by Danah Logan
Shaking my head, I turn away from the picture. I’ve put it away several times, but something always compels me to place the frame back on my desk.
I pull up the search engine on my computer and start looking for a topic for my journalism paper. The quicker that’s done, the quicker I can enjoy the break. Maybe Denielle will even disentangle herself from Charlie long enough to spend some time with me.
I’ve been browsing different news websites for the past hour when I come across a headline that piques my interest. Seven-Year-Old, Rose Ashbaugh, Discharged from Local Hospital After Missing for Two Weeks. I click on the article and am immediately sucked in. This little girl is the fifth victim. She was taken at a local park she visited with her mother regularly. The mom was talking to another parent and didn’t notice Rose was gone until it was too late. They kept getting regular updates from the perpetrator with pictures showing her healthy and taken care of. No demands were made, and a couple of weeks later, she just turned up at a random hospital. What the hell?
I read every article I can find linked to this one. Most of them are from the same freelance reporter, a guy named Lancaster, who seems to have made this story—case—his sole purpose in life. It’s all he writes about. I look up the other victims, and not one girl could give a decent description of the kidnapper. They were being kept tranquil, but not fully sedated, just kind of drugged. All they could tell the authorities was the man was tall, white—so, Caucasian—and nice. Nice? What the—? He talked to them, read with them, played games, made them their favorite foods, etc. The hairs on my arms stand up while reading this. The girls were taken from all over the U.S. There is no rhyme or reason to the timeline; all they have in common is their appearance: slender with long blonde hair, hazel eyes, and fair skin.
I think I’ve found the topic for my paper.
I decide to go through the articles victim by victim and compare the coverage. Other news outlets followed the first reporter’s lead and mentioned a possible connection between these cases. I take notes from each article and bookmark sites. My phone buzzes a few times, but I ignore it. I don’t have the patience for party gossip right now. I’m on the second article for victim number three, Meredith Scagliotta, when my gaze wanders back to the picture of Rhys and me. Suddenly, something about the picture feels off, but I can’t pinpoint what. I rub my eyes and peer over my left shoulder at my queen-size bed—anywhere but the photo. I recently got a new light-gray, upholstered wingback headboard. My old one was a hand-me-down from the guest bedroom set in our last house, and I’d been begging for a room makeover for years. Mom finally caved when she found this one on sale at the local furniture store. After spending some of my own money on a white pin-tuck duvet set and some gray and purple throw pillows, my new bed has become my sanctuary when I’m at home. It’s the one place I can fully relax and feel at peace. The rest of the house always keeps me on edge because there is a chance of Rhys showing up. He pretends I’m invisible yet can’t stand to remain in the same room as me for more than a few minutes. Not that he ever does, though—show up, that is. I focus back on my screen and the photo of the little girl displayed on the website, but my eyes are drawn to the white picture frame next to it. I was so happy in the picture. Still in the memory of when my brother slung his arm around me, laughing, a stabbing pain assaults my head. Squeezing my eyelids shut, I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to make it go away.
Shit, that hurts.
That’s when I see myself—no, my kid self, maybe six or seven years old. The reflection stares back at me, surrounded by a white ornate wooden frame—a mirror. My pale skin enhances the dark circles under my eyes—God, so pale. The throbbing between my temples slowly subsides, and I blink against the light of my desk lamp.
What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?
I read once that you can see flashes with migraines. But number one, I have never had a migraine in my life, and two, this didn’t feel random. It was more like a déjà vu or...a memory. Though, I know for a fact I never had a mirror like that, so it can’t be a memory.
So weird.
The alarm clock on my nightstand shows it’s almost one in the morning, and I automatically stifle a yawn. Shrugging, I chalk this whole thing up to being overtired and having overindulged in too many unsettling news reports.
I call it a night and decide to continue tomorrow.
I’m standing with Wes in Emma’s kitchen. Her stepdad owns Iron Moore Construction, a local company specializing in underground services, tunneling, and electrical power. A few years ago, he landed a big contract in the city, and his empire exploded from there. When he and Emma’s mom hooked up, they moved into his ostentatious Westbridge mansion within weeks.
The party is in full swing. Everyone holds either a red Solo cup or bottle of something in their hand—the liquids’ colors ranging from clear to amber to red. People are laughing and shoving each other in the cramped space, hence why I’ve parked my ass against the countertop in the corner. I’m on my second beer, questioning again what the fuck I’m doing here. Oh yeah, avoiding home and making sure my girlfriend is happy. Kat is somewhere in the living room, holding court over her cheerleader minions and making sure she is appropriately admired. The occasional kiss and endearments keep her appeased these days—as long as everyone and their mother sees it, of course. Kat and I have been together for almost two years, but it’s never been about love for us. Sure, she’s hot with her long blonde curls, killer body, big...uh, eyes, and when she wears that tiny uniform—well, you get the picture. We had fun in the beginning—a lot of fun. But all she cares about is her image and being the head cheerleader dating the school’s quarterback. She’s known from the start that we’re not happily-ever-after material, and she’s never asked me what my motives are, which is perfectly fine. But lately, it’s getting harder and harder to keep up the act. It’s fucking exhausting.
