Girl Last Seen

by Nina Laurin

  A part of me is disgusted with myself. Leaning my forehead on the cool, rough surface of my door, I let myself shudder, in no hurry to get my keys. The weight of what I just promised starts to settle onto my shoulders, making itself comfortable there alongside the guilt and confusion and all the other things I carry around unseen.

  I try to empty my mind, but instead, I picture Sean going home to his wife-girlfriend-whatever. When she hugs him hello, she’s going to smell my tobacco smoke on his coat and in his hair. He’ll roll his eyes and tell her it’s this crazy witness he had to deal with all day. And when she’s not looking, he’s probably going to go outside and sneak a cigarette.

  I chase the thought away only for another one to pop up in its place. Olivia’s parents, who, in spite of all my Internet searches, are still vague, faceless entities, sleepless in their generic soap opera mansion. And like wildfire spreading, jumping from branch to branch, my mind goes straight to Olivia.

  I tug at my collar until I manage to get the zipper undone and claw my way out of my jacket. My arms are bone thin and ghostly in the fluorescent light, and the scars look deep purple, slicing across the rivers of veins under the skin like a contradiction. I squeeze my temples between my knees and try to breathe, but the panic attack has me in its clutches and it won’t give up without a fight.

  I scramble to get the keys out of my pocket, drop them, crouch to pick them up. Momentarily, I lose my balance and catch myself on the door handle.

  That’s when I finally clue in and realize my apartment door is unlocked.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The mind fog clears. My vision is clean and sharp when I slowly get up and push the door all the way. It opens without a sound—without the slightest creak of hinges.

  Waves of cold and damp wash over me. The apartment looks pitch-black after the neons in the hallway; the navy fleece blanket I’ve nailed over the window is swaying gently in the breeze.

  Before I can think better of it, my hand crawls along the wall and flicks the light switch. In the glow of the ceiling lamp, I can see my entire apartment at once, all four corners. The bathroom door is open, and I can tell the small space is empty. The plastic curtain on the shower stall has been torn down, and it pools on the tile floor, innocent and baby blue. The faucet drips steadily like an IV.

  On shaky legs, I cross the room and slam the bathroom door against the wall as if someone might be crouched behind it, waiting for me to drop my vigilance. The sound is sharp and hollow. I race to the window, pull aside the blanket—and curse. There’s a hole in the glass, an almost perfect circle with small jagged edges like baby teeth, with cracks radiating out all the way to the frame. Great. A fucking break-in now, of all times.

  Frantic, I spin around and take stock of the room. They must have known I have nothing to steal, or if not, they must have figured it out soon enough. Nothing looks like it’s been disturbed—not at first glance anyway. My gaze searches for my laptop. I bought it two years ago at a pawnshop, and it’s worth nothing. It barely works, but it was enough for my research needs. No one would take it—would they? I throw around the pile of clothes on the bed, dirty and clean jumbled together. Nothing. My nightstand, where I sometimes put it, is empty too. A glance into the corner confirms it. The charger cord is coiled on the floor by the power outlet; the light of the adapter glows faint green, but the laptop itself is nowhere in sight.

  The thought is a jolt of lightning down my spine. I rummage around in the drawer of my nightstand, throwing its contents on the floor: underwear, stray socks, hand lotion. My folding knife, which I put in my pocket without thinking. My sleeping pills. My fucking sleeping pills, the orange prescription container with my name on it is gone.

  Dizzy, I get up and race to the bathroom. It feels like I’m flying, my toes barely brushing the floor. Electricity tingles in my fingertips. The mirror on the cabinet door has always been cracked, but now a whole chunk of it is missing, exposing the cardboard underneath. I throw open the cabinet door, sweep all my makeup tubes into the sink in one movement, and pick through every last one. My anxiety meds are gone too.

  I’m this close to breaking down in tears. I lift up the lid of the toilet tank, and my insides feel hollow with relief when I see my stash still taped securely underneath.

