Girl Last Seen

by Nina Laurin

  I feel just like I did ten years ago. Thrown from one prison into another, people with judgment in their eyes asking me questions I just don’t have answers for.

  Sean sits down while the woman remains standing. For a while, he just looks at me then slides something across the table, stopping halfway. The flat silver object sits between us in mute accusation.

  My mind still can’t put it together when he speaks up. “Does this belong to you, Lainey?”

  My laptop. My stolen laptop that was taken out of my apartment. There isn’t enough air in this room.

  “I don’t have to answer,” I say. At least I have this much self-awareness. He glances at the woman. She returns the look then nods and leaves us alone.

  “It’s just us, Lainey. If you want me to help you, you have to tell me the truth. Is this your computer?”

  “I should have a lawyer.” My voice crackles with hoarseness.

  He slams his palms down onto the table. “You have a lot of nerve.”

  “I know my rights.” I think I’m about to cry again. He’s the first person to meet my eye in this place. How can he do this to me? Now? After…

  After I screwed up the one good thing life ever gave me. After I let him down in more ways than I can count.

  “Is this yours or isn’t it? I’m trying to help you here. You know I am. Dammit.”

  “How…Where did you get it?”

  “It doesn’t matter where I got it. Answer the question or I can’t do a thing for you.”

  I shake my head. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  This is a lie. I’ve long ago lost count of all the things I’ve done wrong—lashing out at the press conference, confronting Jacinta…Everything I’ve done has just made things worse, but goddammit, I didn’t mean to. I was only trying to help.

  He breathes in and takes out a folder that he slams down next to the laptop.

  “Here. Have a look at what we found on your hard drive.” He gives a strange, forced chuckle. “Except you know this already, don’t you?”

  I take the folder with my fingertips and open the cover.

  It feels like I’m drowning from the inside. That first glance and I understand everything.

  A strangled gasp escapes from me as I stare down at the pictures. Grainy printouts, but it’s more than enough: girls, naked girls. Some look young, some very young.

  “There are over a hundred folders,” Sean’s voice says from the periphery of my mind. “All of them full of photos.”

  He doesn’t need to say anything more. It was only a matter of time before my laptop surfaced, because whoever had broken into my apartment had found exactly what he was looking for. And he set the perfect trap, but the rest I did myself. By acting stupid and irresponsible, by stubbornly refusing to trust the people who tried to help me—just like I’ve always done. By making myself look guilty from the start.

  I’d played into my kidnapper’s hands. Again.

  “This isn’t mine,” I say. Like it matters what I tell him. What else could I possibly say anyway? Isn’t that what all the guilty people say? And I’m sure he’s heard more creative excuses before.

  “There are pictures,” he says in a steely tone, “that could be of Olivia Shaw.”

  I didn’t think there was anything worse he could say, but there it is. I think I might be sick.

  “We are still figuring it out. So if there’s anything you want to tell me, now is a damn good time.”

  “This isn’t mine,” I repeat, obstinate.

  But they’ll say it is. I’ve read about this sort of thing many times—victims of abuse turning abuser and the cycle goes on. And I certainly didn’t act like any sane person from the start.

  “Your dealer…insisted you gave it to him in exchange for your fix.”

  “That’s not true.” No, of course it isn’t—the sad truth is, I didn’t even have that to give him, so I decided to give him something else. I’ve never wanted to die more than I do right now.

  “He also said you told him you were going to skip town.”

  “I never said that. I…”

  “Is this your laptop?”

  “Yes.” I gulp. “But the pictures aren’t mine.”

  He rubs his temples, such an achingly familiar gesture. “I rooted for you this whole time,” he says, his voice strangely level. “I was always on your side. You stupid bitch.”

  The words don’t hurt anymore, and I barely wince. All I want is to tell him the truth, at least as far as I know it, as far as I remember it. “Wait. My apartment got burglarized. A couple weeks ago. They took my laptop, and other things.” I stumble over the words. “Sugar did. It had to be him. He knew, and I hadn’t told him. I…” Even as I stammer, I’m no longer sure. How much did I tell him, exactly? I can’t remember. The whole day fades in and out, more blackouts than reliable memories.

  “And you didn’t call the police because…?”

  “Because no one would have done anything!” My voice trembles. “There’s a break-in in my neighborhood every other day. And I’m not white enough or rich enough for anyone to give a fuck.”

  “You should have told me. Why didn’t you?”

  I should have, like I should have told him a lot of things. I remember dialing his number, the woman’s voice picking up—Valerie’s voice, I know now. And like the idiot I am, I changed my mind. When I tell him, the look in his eyes verges on sadness.

  “Do you have anyone who can corroborate that? Did you tell anyone else?”

  “Natalia. My friend, the one I went to stay with.”

  “The stripper.”

  “Bartender.”

  “Whatever. I already tried to contact her, and it turns out, no one’s seen her in about three days. She missed work without warning; her phone goes to voice mail. No one has any idea where she is.” I flinch away from his glare. “You wouldn’t happen to know, would you?”