Wes keeps talking when I spot Denielle weaving through the crowd. I heard Charlie is coming home this weekend, and she probably wants to party before holing up with him for the week. Her long, dark-brown hair is curled at the ends, and she is dressed to kill in black skinny jeans, a lacy red top, and black heels—the ones with the red soles that cost a fortune, which is also something I know from dating Kat. If she weren’t basically married to her boyfriend, I would think she’s trying to get laid. Though, no one would dare say that to her face. I keep following her with my eyes, searching for her best friend. They are usually a package deal and easy to spot with Den’s dark hair and Lilly’s blonde head, but I’ve noticed that for the last few months, Lilly’s been avoiding parties where I’d be. Can’t say I blame her.
Being busy with practice, I haven’t seen Denielle since our run-in earlier this week, and when she catches my eye, she gives me the usual death glare that has been solely reserved for me. Maybe not solely, but I definitely get the nastier ones, which still makes me feel a little special. I hold my beer up in greeting, but she just flips me off and keeps walking. Yup, she’s clearly mastered the flip-the-dickhead-brother-off gesture. Taking a swig from my beer, I hide my amusement. If they only knew.
"Dude, are you even listening?"
I blink and look over at my best friend. "Huh?"
"Yeah, that’s what I figured," he huffs. "Are you training with Spence tomorrow?"
Oh, he’s still going on about our workout plans. The school gym is closed this weekend for deep cleaning, whatever that means, so we need to change our usual plans.
"Uh, no. Lilly is training with him Saturday. I’m meeting him Sunday. You should know that by now; we work out together every freakin’ week." I barely manage to keep the irritation out of my voice. We go through the same spiel every single Friday. Sometimes I question Wes’s long-term memory.
"Okay, cool. Then let’s go at eleven and grab lunch after."
Wonderful. That’s in the middle of Lilly’s session, but I just nod. Why he insists on making plans is beyond me. I’m sleeping on his couch. It�
�s not like we’ll miss each other taking a piss in the same bathroom.
I switched the days of my training sessions with Spence, one of our dad’s Marine Corps buddies, so I could avoid Lilly. She kept the Saturdays, and I moved to Sundays and started working out in the school’s weight room when Lilly is at the gym.
"I still don’t get why you stopped sparring with Lil. The two of you are lethal together."
Why. Does. He. Not. Shut. Up?
Tightening the grip on the bottle in my hand, I grit out, "Let it go, man."
He’s right on that account, though. When Lilly and I had worked together with Spence, we always used to push each other. I miss sparring with her, but I would never admit that. Instead, I add, "It was time to change it up."
Wes has learned over the years to not push me on that topic once I reach a certain point, and he switches to angling his bottle at Amber Jennings’ ass. Apparently, it’s shaped like a ripe peach in her jeans.
Who the fuck talks like that?
I take that as him moving on now that he and Kimberly are done. Time for me to zone out again. Another hour and I’ll have fulfilled my obligation.
Chapter Three
I meet Spence at the gym. He and Dad have known each other forever, and he’s been training Rhys and me on and off for the past ten years in mixed martial arts. At first, I didn’t get why our parents were so adamant for us to learn self-defense. I had gymnastics and didn’t want to do anything else. But it only took a few sessions for me to fall in love with it—like, I-want-to-do-this-every-day in love. When we moved to North Carolina, I missed it so much that Spence would come down once a month to train us. Since we’re in gymnastics season, I only have time for one session a week until March, and I make sure I don’t waste a single second of it. Spence pushes me for the whole two hours, without a break, and I’m drenched from head to toe when he announces we’re done.
He chuckles. "You look like you took a dip in the pool. You did great today!"
He’s right; my hair is plastered against my scalp like I just stepped out of a shower. Despite being completely exhausted, I feel exhilarated, adrenaline from our last round still rushing through my body.
His praise makes me grin from ear to ear. "I have a decent trainer."
Spence winks, giving me a quick side hug. "I’ll see you next week, kiddo."
I grab my things and wave goodbye on my way to the locker room.
Walking to my car, I see Wes’s red 4Runner in the parking lot, and sure enough, two spots down is Rhys’s black Defender. What are they doing here? They usually work out at the school’s gym on Saturdays—something else Rhys started doing after he moved his sessions to Sundays.
Dad has had the Defender longer than we’ve been alive, and to everyone’s surprise, he gave it to Rhys for his eighteenth birthday this year. Not that I was jealous—well, maybe a little bit. I love my white, four-door Wrangler, and despite the situation between Rhys and me, I was happy for him. He’s been in love with that car since he could see over the steering wheel, and he spent hours sitting in it, pretending to drive. It matches his personality; they both dominate their surroundings wherever they go—or drive. I sigh in relief as I get into my Jeep, glad I didn’t run into either of them.
