Girl Last Seen

by Nina Laurin

If I read any more, I’m going to throw up or do something I’ll regret, so I close the window, struggling to contain the rage bubbling in my chest. Natalia, that bitch.

  The forum members, on the other hand, are having a ball.

  Roswell82: Did some digging, she has quite the arrest record.

  Salem_baby: Why did they even take her on TV? For all you know she really did it lol

  Roswell82: well she’s def a little unhinged.

  Mike6669: Heck I’d still hit that lol lol

  OliviaShawsDaddy: :P :P

  Donttreadonme: dude

  OliviaShawsDaddy: hey you guys I have a theory. I bet she’s been working with her supposed kidnapper all along. Probably helped him get the girl. I read about it, some kind of Stockholm syndrome thing, it’s messed up.

  Donttreadonme: That’s crazy but plausible in a way

  OliviaShawsDaddy: isn’t it obvious that’s why she never turned him in? Bet they were still hooking up on the dl this whole time

  Roswell82: sicko

  OliviaShawsDaddy: hey bro

  Roswell82: I meant her :P

  Roswell82: So anyone heard from @lostgirl14? She must have theories. Good ones not perverted shit like you @OliviaShawsDaddy.

  Donttreadonme: her green light is on, shes online just not talking

  Donttreadonme: hey stop lurking @lostgirl14

  Roswell82: I bet its really something super simple and lame like the parents killed her themselves by accident.

  Donttreadonme: yeah but where does Moreno come in? or should I say santos lol I still say she did it. or at least had something to do with it

  OliviaShawsDaddy: maybe she’s helping them cover it up

  Roswell82: That doesn’t even make sense.

  Roswell82: She couldn’t have done it and not left a single trace anywhere.

  My private messages icon flashes 10+. Numbly, I click on it.

  The first two or three are from other forum members, messaging me about the Ella Santos thread. But the fourth one dates from two days ago, and there’s no text in the subject line. It’s from a username I haven’t seen before. Against my better judgment, I open the message.

  It’s my photo, the same one that was posted in the main thread about Olivia, except unphotoshopped, and I can clearly tell where I am: leaving my building, and the way I squint in the daylight suggests it’s early morning.

  Before my apartment got robbed. Or even before that?

  All the following messages are from different dummy usernames, and every single one has a photo of me. Outside Natalia’s. Smoking with Sean outside the police station. Getting into his car.

  My head snaps up, and I look around. The receptionist looks sleepy behind her desk, but apart from her, the lobby is empty.

  Shit.

  The chair nearly goes toppling when I shoot to my feet and race upstairs. The room feels like a pastel-toned cage in which I pace, nervous energy coursing through my arms and legs. My supplies are running low so I make a beeline for the minibar instead. One tiny bottle upends into my mouth, then another, then another. I don’t really look at the labels. On the third, some of the liquid goes the wrong way and I double over coughing, liquor searing the inside of my nose. Tears pour freely down my face, but once I can breathe, I notice I have a nice buzz going. The booze is kicking in fast. I down one last bottle—cloyingly sweet liqueur of some kind that makes me grimace. It’s cheap, malt-based booze and it won’t last long. By the time my guy gets here, I’ll be sober again and able to think.

  Right. For that I’d have to call him first. I pick up my phone and thumb the contact marked Running Buddy.

  As usual, Sugar picks up immediately. “Princess. What can I do you for?”

  He knows damn well. I tell him where I’m staying, realizing belatedly what a not-great idea this is, but he’s already hanging up.

  For a drug dealer, Sugar is reliable as fuck and surprisingly punctual. You could set your watch by him. He’s knocking on my room door within twenty minutes. He whistles when he sees the place over my shoulder.

  “Wow. Nice digs. What happened, find a sugar daddy, finally?” He’s making fun of me. Even scum of the earth like Sugar know I’m damaged goods.

  “Problems with my landlord,” I lie artlessly. I don’t give a shit what he thinks—I just want my stuff.

  “Hey.” His pointy-toothed grin widens. “If you need a place to stay—”

  “As if.”