  I peel it away and immediately regret it. Did someone tamper with it? Does the tape look different? Is the plastic bag I bundled around the pills the same shape I always roll it into? Too late to tell. I tear the plastic apart, and everything looks exactly as I left it. I count the pills twice to make sure they’re all in place.

  Two Xanax end up in the back of my throat before I realize I’m doing it. A gulp of tap water and I slide to the floor, my muscles weak with relief.

  Now I can start thinking—almost rationally. I should call the cops. Yeah, right. I forgot that I, unlike Olivia, do not live in Hunts Point, and no one will give a shit. There’s a break-in here every other day, and they don’t think it’s worth their time. Even if someone does show up, there’s the issue of the plastic-wrapped pills in my pocket. And right now I don’t trust myself to act normal.

  I take out my phone and thumb through my contact list. Short and sweet: Sugar, work, pizza delivery. My court-appointed shrink. Sean’s card is burning a hole in my pocket.

  First things first. I find a piece of cardboard to prop up over the broken window and tape it into place; I’ll have to call the janitor to have the window fixed. There goes my security deposit…again, not to mention that I’m a little behind on the rent. Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow, or the day after, as long as I don’t have to think about it right now. I lock the door behind me—even though what’s the point?—and hurry downstairs to my car.

  My hands shake so much that it takes forever to get the door to open. I clamber in, slam it behind me, and shove the key into the ignition, praying to every major deity that it starts. Maybe someone hears me or maybe the universe is bored with making me its official chew toy, because the engine comes to life with a rumble like the cough of something dying.

  On the last fumes of gas in the tank, I drive to Natalia’s. Just like I thought, she’s home. Her car sits by the curb right across from the entrance of the two-bedroom house. I pound on the door until I hear steps and the door opens a crack, chain still in place. From behind it, Natalia peers out suspiciously then slams it shut again. I almost think she’s going to leave me out here on her porch, but a moment later, I hear the chain slide aside, and she lets me in. Her right eye is made up, but not the left, that lid red and raw, fringed with sparse blond eyelashes. She barely looks surprised when I tell her my apartment got robbed.

  The place is what she calls open concept, which means the living room has no door and opens right onto the kitchenette and hallway—kind of like the house I grew up in. Val inherited it from my grandmother whom I never got to meet. She passed away before I was born, and Val never had a single nice word to say about her. Since I’d learned to take everything Val said with a cinder block of salt, I have always wondered what she was really like. She must have tried, if she managed to buy and pay off the house. Tried for the sake of her wayward daughter who probably would have sold it for drug money if she could pull herself together long enough to find buyers and sign the papers.

  As I climb onto the sofa, Natalia throws a dirty look at my boots, and I start peeling them off self-consciously.

  “Just be quiet,” she says with a sigh. “Use the key from the back door if you need to go out. And if the phone rings, don’t pick up. My boyfriend can’t know I’m letting you stay here, okay?”

  I reassure her that I’ll be out of her hair soon enough.

  As soon as I stretch out on the couch, the weight of sleep crushes me, shoving my face into the crackled pleather. My blood is thick and slow with all the chemicals coursing through it.

  Maybe it’s just as well. I don’t have to think about everything that happened. I can just sleep.

  In my dream, I’m not in the basemen
t. I’m walking down the fluorescent-lit hallways of the hospital, looking for—I don’t know what exactly; all I know is that I can’t find it. I reach out to people who pass me by, but I can’t get my voice to work, and they hurry past me like they don’t see me. There’s a trickle down my thigh, and I look down to see blood running down my leg, dripping onto the floor. I open my mouth but I still can’t speak or scream. When I clutch at my stomach, there’s a gaping maw opening up across my abdomen like a bloody smile, and in the millisecond before I snap awake, I have time to see all my organs spilling out at my feet.

  I don’t sit up like people do in the movies. I don’t dare move my little finger. I lie there, listening to my body’s cues for any sign of blood and searing agony. But my body is filled only with the numbing hum of coming down from too many pain pills.

