by Nina Laurin
I hear movement behind the door and hastily stuff the photo back in its place then throw the wallet into the purse. Even the hefty dose of medication in my system doesn’t stop my heart from hammering, but with my luck, no one comes in. Turning my attention back to the purse, I retrieve Jacqueline’s phone, which asks for a passcode. It takes me only a moment’s hesitation, but I’m not too surprised when I get it on the first try: the code is Olivia’s birthday.
Jacqueline is one of those meticulously organized people who has everyone’s picture, phone number, and address typed up neatly next to their name, along with their birthday and other information she might need. I thumb through her contacts until I find the name Jacinta and copy the number and address into my own phone. I put Jacqueline’s phone back where I found it and carefully close the zipper then hold my breath and listen.
Behind the heavy door, they’re arguing. No amount of sound insulation can hide that fact, even though the words are too muffled for me to make out. But she’s yelling and he’s yelling back.
I throw one last glance around. I’ve had enough, and I have things to do.
So I leave them to it and slip out the front door, unseen and unheard.
In my car, I have to sit still for a while, wasting precious minutes until I’m in the right state to drive. It’s the last thing I should be doing; I can’t afford to get pulled over, although losing my license would be the least of my problems, with my history and all. But it’s not like I have a choice.
Thankfully, the drive to Wedgwood is uneventful, and fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling up to a small but well-maintained bungalow at the address. Jacinta, it seems, still lives with her parents and, if I remember correctly from all the news sites and tabloids, goes to Seattle U for either psychology or sociology or some other middle-class-girl major.
The house has that aggressively neat quality but blends in perfectly with the rest of the neighborhood. Two of the windows are lit, but as much as I crane my neck, I can’t see a thing through the curtains. Two cars sit in the driveway, a silver coupe and one of those jewel-colored MINI Coopers—Jacinta’s, I’m guessing. I glimpse a third one, a white SUV, under an awning behind the house. It looks…normal.
Maybe Sean is right and I do need help. I feel like I’m losing my mind.
I drive past but it seems I’m unable to press down on the brake pedal. A tremor travels from my core into my hands, and I keep driving until the house is gone from sight. Only then do I slow down and pull over.
What the hell am I doing? What if I show up on her doorstep and she calls the cops—rightfully so? I don’t even know how much Jacqueline has told her about me. Besides, if the parents are home, I’m going to have to explain the situation to them, and I have no idea what I’d say.
I idle behind the wheel for a while then take out my phone and punch in her number. My pulse thrums in my ears, drowning out the ringing. God, I hope it’s her cell phone and not the landline.
I picture her looking at the unfamiliar number on the display, hesitating, making up her mind. She answers after four or five rings, just as I’m starting to hope it’ll go to voice mail and that will be that.
Her wary Hello in my ear takes me by surprise because I heard no click. Her voice sounds hoarse with the rust-edged notes of recent tears.
“Hi,” I say. “You’re—are you Jacinta? Jacinta Velasquez?”
A silence. “Yes. Who is this? Are you with the press?”
“No,” I say hurriedly. “No. Jacqueline gave me your number.” The lie springs to my lips, all natural and easy. “I don’t know if she’s told you about me…”
The rustle I first mistake for static is her sharp intake of breath. And in the leaden silence that follows, I realize, with a small jolt like an electric spark, that she knows exactly who I am. When she does speak, it’s the wrong name, and I flinch with my whole body, glad she can’t see me.
“It’s Lainey now,” I say carefully. She begins to apologize in a rush, and it sounds like she’s about to start crying all over again—and I know, intuitively, that she’ll buy anything I tell her at this point, and do whatever I ask. The power of guilt. I feel like a little shit for abusing it, even though my addict’s sixth sense is supposed to make me impervious to shame. At least while the high lasts.