  Sugar lives in a slummy top-floor apartment that he has the audacity to call a penthouse.

  “What? I’m always happy to share my space with royalty,” he says with a smirk.

  “Do you have the stuff or not?”

  He glances over his shoulder, subtly, and the goofy grin vanishes without a trace. There’s a time for fucking around and a time for business. “Not in the hallway.”

  I don’t want him inside my room, inside my living space. But he gives a slight nod at the security camera at the end of the hall and I don’t have a choice.

  Once he steps inside the doorway, I block his way so he doesn’t get any farther into the room. He’s pushy, craning his neck, trying to see around. This unwelcome proximity makes the tiny hairs along my spine stand on end.

  He reaches into the bottomless pockets of his baggy pants and produces the goods. I count out the pills: OxyContin, Adderall, Xanax. The unholy trinity for anything life might throw at you. No Ambien, but I should still have a refill on my prescription.

  He tells me the price, and as usual he’s inflated it way beyond what those pills are actually worth, but right now I don’t give a shit. While I waited for him, I’d made a trip downstairs to the ATM where I withdrew everything I had in my account, the last dregs of my Silver Bullet paycheck. I tried not to think about how the bills in my hand were all I had to my name. I tried not to think that I might need a new job now and no one in their right mind will hire me.

  I count out the twenties. He tips his baseball hat at me and—finally!—heads for the door.

  “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

  “Don’t I always.” I return his crooked smile. Relief pools in my chest when I close the door behind him. Although the pellets of pills in my pocket might also have something to do with it.

  First thing I do is head to the bathroom to find a new hiding place. I don’t have time to get creative but I don’t trust the staff in this place not to snoop around. A vitamin bottle is inconspicuous enough, hiding in plain sight, so I put it on the shelf behind the mirror, next to the array of scuffed makeup tubes I fish out of the bottom of my backpack. Just a girl keeping pretty, making sure I get my As, Bs, and Cs.

  I pick out an Adderall and take it. Then I think about it and take another one. Any more than that and I get the shakes, or I’d just gulp down my entire supply.

  For what I’m about to do, I need to be all I can be.

  * * *

  After thirty-five excruciating minutes on the phone with the insurance company, I pay the fine with my last functioning credit card, gritting my teeth at the astronomical amount on the receipt. But my car is waiting for me in the lot, all mine again. For what it’s worth. It looks a lot worse than I remember, but as long as it’s running, I don’t care.

  Within another half hour, I’m leaving it at the curb across from the Shaws’. The house looks lifeless, all windows shrouded in curtains, but the two cars in the driveway tell me they’re home. What I hadn’t noticed the first time around is that their doorbell is a complicated system with an intercom speaker, a small glaring eye of a camera, and as far as I can tell, a motion detector. I ring and ring, to no avail. Don’t you ignore me, you lying bastard. Think you can just pretend I’m not there and I’ll go away? I knock, first lightly, then pound on the door, and before long, I hear hurrying steps.

  Jacqueline Shaw looks frail, her skin nearly translucent without makeup. She blinks her red eyes in incomprehension, and the furious tirade I had at the tip of my tongue vanishes.

&n
bsp; “Can I come in?” I bleat. I wouldn’t be too surprised if she slammed the door in my face, but she only nods and steps aside.

  With the lights turned down, the house has the feel of a funeral home after hours. It looks like a layer of dust has settled over everything, muting the colors. I notice the pictures are missing from the walls, leaving behind barely noticeable dark rectangles.

  “Is everything all right?” Jacqueline asks, although from the looks of it, I’m the one who should be wondering. Her face is getting so thin that shadows draw chasms beneath her already pointy cheekbones.

  Everything is not all right, as a matter of fact. But before I can say anything, I hear the crash of a slammed door and thundering steps coming from upstairs. The next moment, Tom Shaw appears in the doorway. He hardly looks better than Jacqueline—the stress must be taking a toll on him too. But while I feel a sort of fledgling sympathy for Jacqueline, the sight of his rumpled T-shirt and under-eye bags only fills me with fury.