  I draw my hand across my stomach, feeling along the slightly raised line of the scar. Closed, stitched, healed a long time ago.

  Only then do I let myself sit up. The surroundings are unfamiliar—some living room, a dully gleaming dead TV screen, bare floor. Panic surges, waking me up completely, and then memories trickle back. Natalia’s. I’m at Natalia’s because my place got robbed and I no longer have my laptop. Or my meds.

  I want to fall right back onto the couch and sleep away the entire day.

  On the coffee table, my phone is blinking. The battery is half-drained, and it didn’t occur to me to grab my charger before I left. I reach for it, frowning as I thumb through the calls: two unfamiliar numbers, but most of the calls are from one. And I have a feeling I’ve seen that number before.

  You have six new messages, the electronic voice informs me. You have room for zero new messages. Please delete the messages you no longer need—

  I cut her off and put the phone to my ear, not without a tremor of apprehension. Unfamiliar numbers and voice mails are rarely good news when you’re on probation.

  First new message:

  “Uh, hello,” says a woman’s voice. It’s feminine in that high-pitched way, and timid. Wrong number? “Lainey Moreno? I hope I got the number right. Lainey, please hear me out before you erase this message, okay? This is Mrs. Shaw. Jacqueline Shaw.”

  The sound of the name jolts me awake better than a hit of speed straight into my vein. I swing my legs over the edge of the couch.

  “I was told,” the woman’s voice says, “about the whole…situation.” I can practically hear her squirm on the other end, she sounds so uncomfortable. “My husband and I talked about it.” She clears her throat. Only now I recognize that hoarseness in her voice, the nasal note that ruins it: she’s been crying, and recently. “We talked to the police and Detective Ortiz, and we would like to meet you.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Natalia isn’t home—probably left for work already. When I peer into her bedroom, I see a bed with red sheets peeking sloppily from underneath the pink bedspread, a pile of clothes on a chair, makeup on the dresser, shoes scattered on the floor.

  I feel bad, I really do, but when I sniff the underarms of my shirt, I realize I have no other options. I tiptoe through the mess like a thief, furtively look through her drawers. She doesn’t have a simple T-shirt; everything has spaghetti straps or lace or shows massive cleavage. I pick a cheap-looking tank top I hope she won’t miss and put it on under my jacket. Her hairbrush is pink, tiny, and clearly made for her limp bleach-blond locks and not my jungle of curls, but I tear it through until my scalp begs for mercy. Her perfume collection takes up half the dresser: expensive stuff, Chanel, Calvin Klein, others I’ve never heard of. She must have spent a fortune on these tiny bottles. I cautiously take a whiff of one, spritzing a little on my wrist and rubbing it behind my ear. Ashamed of myself, I run to the bathroom and blot the perfumed spots with a wet towel, but the scent is pervasive and stubborn, clinging to my skin and hair.

  Glancing at my phone screen, I realize I only have a few minutes left till Sean gets here. He had called me shortly after I woke, irate after leaving three messages following Jacqueline’s. I’m still not entirely sure why I said yes.

  I throw on my jacket and distribute treats into the secret compartments: don’t forget, Percocet in the left pocket, Xanax in the right. Alice in fucking Wonderland. Eat me, drink me.

  While I wait outside for Sean to come get me, I keep sniffing the collar of my jacket, which still smells like a Parisian bordello. Who am I doing all this for? To see the grieving parents of a missing girl? For a man who’s more than ten years older than me, a cop, and probably married?

  What’s wrong with me?

  Sean’s car pulls up, and I practically run out to the curb. He’s still dressed in his work clothes, pants and shirt, somber and sober. As soon as I close the car door, his nostrils flare and the frown line between his brows deepens. My face flushes with shame.

  “What the hell happened at your place?”

  “Some jerks broke the window,” I mutter, staring at my knees. “I thought I’d crash at a friend’s. She’s from work.”

  “From work,” he repeats, and I decidedly don’t like the judgmental note in his voice. “Is it safe?”