She agrees to meet me for a coffee in a few minutes. I park in front of the small twenty-four-hour coffee shop and hide in the bathroom until I see her come in, alone. She’s hard to miss. Taller than Jacqueline, striking—although right now she looks about as put together as me. She must have dressed in a hurry, sweatshirt with university logo, sweatpants, and those sheepskin boots. Her dark hair hangs limply down the sides of her face. Looks like she hasn’t washed it in a while, but I’m a fine one to judge.
When I emerge from the alcove by the washroom at last, I see my own thoughts mirrored on her face. I’m not what she expected—whatever that might have been. At this late hour, the coffee shop isn’t crowded enough: only a few hipsters hiding behind the glowing Apple logos on the backs of their laptop screens and a single bored barista behind the counter. He doesn’t seem to notice or care that we don’t buy anything, which is just as well. A one-dollar coffee is about all I can afford, and it doesn’t look like this place serves those.
“Lainey,” she says, as if trying the word out.
“Yeah.”
I hope she doesn’t start with the usual routine, Oh my God, you cannot imagine how sorry I am for everything that’s happened to you, and so on. But her eyes, tired, rimmed with darkness, are shrewd. She gives a terse nod, and we sit down.
“What exactly did Jacqueline tell you?”
“Not much,” I say carefully. Sooner or later it’ll come to light that, not only did Jacqueline not tell me a thing, she certainly didn’t give me this girl’s phone number or address. “That you used to pick her up from school—”
“Three times a week,” Jacinta interjects. “When my classes end early.” She twists the worn-out hem of her sweatshirt. “The other two Jackie does herself. Did.” She clears her throat and adds, I don’t know why, “I’ve been doing it since high school. I always loved babysitting Oli. I practically lived at Jackie and Tom’s.”
Even when she’s this disheveled, her big doe eyes make her beautiful. Jacqueline has the discipline to meticulously care for her appearance, but Jacinta is the one who got the natural beauty. It makes me wonder if there had ever been a rivalry. Does “Jackie” feel secure with this ingénue camping out at her house at all hours of the day?
Ugly thoughts, like a bad taste in my mouth. I cringe. Why is it that all I can think and feel is ugliness? Is it because of how my captor warped me? Was I just born like this? Did Val’s prenatal drug use do something to my brain?
Jacinta misinterprets my silence. “I used to live at the dorm.” She points apologetically at her sweatshirt. “I suspended my studies. When…” She swallows, and I don’t need her to finish. What am I supposed to say to that? So sorry. I’m sure that, no matter what happens, your future is as bright as it’s ever been?
Like it or not, but Jacinta, with her poreless skin and cute little car and college degree, is just another reminder of all the things I never got a chance to be. I could see Olivia being just like her in a few years.
Except now none of it will happen.
“What else did Jackie tell you?” she asks.
She may look like I dragged her out of bed, but her gaze is strangely sharp and aware. It sends a thrill down my spine, and suddenly I’m not so sure which one of us is supposed to be playing the other, extracting information under the guise of bonding in the face of tragedy. Well, she’s in for a surprise. She may be majoring in psychology or whatever it is, but I have some experience she never imagined in her worst nightmares. I can handle her.
“I just wanted to ask you some things,” I say.
“You can ask Jackie.”
“I wanted to ask you. That’s why I wanted to meet you, in person. I just wa
nted to talk. To someone else who…knew Olivia.”
She sighs quietly. Her eyes soften, and her posture relaxes. It’s barely there but I notice it. It’s exactly what I do when the nurse at the hospital tells me I passed my drug test. When I know I’m off the hook.
“Do you remember anything weird that happened? Before Olivia disappeared.”
Jacinta’s brown eyes refocus at once. “Weird?”
“Unusual. Not just when you were picking up Olivia. Did anyone approach you?”
“In what way?” A frown creases her dark eyebrows.
“Just anyone approaching you, like a man? Trying to hit on you, something like that. Acting strange.”
She gives a bitter laugh. “You have any idea how many times a week guys approach me and act strange?”
“I can imagine.” I make myself smile, but she doesn’t buy it. The mistrustful look doesn’t leave her eyes.
