The Quiet Girl

by S. F. Kosa

  She grinned. “Today’s my twenty-first birthday.” She fished her license from her purse and handed it to him. In it, her younger self flashed an identical smile at the camera, only with bright eyes and long blond hair. “It’s me, I promise.”

  “I know exactly who you are,” he muttered as he handed the ID back to her. “I’m at work, Maggie.”

  “You’re not busy,” she said quietly. “I needed to see you.”

  “Why, so you can do your best to fuck me over again?” He glanced down the bar like he hoped no one else could hear him.

  Whether they could or not, not one of them gave any signal that they cared.

  “No, so I could apologize for being the biggest bitch who ever walked the planet.” She leaned forward. “I really am sorry.”

  “What can I get you?” he asked again as if she were any other customer. She couldn’t tell if it was a clean slate or a brush-off.

  “I’ll have a beer,” she said.

  He rolled his eyes. “Can you be more specific?”

  She peered at the tap handles and chuckled. “Clown Shoes?”

  “The Zen Garden. It’s an IPA.”

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  “Not the lightest choice. I’ve never seen you drink before.”

  “Doesn’t mean I haven’t. Thanks,” she said as he filled a pint and slid it toward her. She took a sip and rolled the lush-then-bitter liquid over her tongue. “I figured I’d celebrate by asking your forgiveness.”

  “What, are you in some kind of twelve-step program or something?”

  “Lots of therapy. Like, loads of it.” After the hospital and the three-week partial program, it had been twice a week, every week, even the week of Thanksgiving.

  His shoulders lost their rigid, hostile shape, as if he’d decided she wasn’t about to leap over the bar and attack him. “Did it help?”

  “Talking about stuff that’s happened to me turns out to be only slightly less awful than when it actually happened.”

  “So, no?”

  “Actually, yeah. It was helpful. But painful, too, you know? Like a really intense workout, except for my head instead of my body.” After those sessions, so many times, it had been hours before she’d felt strong enough to face the world again. “It helped me sort some things out. Like what’s my fault and what’s not my fault. How I got the way I am. How to be different and stronger in the future.” She stared at the cloudy yellow ale in her glass. “What I can live with and what I can’t.”

  “I’m really glad to hear that.”

  She sighed. “There was a lot I never told you. About my family situation.”

  “I’ve thought a lot about that last day we were together. You…” He fiddled with the ties on his apron. “I know it was a rough day. I was stupid to think you were fine. But when your mom started to call—”

  “She was abusive. In so many ways. And for a long time.” Maggie took another cautious sip of her beer. “I never thought of her that way before, you know? She never hit me.”

  “There are lots of ways to hurt a person that don’t involve hitting,” he said quietly. Sympathetically.

  She couldn’t believe it. Could it really be that easy?

  “I guess it took a professional to help me realize that.”

  “Do you remember now? Those weeks you were in Provincetown.”

  “No. And I don’t think I ever will, which is weird and frustrating and scary. I mean, I know I was with you for a few weeks, but I was gone for over two months. I could have been anywhere, doing anything.”

  “You could have killed someone.”

  Her heart thudded against her sternum. Knock, knock. Who’s there? “I guess I could have. I must have been pretty smart about it, to get away with it.”

  A smile pulled at his lips. “Are you sure this isn’t all just an elaborate cover? Are you actually a CIA operative?”

  She held up her beer in salute. “You’ve finally figured me out.”

  They were laughing together. Holy shit.

  “I’d make a joke here about being your handler,” he said, “but I’m afraid it’s too soon. You might kick my ass again.”

  She watched his face for signals. He was still smiling. Gray canine on display. But there was a fear in his eyes. He worried he’d gone too far. And he was still a little bit mad about what had happened. “I think I was AWOL with that whole episode,” she said, looking sheepish. “If you tell my boss, I’ll probably be fired.”

  “Ah, no harm done. I mean, my phone…”

  “Uh…it had been bugged by a hostile foreign power. I was secretly saving your life.” She examined the dried foam crusted along the side of her glass. “Seriously, though, I brought money with me. To pay for it.”

  His eyes widened. “Maggie, honestly…yeah?”

  She opened her purse and tilted it toward him. Bills stacked inside. She’d been working her ass off at the resort restaurant in Chatham, taking every available shift including Thanksgiving, knowing they’d close for the season come New Year’s. She’d brought more than enough to pay for his crappy phone.

  Because there was something else she wanted to buy. “How much was it?”

  “Wasn’t worth much.” He waved it away, then glanced at her open purse again. “Okay. A hundred? A hundred and we’re even.”

  She pulled one hundred and sixty out and handed it to him. She should probably have paid him back for the abortion, too, but the revelation that it hadn’t been his would only complicate matters. So she simply said, “I owe you more than that. More than I could ever pay.” Now she had to figure out how to pay for what she needed. “When are you off?”

