by Kate Anders
“Can I help you, hun?” The woman at the front desk looks like every stereotypical grandmother in a sitcom I have ever seen. She even kind of smells like cookies.
“Uh, yes, ma’am. I have an appointment at ten with Officer Kelly,” I tell her.
A few typed words and an assurance that he’ll be with me as soon as he can, and I’m back to waiting. They have those hard plastic obscenely orange chairs for you to wait in. Subtle it is not. Thankfully, the chair keeps you in such a state of uncomfortableness that my attention never wavers, so I see the officer start to walk toward me. I can’t read him. He doesn’t have a kind expression, but he’s not hostile either. A practiced look of indifference.
“Miss Sharp?”
I nod.
“Follow me.”
He leads me back into a bullpen of desks and cubicles, before ultimately coming into a small meeting room and indicating for me to take a seat.
“So Miss Sharp, you’re looking for your roommate,” he says as a statement, not a question.
“Yes, I am.”
“Have you tried reaching out to her, perhaps contacting some of her other friends or family?” he asks, poorly concealing a level of condescension that wasn’t there a few moments ago.
“Of course, I talked to everyone we know, I even checked in with our neighbors and landlord. No one has seen or heard from her. I woke up yesterday morning and everything was fine and by the time I made it home in the afternoon, the apartment was cleared out of her stuff and she was just gone.”
“Yes, I read that.” He leans back into his chair and folds his hands up on top of his small beer belly. “Were you and Clara having any problems? Maybe fighting over a boy or maybe your personalities weren’t meshing well as roommates? Happens all the time in college, you know,” he says with a shrug.
“No. Nothing. There were no problems. Clara and I have been best friends for four years, we are family. And we certainly weren’t fighting over a boy, neither of us are involved with anyone.” I’m trying so hard not to get crazy irate. Seriously, this is his solution to why Clara went missing, we were fighting over a boy? How much more condescending can this guy get?
“Well, something must have happened for her to decide to move out.”
Yep, turns out he could get more condescending.
“Look, officer, Clara is the most responsible person I have ever met in my life, and if you talk to anyone who knows her, they will say the same. Clara wouldn’t move out without giving a thirty-day notice, and informing the landlord, and having a sit-down talk about it with me, complete with PowerPoint presentation about why she is moving out. There is no way she just randomly up and decided to pack up everything in the course of a few short hours without a peep to anyone.” I can tell my voice is starting to get louder the longer this conversation goes on.
“Hey now, no need to get emotional,” he says with an eyebrow raised. He even leans farther back into his chair, almost with an amused look on his face. How I managed not to say anything is beyond me. “I did make a couple of phone calls, and it seems like you didn’t know your roommate as well as you thought you did, because it seems like up and leave is exactly what she did.”
“What are you talking about? Did you talk to Clara? Is she okay?” I ask, with a tiny shred of hope in my heart. I can live with Clara leaving as long as she is okay.
“I didn’t speak with Clara. But Clara did communicate with some people on campus and it seems as if she decided to leave the university.”
“What are you talking about? She would never leave school, she loves her program, and she’s even making plans for graduate school. There is absolutely no way,” I declare.
“Well, I’m awfully sorry to tell you, Miss Sharp, but Clara emailed her adviser right around noon, thanking her for all her help and notifying her that she was planning on leaving the school. I went ahead and called the registrar’s office, and they have on file her withdrawal forms, signed and everything. Her uncle went up there himself to drop them off in person. So maybe you didn’t know your roommate as well as you think you did.”
“Wait, what? Uncle? What uncle? Clara doesn’t have an uncle,” I say emphatically.
“Like I said, seems you didn’t know your roommate all that well.”
“Look, she might have been my roommate, but I have already told you she is my best friend. And I can tell you without a doubt, she does not have an uncle. Both her parents were only children, and both her parents have died. So if someone came to campus to withdraw her from school, then it definitely wasn’t her uncle. Something I am sure you could verify super easily.” I’m barely hanging on at this point, I want to crawl over this table and smack him in the face.
“Look, Miss Sharp, I don’t know what to tell you. Your roommate clearly isn’t interested in continuing her education, and she clearly didn’t feel like telling you about her decision. Who knows, maybe she was embarrassed that she couldn’t stick it out to finish. I see it every day. People just can’t hack it here.” He says like he is God’s gift to humankind. I’m sure this asshole never finished college either, so why he is getting off on acting like Clara is just some girl who couldn’t handle the academics is beyond me.
“Seeing as how Clara isn’t here to defend herself, I’m only going to tell you once. I don’t appreciate the way you are talking about her. If you actually took the time to ask questions about the person who is missing to people who knew her, you would know that she is doing incredibly well here. She’s happy here. She just won one of the most prestigious internships offered in her department. She was more than just ‘hacking’ it. If you had done even the slightest amount of checking into Clara at all, you would find she has no living relatives. In fact, I’m listed as her emergency contact with both her doctor and with the school,” I say with a huff.