“I mean, did you mention having to pick up Olivia? Mention anything about her at all.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want to know. Anything you can remember…”
“You’re trying to say I led him to her somehow.” It’s not a question.
“No!” I protest. Even though that’s exactly what I’m suggesting. I’m starting to feel shaky, my emotions spiraling out of my control. “No, I—”
“Look, I already told everything to the police,” she says. She gathers up her purse and cradles it to her chest, defensive. “If you need to know, why don’t you ask that detective? What’s his name—Ortiz.”
The mention of Sean makes me flinch, and she notices. A look of cold composure returns to her face. She slides back her chair and starts to get up.
“Wait.”
“I’m finished here.”
I follow her to the door and outside, into the parking lot. I’d guessed correctly, the jewel-colored MINI is there, beeping when she pulls her keys from the pocket of her hoodie.
“Jacinta—”
“Look, Lainey.” She makes an ugly emphasis on my name like it’s a bad joke. “You think you’re the only one who feels awful right now? You think you know what it’s like for me? You think you can just call me up at random and then act like it was my fucking fault?”
“That’s not—”
“You think you’re the only one who wants to find her? Who wishes the cops could just do their fucking job?”
“Probably not.” I manage to hold her furious gaze. “Maybe, if the cops were a little better at doing their fucking job, Olivia would still be home.”
Her reaction is so strong it takes me by surprise. Her shoulders round, and she seems to shrink into herself like I punched her in the gut. Anger drains from her face, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion and the same look of vulnerability that I’m used to seeing in the mirror. “Shit,” she says in a shaky voice. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
Tears well up in the lower rims of her eyes, and she covers her face with her hands. I feel foolish. What am I supposed to do, comfort her? So I just stand there and watch her sob her heart out, feeling at once vindicated and guilty for being vindicated.
“I’m sorry it happened to you,” she says, once she’s collected herself. Sniffling, she wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “I really am. And be sure I’d never, ever, let anything like that happen to Olivia.” The cruelty in her gentle, melodious voice is striking. “So you can leave me alone now, okay?”
Without giving me time to answer, she climbs into the MINI, fumbles with the key longer than she has to—it seems her hands are shaking as badly as mine—and peels out of the parking lot with a screech of tires. I watch her numbly as the taillights of the car fade down the street. Her last words replay in my head, over and over, taking on new shadows and overtones of meaning.
Then I go back to my own car, climb in, close the doors. And scream.
CHAPTER TWENTY
When I finally turn the key in the ignition—which, thankfully, decides to work and the engine coughs to life—I’m still trembling. The car zigzags across the parking lot as I drive onto the street.
Next step is deciding where to go. Not to the hotel, not yet—I can’t face the idea of sitting in that sterile room all alone, waiting for something to happen, for someone to deign to check up on me or give me an update, for Sean to remember I exist. So I drive in circles until my hands steady and my thoughts flow coherently.
I’m on the stretch of nearly empty service road on my way to the hotel when I notice I’m being followed.
Peering into the rearview mirror, I have to narrow my eyes to make sure I didn’t imagine it. There’s a car behind me, with headlights so dim they could be stray reflections of streetlamps in the glass. But when I look again, it’s still there, and definitely still a car.
My first thought is Jacinta, but I dismiss it. I can’t tell what kind of car it is by its height and the shape of the lights, but it’s certainly not Jacinta’s MINI Cooper. It looks like an SUV of some kind. And it’s getting closer.
My hands grow sweaty on the steering wheel. In a knee-jerk response, I hit the gas pedal and speed up, well over the limit. In my shaky state, one wrong move, one missed turn, and this ride could be my last, but no matter how fast I go, the other car doesn’t seem to fall behind. Instead, it gets closer. I hear—or I think I hear; I could be imagining things at this point—the engine rev as it steadily catches up to me.
Taking a huge risk, I glance away from the road. The car is in my blind spot, and when I look, the headlights flicker. On and off, on and off. Twice. I peer closer but can’t see a damn thing through the tinted windows.