  He glanced at the wall clock over the bar. “As soon as Tommy comes out from the back, actually. I’ve been on since we opened at eleven.” He walked over to a door on the other side of the bar and poked his head inside. Maggie could hear him chatting with someone, and a moment later, a middle-aged guy with black, curly hair and a healthy beer belly came out, turning sideways to edge behind the bar.

  Esteban took off his apron, and Maggie paid for her beer. She’d drunk only a third of it but left it on the bar as Esteban raised his eyebrows and gestured toward the door. “Want to go for a walk?”

  She zipped up her jacket and followed him out of the bar and onto the sidewalk where they were greeted by icy rain. She winced and backed under the building’s awning. “Where’s your car?”

  “Don’t have one. I take the bus usually.”

  “Mine’s just up the block. Can I offer you a ride home?”

  He paused, perhaps considering what had happened the last time they’d been in a car together.

  She put her hand on his arm and looked him in the eye. “I am so sorry about what I did to you. I know you were trying to help, and I was so, so messed up. I’ve worked really hard to drag myself out of that place.” She grinned. “You want my therapist’s number? Her name is Lori. She could vouch for me.”

  He snorted. “That’s all right.” But he looked more relaxed now, and he trotted along next to her when she jogged for her car.

  She wouldn’t hurt him this time, she promised herself. She just needed this one thing, and he was the only person she knew who might know how to get it. “You said you live with your dad?” she asked when they were safely ensconced in her car, with her in the driver’s seat this time.

  He groaned. “I’m trying to save money.”

  “For what?”

  A shy look. “I want to go back to school.”

  “For what?” she asked again.

  “Not sure. Maybe nursing?”

  “Really?”

  “What? You think I’m stupid or something?”

  “No! No. I actually think you’d make a great nurse. You’re kind and gentle. Just the type of person I’d want taking care of me if I were sick.�
�� She put her hand on his arm again. “I mean, you did kind of do that already.”

  He looked down at her hand. “What do you want, Maggie?”

  She pulled her hand back. “Nothing.”

  “Yeah, right. First time, you just needed help. Second time, an abortion. So what is it this time?”

  “Didn’t I already tell you? Forgiveness?”

  “Well, you have that.”

  She put both hands on the steering wheel. “My stepfather molested me when I was little. Raped me. A bunch of times.”

  “Fuuuck,” Esteban whispered.

  “I’m only just trying to come to terms with it. For a long time, my brain pushed it into a dark corner, you know? Pretended it wasn’t happening, that it hadn’t happened.”

  “Maggie…God. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m just telling you so you understand. Why I acted the way I did. Why I was so messed up.” She gripped the steering wheel and stared out the windshield. She’d turned the key in the ignition, but they weren’t moving. “I’m trying to figure out the best way to deal with it.”

  “How about calling the fucking police?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know if I have the energy to go through that. My word against his. I never told a single person.” Another lie, but really, it wasn’t like Ivy would ever back her up by admitting the truth. Not in a million years. Instead, she’d spew hatred and blame and denial. “I just…I know that’s pathetic, but…”

  “It’s your choice. You don’t think he’s doing that to other girls?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and folded her arms around her body. “I don’t think so. But I honestly don’t know.” She was afraid that he might. That was the thought that kept her up nights these days. Not what he’d done. What he could do. “I don’t sleep well.”

  “Nightmares?”

  Yes. “No. Just up, thinking. Driving myself crazy. Or crazier, I guess. You ever take anything to help you get to sleep?”

  “You mean besides a shot and a joint?” He winked at her.

  She grinned. “You know how to get ahold of pot?”

  He gave her a patronizing look. “It’s not that hard.”

  “What about other stuff?”

  His gaze darkened. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

  “I’ve tried pot,” she lied. “It doesn’t help me. I just want something to take away the pain. And help me sleep. I just wish I could sleep.”

  She could feel him staring at the side of her face. “Maggie,” he said, “are you sure that’s what you want it for?”

  Startled, she turned to him. Her heart was pounding again. “Why? What else would I want it for? And what’s it, by the way?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess if you want to sleep and get rid of pain, Oxy or something.”

  “You could get that for me?”

  “Whoa.” He put his hands up. “Whoa. I never said I would do anything for you.”

  Frustration zinged around the inside of her head like a pinball. Moves. What was her next move? “I don’t expect you to do anything,” she said slowly. “I don’t expect anything from you at all.”

  “Hold up.” He was frowning now. “Are you here, apologizing and stuff, as a way of cleaning things up before you—I don’t know—hurt yourself? Is that why you want something heavy-duty? Why come back and find me now, on your birthday? Why are you alone on your birthday?”

  He was so much more perceptive than she’d thought. So much smarter. If she’d had a different life and if she were a different girl, she could have liked him. She could have offered him what he deserved. “I guess I’m more of a loser than you’d ever imagined,” she said. “Or maybe you’re more important to me than you thought.”

  For a solid minute, they looked at each other. Maggie barely breathed. Finally, Esteban said, “Maggie, just tell me what you want, and I might help you get it.” He sounded so sad. “And then I think we need to go our separate ways. For good.”

