’ve won her over. I feel tremendous relief, but also a little sick for lying to someone about something so tragic, so important.

  “I would have called,” I say, pulling myself together, “but with cellphones these days no one has a landline anymore”

  She waves me inside. The house is neat, clean, and frozen in time. The furnishings, the decor—even the air feels like it is old. The foyer is devoid of anything personal. A Boston Fern the size of a Mini Cooper fills most of the space.

  Someone has a green thumb.

  “I was making a frozen pizza,” she says, eyeing me with what are now very kind eyes. “Want to stay for lunch?.

  Someone wants to barf.

  “I’m starving,” I quickly say. “I haven’t eaten all day. Thank you.” I’ve been there two minutes and I’ve already lied to this nice woman five or six times. I have no choice, of course. If I told her the truth she’d probably laugh at me and call the police. That would ruin my plans and kill my mother.

  Debra Blume is a beautiful woman. I can see, however, how the years and the loss of her daughter reveal the undying agony around her eyes. They are blue, but a weary shade of blue. The color of a pair of jeans that I once loved so much, but ruined when I stupidly put too much bleach in the washer. I wanted to speed up the fading process. Instead, I annihilated the hue.