Determined to work on my paper and find out more about this case, I make my way home.
By Sunday afternoon, my eyes are burning from staring at the computer screen. I have no idea where my glasses are since I rarely use them. Note to self: find glasses or get new ones. My eyes are killing me. I’ve cataloged each article by victim and am making good headway on my paper. Every reporter has his or her theory, and it’s making the assignment almost laughably easy. What keeps me glued to the screen, however, is the tightness in my chest. I don’t understand where it comes from, and even though it makes me shift in my chair every few minutes, I keep reading and researching. The facts are almost the same for all the girls. They are taken during a brief moment of distraction on the caregiver’s side. The families receive some sort of footage of the girls every day, showing they are well, but the authorities are unable to trace the footage back to its source. Then, the girls turn up in a different part of the state; all have been given something to keep calm, but they are well cared for. What is even more disturbing is that, despite being held against their will, all the girls say the man had only been kind to them. The websites talk about five victims; however, I can’t find any decent information about the first. My paper is done, but I have an overwhelming urge to keep looking. I have to find out more.
I spend most of the week at home, doing one of two things: lounging on my bed with my favorite books or doing more research on the case. I get to see Denielle for a few hours on Tuesday. She graces me with her presence after Charlie got called home so his mom also gets to see him during break. She catches me up on Charlie’s college life, how busy his classes keep him, and we watch several episodes of our favorite TV show. I don’t mention the case to her. Something keeps me from sharing it with my best friend.
The day before Thanksgiving, I stumble across a video this Lancaster guy recorded after the fourth victim. It’s only available on his personal website; I’m not sure it was ever officially broadcasted by a news outlet. He recaps the kidnappings, and what he says next makes my blood run cold.
"After Ava Conway and Meredith Scagliotta, Chloe Lynn is the fourth victim of the unknown perpetrator. After extensive research, I have concluded that these three girls were used as placeholders by the offender for the first victim. The unknown six-year-old girl was recovered at a hospital in Northern California after she was dropped off anonymously at the emergency room with a potential drug overdose and was unconscious for several days. The hospital staff was unable to identify the girl, as no missing person reports were found matching the description. After the girl’s recovery, she was removed from the hospital without leaving a trace. The name of the girl was never released, nor was the hospital staff able to give us any further information. I believe the overdose was not intentional by the kidnapper and was the reason she was brought to the emergency room. He seems to have revised his method since, as the other girls were monitored very carefully and have shown no signs of extensive sedation."
I pause the video and let the information sink in. Placeholders? But why? That doesn’t make any sense. I peer over at my six-year-old self in the photo and, without warning, feel like someone is shoving shards of glass in my eyes.
Accompanying the stabbing pain, I see a white bed canopy hovering above me.
Why am I on my back?
By the time the agony subsides, I am bent forward in my desk chair. My head is almost between my knees, and I’m clutching it with both hands. Something is definitely wrong here—with me.
Thanksgiving comes and goes, and we all watch football most of the day. Dad and Rhys are in deep discussion about the games—Rhys actually bothered coming home. Mom and Natty are playing Monopoly, and my little, ten-year-old sister is draining Mom’s money fast with all her hotels. I try to pretend to be interested in all of it when, in truth, I want to hide in my room and figure out what’s happening to me.
By the time I am back at school on Monday, I have had two more migraines, as I call them now. The thought of calling them memories scares the crap out of me. I mean, I don’t actually remember any of it. And visions? I’d rather think that I’m going plain old crazy.
The first happened when I walked out of the bathroom Friday evening. I was on my way to the closet to drop my gym clothes in the hamper when, mid-step, my head exploded. That time, I saw a white bergère chair with pale-green cushions and a well-loved stuffed bunny sitting in one corner.
The second one blindsided me in the kitchen on Sunday when Rhys walked in from the garage and stopped in the doorway. He was dressed in black sweats and a matching hoodie that emphasized his broad build. With his chocolate-brown hair recently buzzed short for wrestling season and his permanent scowl, he could scare the shit out of anyone who didn
’t know him.
We rarely run into each other because we internalized the other’s routine a long time ago and do everything possible to avoid a confrontation. But I was downstairs later than usual to make myself a cup of herbal tea with the hope it’d help me sleep.
Seeing him standing there, I experienced the most disturbing migraine yet: the silhouette of a man standing in a doorway, staring back at me. Because of the light coming from outside, all I could make out was that it was a man, but no face. My heart was beating in my throat.
As my vision cleared and the invisible glass shards disappeared from my eye sockets, I saw Rhys was right in front of me. His hands lifted up as if he were going to touch me, but then he stopped himself. His head cocked to the side, and he looked...concerned? Something I hadn’t seen directed at me in a long time.