  It stung, that he’d figured her out, but it also made her like him more. For a wild, twisted second, she thought about offering him sex as a kind of payment, a kind of penance. Then she snapped back into sanity, pulled there by countless sessions in which she and Lori had dissected her responses and impulses, the why of every crazy, damaging move she’d pulled.

  She was about to pull another, but this one wasn’t crazy at all. It felt like the sanest thing Maggie had ever done, would ever do. Something she needed to do, in fact, even if it was utterly terrifying. Even if anyone she told—Lori, Esteban—would tell her no, no, don’t do it. She had to. She knew that now. It had been brewing inside her for weeks, months, through wakeful, solitary nights and long, monotonous days. The debate was over. It had been over for a long time. She was going to go through with it. Confront this fear. Her only chance for achieving any real peace.

  And Esteban would only help if she told another lie.

  A lie to protect the innocent.

  “Fair enough. I get it, after everything.” She shifted the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. “Can you direct me?” she asked, her thoughts spinning out like a spider’s web. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

  Saturday, August 8, to Sunday, August 9

  Detective Correia calls me up late Saturday afternoon when I’ve just gotten back to the cottage. “I’ve got a bit of news,” she says to me. “I’m not sure if it changes the timeline or not.”

  “I’m all ears,” I say, already pouring myself a tumbler of Macallan. I’m still reeling from my lunch with Sharon and fortifying myself for my next confrontation with Drew. We’ve scheduled a call for seven.

  “It looks like the phone never left Harwich,” Correia says. “She traveled from Brookline to Harwich on the morning of Monday, July 27, but the phone pings off that Harwich tower for the next three days before going dark.”

  “We know she was in Provincetown on Monday afternoon,” I remind her. “And we also know she had dinner with her parents in Truro on Monday evening. They said she left at nine.”

  “Well, Mr. Silva claims that she forgot the phone at his place.”

  “He’s admitting he saw her.”

  “Mm-hmm. Her phone does contain records of phone calls to a number listed under his name.”

  “The access code worked.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Her tone is flat. I can’t tell if she’s being sincere.

  “So if there were calls between them, and if she went to Harwich and somehow he ended up with her phone, why did Stefan lie before? He told me he hadn’t seen her.”

  “Well, Mr. Zarabian, with all due respect, you’re the husband.”

  “Are you saying they had an affair?”

  “I’m saying that Mr. Silva seems to have something to hide. He left her phone in the park. He’s not saying why.”

  “Because he’s an idiot who thought he could pin all this on someone else? Why didn’t he just destroy it?”

  “He didn’t want to be linked to it, but he didn’t want to impede the investigation. That’s what he’s saying. He told me he thinks it’s possible that she killed herself.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He’s not saying much. We’ve released him—we can’t hold him without charging him with a hell of a lot more than obstruction of justice. I’m calling because I want to make sure you understand to keep your distance. Don’t muddy these waters, Mr. Zarabian.”

  “They have a kid together,” I blurt out. “Did he tell you that?”

  “No,” says the detective. “But her parents did.”

  “I’m surprised they admitted it.”

  “They are as desperate to find her as you are, sir. They also told me that you hadn’t previously known about the child. Her friend Willa Penson said Mina was fairly nervous about telling you. I imagine finding out must have bee
n a shock. How did that happen, by the way?”

  “I figured it out. I didn’t hear it from Mina, if that’s what you’re asking. And Stefan didn’t tell me either.”

  “All right.”

  “You really think I would have done something to her just because she had a kid thirteen years before we met?”

  “I’m not drawing any conclusions right now, Mr. Zarabian.”

  “Can’t you focus on people who might actually have hurt her? What if she left her parents’ house that night and drove back to Harwich to get her phone? What if something went bad between them? What if she told him about the kid that night? Are you sure he knew about it before then? Maybe her car ended up in Harwich, but he got worried after a few days and drove it up to dump in Provincetown.”

  “Why not put her phone in the car if that’s what happened?”

  “You’re the detective.”

  “We should have results for the car early next week. And I’ll be subpoenaing phones. Would you consider offering me a look at yours without one?”

  “You’re really doing this. Making me a suspect.”

  “Mr. Zarabian, I told you I was going to pursue all available leads.”

  “And despite the fact that I have a rock solid alibi for Monday through Wednesday—”

  “We still have a lot to figure out about Mina Richards’s whereabouts after she left her parents’ house on Monday.”

  “What if she never did? You can’t really tell me that you think those two are normal.” I almost tell her about the affair Rose had with the neighbor, but I stop short. It doesn’t seem like my story to tell, and it also doesn’t seem directly relevant to where Mina might be right now—but something else does. “I’m concerned Rose and Scott might have abused her.”

  “On what basis?”

  On the basis of a fictional book written by Mina… I groan. “Aren’t you looking any closer at them? They were supposedly the last ones to see her before she disappeared! Do they have an alibi? What if she was about to disclose some secret that would ruin their lives?” I can’t say what I suspect. Without evidence, it sounds utterly batshit. But the more I think about it, the more I’m worrying that they really did do something to her.