The lights flicker again. Pull over.
I can’t be sure this isn’t in my head. For all I know, I’m hallucinating the car itself. But one thing I know for sure in this moment—I’m not pulling over.
Crushing my foot onto the gas pedal, I grip the steering wheel and force my gaze away from the car, onto the empty stretch of road in front of me. There are no streetlights—only reflective signs that flash from the darkness as I whir by.
The driver of the other car hits the gas in turn. With a roar, the car levels with me, and I have no illusions: my prehistoric Neon will not hold up to a brand-new SUV. The car—it’s either black or dark blue, this is all I can make out—could easily pass me, block the road, and cut off my escape, but for some reason, it doesn’t.
I try to remember how far I am from my exit, the one that leads straight to the illuminated monolith of the hotel. Too bad I wasn’t paying attention to any of the signs.
The car falls behind, but before I can allow myself a sigh of relief, it rams my Neon’s rear bumper so hard that my head snaps back then forward and my forehead connects with the steering wheel. For an endless moment of terror, all I see in front of me are stars while the Neon careens ahead at nearly a hundred miles per hour, into nothingness.
I may be going crazy, but I sure as hell didn’t imagine that. Gripping the steering wheel, I spin it as hard as I can and avoid driving off the road at the last millisecond. My tires give a pitiful screech as something clicks and clangs deep down in the car’s mechanical bowels.
Behind me, the SUV follows, steady. I swear the dim headlights have a smug look to them.
Realizing there’s only one thing left to do, I step on the brakes and pull up to the curb. I see the reflection of my lone brake light in the pitch-black windshield of the SUV as it slows down and pulls up behind me.
The engine of the Neon still running, I sink my fingernails into the worn plastic of the steering wheel. My foot taps a nervous tattoo, ready to hit the gas pedal. My gaze is glued to the rearview mirror, to the reflection of the SUV. My mirror cracked more than a year ago, and I never had it fixed, because even with a spiderweb of cracks, it was doing its job just fine, but right now, I’m cursing myself with every word I can think of. Sure, I couldn’t spare the hundred bucks. What did I buy with them? Probably either makeup or d
ope.
So I sit and watch the car in the mirror, waiting.
Any moment now, he’ll come out. He has to.
But as soon as the driver’s side door starts to open, I lose it. My foot slams onto the gas pedal, and I peel away from the curb with a wail of tires. All I can think of is ahead, ahead, ahead, the exit that’s already beckoning, so close. I know the car is already on my heels, and any second now its shiny, predatory bumper will rear-end my Neon and send me skittering off the road.
But I don’t look in the rearview mirror. I just drive.
I take the curve of the exit at five times the legal speed and nearly go flying out of the driver’s seat. The Neon careens into the vast, near-empty lot that separates me from the hotel. I twist the steering wheel, spin, and skid to a stop across two parking spaces. My heart hammers as I turn to look behind me.
There’s no car. Like there never has been. I can’t see a thing past the two lights at the entrance of the lot.
My shoulders cramp from gripping the steering wheel for dear life. I have to force my fingers to unbend and let go. Wincing, I feel around the bump under my hairline.
Definitely real.
Shouldn’t I do something? Call someone?
And tell them what? Oh, there was a car. I think it was black, or maybe blue or dark gray, I’m not sure. Did you get the license plate? Oh, no, it was behind me the whole time.
I get out and circle my Neon. As if the busted front bumper wasn’t enough, the back is now looking just as bad, but that will hardly surprise anyone. They’re more likely to ask if I had been driving while impaired, and I don’t want to answer that.
Shaky, I walk to the hotel. The woman at reception gives me a strange look, although at this point, it could be either my paranoia or the comedown from the pills. I make my way to my room, swipe my key card in the slot, and only then notice the stripe of light that escapes from behind the poorly insulated door frame.
My hand hovering above the handle, I freeze. I do remember with absolute certainty that I left the place pitch-black.