  When he sees me, his shoulders slump. “Jesus. Lainey, it’s you.”

  Who did he expect exactly? Olivia to show up on the doorstep?

  He runs his hands over his face. “Anything…anything new? If there’s something…if you remembered anything, you should call Detective Ortiz first thing.”

  “I didn’t remember anything,” I say. Anxiety uncoils beneath my ribs and turns to rage. “But perhaps you might.”

  Jacqueline takes a step closer. Tom gives me a look of exasperation. “What—”

  “Lynden Jakes,” I snarl.

  In the background, Jacqueline makes a strangled sound. Shaw’s eyes narrow, and the storm grows closer.

  “I already spoke about this to Detective Ortiz,” he says levelly. “And I’m not going to repeat myself to you. Not to mention that this isn’t any of your business and you shouldn’t have known about it in the first place.”

  “Well, too late for that.” I scowl.

  “This is a private matter,” he cuts in. “Of my family. And my daughter.” He emphasizes my, spitting out each syllable in an angry staccato.

  “So you decided it wasn’t important enough to bring up.” My mouth twists. I’m starting to feel nauseous and know the tide of energy can’t possibly last. I’ll crash, and soon.

  Jacqueline inches toward me, holding out her hands. “Lainey…”

  Shaw gives her a withering look.

  “What if it really was him? What if he—what if…”

  “He didn’t,” Shaw explodes. “He didn’t touch her, okay? That’s why we had to settle without letting it get to the police. We got him to resign, because I couldn’t very well just leave it as it was, could I? Word would get out; everyone would know about my daughter. And she was only eight. Can’t you try to understand?”

  “What is there to understand?”

  “The Marquez woman, the one who testified.” He rubs his eyes. “She told the truth.”

  My legs feel weak. I can sense the crash coming on, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  “But Olivia…she told you and Jacqueline—”

  “Olivia,” he says, bitterly spitting out every syllable, “pretty much admitted everything to us. She did what they said she did. She didn’t mean anything bad by it. She must have seen it on the Internet or something, you know how it is—the parental controls can’t ever catch it all. And Olivia, she was always like that. Acting out on impulse. Just did whatever she felt like. Uncontrollable.” He heaves a sigh. “What the hell were we supposed to do, huh?”

  I don’t know. Have a serious talk with your daughter? Get her help, maybe. But I decide to keep my mouth shut, which is for the best because I don’t trust myself to speak. Something horrible and profane would come out if I opened my mouth.

  “I don’t know what I expected.” Shaw’s voice is tired, like the outburst consumed the last of his energy. “Jacqueline didn’t know her history, but I did. I hate to admit it, and I despise myself for thinking it, but after that incident, I began to wonder.”

  “To wonder if you got a lemon,” I say. Right now I don’t hate anyone in the world more than I hate this man. I want to punch him and knock that look off his face, along with some of his teeth.

  “Come on, Lainey. Put yourself in my place. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Tom,” Jacqueline says, her voice plaintive.

  “Would I blame an eight-year-old girl for something her father did before she was even born?”

  He groans. For a while, he just paces without saying another word.

  “Shit.” He covers his face with his hands. “Shit, shit. Just listen to me. I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying.”

  I stand in the center of the room, fists clenched—although he doesn’t know this because my sleeves have fallen over my hands. I’m nothing but a storm cloud of heartbeat and pumping blood and anger.

  “Lainey.” Jacqueline reaches out to touch my arm. She must remember our first encounter, because she stops herself, her manicured hand hovering inches above my lint-covered sleeve. “I’m so sorry. He’s just—” She draws a breath. “We loved Olivia. We did. More than—”

  More than I could have. Yeah, I know that.

  “More than anything,” Jacqueline finishes softly. Only then I notice that for the first time, she spoke in the past tense.

  * * *

  “You should go home,” Tom Shaw says dryly. He puts a protective arm around his wife, who looks like she’s about to start full-on crying.

  Like it’s my damn fault. I silently shake my head.

  “You really should. Or I might have to take measures to make you.”

  The threat passes between us, nearly tangible. He has all the power in this situation, and he’s making it known.