  “As safe as anywhere else,” I say peevishly. “I just didn’t want to be alone, okay?”

  He drives off, and for the next little while, neither of us speaks. It’s awkward as hell. He won’t put on music or turn on the radio. Who drives without music? Even if it’s jazz or classical or some other shit that puts you to sleep.

  “Let’s go over this beforehand,” he says as he drives onto the highway. “You realize this is a very, very difficult time for them.”

  I gulp. I knew this was coming, and it nearly makes me back out. Take him up on his offer, tell him to just take me back home and let them sort it out without me.

  Except I know I can’t do that. I might be a serial fuckup and failure, and there’s a lot I can forgive myself for—but not this. I can’t back away from her, from my—from Olivia. I have to see it through to the end, no matter what end it is. No matter how much it might hurt.

  Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Sean goes on.

  “I know I have no moral right to ask this of you, but think about how they feel before you say anything. Remember, they didn’t know anything about you. It was a closed adoption, so…”

  “And they never even asked.”

  He gives me a cold, heavy look, and I shift in my seat to hide the fact that a shudder courses between my shoulder blades.

  “The point is, they didn’t know, Laine, okay? They didn’t know. They were not out to hurt you or take away your child.”

  The question that’s been gnawing at me materializes on my lips.

  “Why do they want to meet me so badly?”

  “They think you have the right to be kept up to date on this investigation as much as they do. Jacqueline was extremely…upset when she found out about Olivia’s origins. I think she’s sort of trying to make it up to you, in her own way.”

  Sean gives me a look. And I wisely bite back the scathing remark at the tip of my tongue.

  “So please, I know exactly what you’re thinking, and it crossed my mind too, more than once. Yes, I know it’s not fair. I know how terribly you were treated from the very beginning. But please remember, she just lost a child.”

  “Lost? I thought you were going to bring her back.”

  I watch his profile intently as he curses through clenched teeth. “I am.”

  “But?”

  “It’s not going to be the same afterward, not for anyone. Not for a long time.”

  “Of course not. That other Olivia is lost forever. The best you can hope for is to get back her empty, tarnished shell.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You thought it.”

  For a long time, he’s silent. Then he takes a too-sharp turn and I nearly go flying out of my seat.

  “Are you nuts?” I snarl.

  “Should’ve put your seat belt on.”

  “Oh, so now you’re trying to get
back at me? For calling you out on your own bullshit?”

  He turns to me and nearly blows past a red light. “Is that what you think you are? Tarnished?”

  I collapse back into my seat with a bitter chuckle.

  “Laine,” he snaps. A car honks at us, and he’s forced to turn his gaze back to the road ahead.

  “Well, I am.”

  He throws a curt glance at me. I can’t read the look in his eyes.

  “No one thinks that. Except you.”

  The way he says the words, they could almost be true.

  We’re entering Hunts Point. The houses look like a fairy tale, looming over neatly trimmed hedges. Luxury cars sit in driveways. In every other house, the windows are lit, and I can see the people inside having dinner, watching TV. Couples, families. A life of privilege and luxury that’s become so familiar to them that they no longer notice it, like air or light.

  I’m some kind of deepwater fish to them, an unknowable, bizarre creature.

  We drive the remaining two blocks in heavy silence until the Shaws’ house looms over us, dark and forbidding. Only one window is dimly lit behind heavy curtains.

  There’s no happiness in this house. There might never be happiness here ever again, I realize, and it hits me harder than I expected.

  We get out of the car, and I pull my jacket closed against the chill April wind. I stick my hands in my pockets and feel for the barely there lumps of pills in the lining. My chemical salvation. I can do this.

  I can do this I can do this I can do this.

  Goose bumps race up my arms, down my legs, across my back and my stomach. My scar itches. Sean walks around the car to join me, and unexpectedly his hand alights on my forearm. I let go of the lump of foil with the Xanax inside and pull my hand out of my pocket so he can take it in his. His grip is strong and hot, his palm dry. His fingers intertwine with mine, and the cold in my core slowly starts to dissolve.