“I don’t know what to tell you, miss, but Clara has an uncle because he turned in her paperwork. There is no case. She is not missing. She left. I suggest you move on and look for a new roommate.” He starts to stand like he’s getting ready to leave.
“You have got to be kidding me. That’s it? Case closed, she can’t be missing. Guy says he is her uncle even though she doesn’t have an uncle, and that’s good enough for you? Kind of don’t think Clara is the one who isn’t hacking it, it’s you. Because clearly you can’t be bothered to do your job at all.” I admit, at this point, I may have been shouting. Not quite yelling. But definitely what my dad used to refer to as “talking with purpose.”
“Now you look here, missy, you don’t get to come in here and start throwing around accusations—”
“Not really an accusation if it’s true,” I retort. “So just to be clear, you have no intention of looking for my missing friend. Right?”
“She’s not missing,” he snarls.
“So, not going to do your job, then?” I ask one last time.
“No, I’m not going to waste my time looking for someone who isn’t missing, who isn’t a student at this school anymore, just because her roommate is overly emotional and panics!”
“Fine, I’ll do it my fucking self!” I yell at him. Yes, I yelled. I couldn’t help it.
It’s beyond clear that everyone in the station heard me scream at this guy, because they weren’t exactly subtle with their stares. Some wore looks of shock, disbelief that I would have the audacity to yell at this guy. Some didn’t look surprised. But the look that hit me the most was the sweet little old grandma receptionist.
She looks sad. She looks at me with pity in her eyes as I walk past her.
This won’t be the last look of pity that I see.
Fuming would be an understatement. I don’t know why I was expecting anything other than this though. It’s not like campus cops have a stellar reputation nationwide. And considering the crimes I have seen on the news that have actually been covered up to save face for the university, I shouldn’t be surprised that they weren’t going to investigate someone who is missing, especially when ther
e isn’t any actual evidence that the person in question is missing.
Maybe I was being naive, but I really thought I would get a lot further than I did. I can’t help but hope that it is just this guy. That this guy is just a misogynistic jerk, the one bad apple in the bunch. The thought is actually kind of comforting.
Sitting in my car, I think about the experience I have had on this campus for the past four years. I think of the experience that Clara has had. Sure, we have had our share of boring teachers, or crappy graders. Every university is bound to have their own crowd of mean girls, but honestly here, it’s not that bad (and I say that after being the target of Chanel for months). But at the end of the day, I love it here. I know Clara did too. The people here are great, and I can’t believe that no one is going to help me find her. I have to believe that I just need to find the right people, and once I do, I can finally make some progress.
Driving home feels so surreal. The anger and rage that was flowing through my veins is slowly starting to dissipate with the reality that I am once again going home and when I get there, Clara won’t be there.
Once everything slows down, I can’t help but latch on to one thing. The uncle.
I know Clara has no uncle. There is no living relative on either side of her family. Which also means I am the only one who is going to push this. I’m her only option, her only hope, if she is really in trouble. And the fact that some random man calling himself her uncle dropped off withdrawal paperwork, well it just doesn’t sit right with me.
By the time I make it to the front door of my apartment, I am already starting to plan out my next move. The Durham Police are my next stop. Clara didn’t go missing on campus, and we don’t live on campus, so I should be able to go to the Durham Police and report her missing as soon as it has been twenty-four hours.
I put the key in the lock to my door when it hits me. Clara’s keys are gone.
If I truly believe that Clara has gone missing due to some outside force, like, say, an uncle that doesn’t exist; that means those keys to our apartment are probably in someone else’s hands.
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I hesitate to go inside. Someone has access to my house. The more I think about it, someone went really out of their way to make it look like Clara left because she wanted to. She took everything she owned (minus the locket, of course), she emailed an adviser, and she even signed withdrawal paperwork. I’m certain someone else took those steps, but why didn’t they leave the keys? People who move out, don’t take their keys. They leave them on the counter, or drop them off with the landlord, they don’t take the keys with them.
The chill that runs down my spine is enough for me to decide maybe going inside and waiting isn’t the best plan I’ve ever had. Even if no one is in there now, they have access whenever they want. I have to fix this.
I lock the door and turn back around on a new mission. Buy a new lock and a dead bolt and then go to the police.
I’m not ashamed to admit to myself that I am truly terrified of what comes next. But having a plan, something to focus on, it’s enough to get me through to the next part.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“FIGHT SONG” BY RACHEL PLATTEN
The process of filling out a missing person report is a much easier experience than I was expecting. That’s probably because not a lot of people ask that many questions. It’s just ‘here, fill this out.’ And of course, the form has limited space so condensing the last day into a manageable amount that fits in a tiny box was challenging to say the least. I gave them a recent picture of Clara, we took pictures before the night of the party last week. And then came the part that will stick with me for a long time after this. They asked me about scars and tattoos for easy identification. Or the question about if I have anything that might have her DNA on it. It’s fucking creepy and not a place I am even remotely ready to go to.