  And me…I’m the same I’ve always been. I’m no one, powerless. All I can do is watch from the sidelines, unable to change a damn thing.

  Jacqueline says her husband’s name in a whisper, but loud enough so I hear the tension in it.

  “Do you want me to call someone?” she asks, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me. I shake my head. “You don’t look well enough to drive,” she says, her voice still kind, but with a steely note.

  “Jackie,” Tom Shaw speaks up.

  “I’m not kicking her out in this state,” she says. Talking about me in the third person like I’m not standing right here. I clench my fists.

  “She shows up here, threatening you—and you—”

  “She wasn’t threatening anybody. Look at her, for God’s sake. She’s as devastated as we are…”

  “I’ll go,” I snap, putting them out of their misery.

  “Out of the question,” Jacqueline says.

  “I’ll call Detective Ortiz,” says Tom Shaw. “Let him sort it out.”

  “No.” The word escapes from me before I can stop it. “You. You said I could just come by anytime I wanted.” This one is for Jacqueline, who avoids my gaze to the best of her ability.

  “Can I speak with you?” her husband asks. “In the living room.”

  They leave me alone, Tom closing the door, softly but with a firm clink as the handle turns. I wait a heartbeat and press myself against the cool, smooth polished paneling but can’t make out a single sound. This house doesn’t have plywood walls like a motel or like my old apartment building.

  I know I don’t have long, so I decide to look around. I race to Jacqueline’s purse that sits carelessly on an end table, next to a vase of calla lilies, or maybe they’re orchids—who knows? But when I brush my fingertip against a soft white petal, it’s definitely real. My fingernail leaves a translucent bruise, and a delicate scent wafts into my face. Real and fresh. How can they think of changing the flowers at a time like this? Or maybe they have help who do these things, automatically, and they just forgot to cancel.

  Throwing cautious glances at the door, I pick up the purse and slide open the zipper. This purse alone, if I could get it to a pawnshop, could keep me in rent and pills for a mo
nth: soft, cream-colored leather, with a discreet designer logo etched in gold on the inside lining. The matching wallet is at the bottom, and, overcoming a brief flash of contrition, I open it. There are half a dozen gold and black credit cards, which aren’t much use to me right now, and no cash. Of course not. Why would someone like Jacqueline carry cash around?

  I glance at the door once more, but whatever they’re still talking about, it’s keeping them busy. So I turn my attention back to the wallet. Hoping to find some money, I unzip the other compartment, and my breath catches.

  There’s a photo in the clear plastic insert, a smaller replica of the family portrait on the wall of the Shaws’ house: Tom, Jacqueline, and Olivia against a generic background. I peer closer and realize the photo isn’t identical—it’s clearly from the same set, but different. This one was no doubt discarded as imperfect, except Jacqueline decided to keep it for whatever reason. Tom and Jacqueline stare with determined, cheerful gazes into the uncertain future, but Olivia looks slightly away, beyond the invisible frame. She’s not smiling; her bow-shaped lips are pressed together, thin and serious—and when I bring the picture closer to my eyes, I see just how much she looks like me. Not just her features, but her expression is the same one I see every time I accidentally glimpse myself in a reflective surface, before I can compose my face into a blank, pleasing look.

  A strange feeling spreads through my chest, hot yet hollow, and my mind grows fuzzy around the edges like I washed down painkillers with a too-big gulp of liquor. I’m about to close the wallet and put it back when I spy the edge of another photo tucked underneath the first one. I catch the edge with my fingernails and tug it out.

  This one couldn’t be more different from the formal family photo that was hiding it. A candid shot, a touch overexposed, it was probably taken with a phone camera and printed. It shows Olivia—the mess of curls is hard to confuse with anyone else—and a young woman, both grinning and holding out ice cream cones like trophies. Olivia looks younger, her hair shorter and her face round and chubby cheeked, no older than seven or eight. I peer closely at the young woman until the picture becomes grainy. She looks like Jacqueline, the same slant of the eyes and heart-shaped face—a younger, prettier version of Jacqueline.