In the end, it took a few hours to fill out everything and then to eventually talk to someone who was going to follow up on all the information. I have yet another business card to file away in my wallet for safekeeping.
By the time morning rolls around, I realize that once again I am not sleeping. I can probably do this for another day or two but at some point, I am going to run out of steam and crash. I’ve heard about this kind of thing before, where when someone you love is in danger or sick, your entire focus shifts and you forget to take care of yourself. That’s where I am at. I can’t remember the last time I ate, so I truly have no idea how my body is still moving forward at this point.
I grab a Diet Coke out of the fridge and stare over at Clara’s coffee maker on the counter; the regret of not drinking coffee is strong. I could use the assist. I finally decide to just make myself a sandwich and sit down at our little kitchen table to eat. We almost never use this table, so it’s probably the only place in the apartment that isn’t attached with strong memories and an overwhelming sense of sadness.
I just took a bite when my phone finally rings. I chew as quickly as possible and then answer the phone, the phone that is now attached to me at all times.
“Hello.” Please be Clara.
“Hello, is this MacKenzie Sharp?” the voice asks.
“Kenzie, but yes, this is her,” I say.
“Yes, hello, Kenzie. My name is Sergeant Cooper, we spoke briefly yesterday when you reported your roommate missing.”
“Of course, yes, thank you for calling.” The hope starts to build up in my chest. This guy has a kind tone to his voice, so already this is going better than yesterday.
“Well, I went ahead and got a lot of phone calls checked off my list last night, but I also was able to make contact with everyone else I needed to speak to this morning,” he explains.
“Do you have any news? Any idea what happened to Clara?”
“I’m sorry, Kenzie. I do not. I spoke with the officer assigned on campus, and I can see where your level of frustration came into play.”
“Ah, so he was just as condescending to you I take it?” I asked, not at all surprised.
“Not the word I would use, but yes, he definitely had a bit of an issue. Unfortunately, from his perspective, he was correct, there isn’t a lot left for him to do. As far as the university is concerned, Clara gave notice that she was leaving, turned in the appropriate forms, and has been formally withdrawn from the university.”
“But there is no way she would have done any of those things! And I swear she doesn’t have an uncle, and that’s who they are saying dropped off her forms. No one actually saw Clara do anything related to leaving the university,” I say, pleading for him to see what I’m saying.
“Yes, I agree, it does seem out of character for her. I spoke with a number of people whose numbers you provided, and the general consensus was that there was no way Clara would just leave the university. Everyone seems just as confused as to what is going on as you. I also ran her name through our system to see if Clara had any interaction with local police, and it came up empty.”
“Thank you,” I say to him.
“For what?” he asks.
“For calling the numbers I gave you, for taking this seriously, for actually seeming concerned.”
There is a pause before he responds.
“If I were in your position, I would be just as worried. I completely agree the situation seems out of character for her. And there are definitely some lingering questions about why things played out the way they did. But I am sorry to tell you from a police perspective, there isn’t really much to be done. It does appear that all the steps were taken to leave school, she didn’t just up and leave and not complete those steps. It’s clear she moved out of your apartment, taking all of her belongings, making it seem like she did, in fact, leave willingly. You stated there was no breaking and entering, so there is no reason to believe that Clara was not behind the removal of her things.”
“But she doesn’t have an uncle,” I plead with him, the feeling of hope slowly draining from my body.
“I know, I looked into it. But to be fair, a lot of people are called uncle when they are just family friends. And I asked the registrar to fax me a copy of the withdrawal paperwork as well as something else with her signature on it, and from what I see, it looks like her signature. The writing looks like hers, it doesn’t look rushed or like a copycat. I have no reason to believe that she wasn’t the one who filled it out.” He sighs. “I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but right now, the police department doesn’t find any foul play. Until we actually speak with Clara, the report will remain open, but it’s being marked as low priority, as the conclusion is that she most likely left on her own.”
I can’t help it. Tears start to well up in my eyes. I can’t stop the sniffle that follows.
“If you were me, what would you do?” I ask him, pleading with him for some kind of direction.
“So far, I would say you have done everything right. You’ve spoken to friends and teachers, you asked neighbors and the landlord, you have gone to every available police agency for help. If I were in your shoes, I would say keep doing what you are doing. Keep asking questions, write down every piece of information you have, keep documenting. We aren’t closing her case, so hopefully we will hear something back. We even put in a request with the phone company that once her phone turns back on for it to ping a location and send it to us,” he tells me.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I completely understand your concern, unfortunately with missing persons, it’s sometimes difficult because unless we get some kind of indication that foul play was involved, there often isn’t a lot for us to do.”
“I understand. I just, I feel like no one believes something is wrong,” I tell him.
“I think you’re wrong about that. I talked to a lot of people yesterday and today, and everyone agrees this is completely out of character and they are concerned for her. I don’t believe you are overreacting, there just isn’t anything for me to do at this time. But if anything changes, if you get new information, don’t hesitate to call me, I will help whenever it’s in my purview,” he tells me.