  I have a guess, a good one, and once again it’s all my fault. What a shocker.

  “I can’t do anything for you anymore. You realize that.”

  I do—what I still don’t understand is how he ever thought he could do something for me in the first place. But the words seem to fly off my lips. “You have to believe me. Someone took my laptop and put all these…things…in it.” I glare at the folder, and its image blurs with the tears that fill my eyes. “You can’t really think that I—”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “But you do believe me.” I’m practically pleading.

  “Convincing a judge to believe you is another matter.”

  I lower my forehead onto my hands. The handcuffs give a soft clink, and I realize, as if for the first time, that there’s nothing to hide the scars. “Do you hate me now?”

  “No. I don’t hate you. I just feel sorry for you.”

  I can’t utter another word.

  “I’m sorry that you let him win. Your kidnapper. Sorry you let him turn you into this.”

  Fighting dizziness, I sit up straight. “I didn’t let him win. I didn’t let him turn me into anything! I was ten years old, for fuck’s sake. Don’t you dare imply that I—”

  The tears spill out and flow down my cheeks. I shut my eyes in a vain attempt to stop them.

  He starts to talk, telling me how they’ll set my bail soon, get me a public defender and this and that. His voice blurs. No matter how much I try to refocus on it, I can’t. His face seems to smudge too, its lines losing their familiar precision until I can’t even tell who I’m looking at.

  Everything blacks out. Things are happening, but I’m aware of them on a superficial level, like a TV show I’m only half watching. My consciousness is fading as I retreat inside myself, let my eyes become glass and my skin a hard, brittle shell.

  I don’t have the strength to fight it anymore.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  One of the girls from the photos comes to me at night, all wide brown eyes and coltish legs. She looks maybe fourteen,
and her breasts are small, underdeveloped little things like mine, her stomach a flat plane between protruding hip bones. I want to know how she ended up on that photo that ended up on my laptop, but I can’t speak. I don’t have a physical presence; when I look down, I can’t see my own hands or body. I’m ethereal. One gust of wind and I vanish.

  I want to know who she’s smiling at on the other side of the camera. If he ever got his ass thrown in jail like he deserves.

  The world is full of people who think I deserve it too.

  The other girls follow, all kinds of girls, an endless parade of limbs and expanses of skin. Sometimes they wear the faces of the girls on all the missing posters from the last decade. Sometimes I peer closely enough and recognize myself, mole here, scar there. Sometimes I suspect they may wear Olivia’s skin, but I’m afraid to look in case it’s true.

  How would I look into her eyes?

  A part of me is putting together theories. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I did it all and just forgot it—wiped it from my memory like I did with the day I was stolen. Maybe I did download all these photos in a surge of late-night delirium. Frantic, I think back to all the places in my memory that are worn thin from doing pills or getting drunk and all the other ways I tried to forget I existed. And my laptop—did I take it from my apartment? Did I really give it to Sugar at some point and forgot about it?

  Maybe I’ve cracked completely. I’ve always known it was only a matter of time. I reach out to all these girls that swarm me like ghosts, begging them to tell me the truth, but just like me, they don’t have voices. Their voices, I know on some deep level, were stripped away from them, staying forever on the other side of the camera.

  A clang jolts me out of my thin sleep, and I sit up, pushing away the narrow cot. My back aches something horrible, and I barely feel the side of my face.

  There’s an unfamiliar cop and the woman I saw earlier. She wears different clothes, so it must be the next day. How much time passed? How long was I out?

  Behind them, Sean walks in, and in spite of everything, my heart starts to race.

  The woman starts to say something but I can’t seem to understand the words, like I’ve forgotten the language overnight.

  “Come on,” Sean says. It takes me a few more moments to figure out what he wants. All I can gather is that they’re letting me go.

  Shaky, I get up and sway when he hands me my jacket, neatly rolled up and folded. I don’t even remember when I saw it last or where I left it—at Sugar’s, at the hotel? It’s heavy as a rock, pulling me toward the floor. He’s standing right there but he won’t help me—he waits while I steady myself against the wall.

  “What…” My voice works on the third try.

  “Someone posted your bail,” he says dryly. He must read the question in my gaze, because he adds, “Anonymously.”

  “The pictures,” I choke out. I only need to know one thing—were any of them Olivia? And until I know the answer, I’m not going anywhere.

  “We couldn’t identify if any of them were Olivia or not. You’re still being charged with possession of juvenile pornography. Not to mention the controlled substances.”

  Just as I shakily make my way to the door under the watchful eyes of the woman and the cop, he leans in closer. His whisper rustles in my ear. “He’s out there. Be careful.”

  I barely have time to comprehend the words before he’s gone. And then I’m outside, a little bewildered, blinded by the fading light of day—or is it dawn? Can’t tell until the orange sun moves one way or the other. I should get the hell out of here before they change their minds, or before whoever posted the massive bail for me decides to take it back, but instead I linger. I shrug into my jacket, and its worn pleather settles over my shoulders, its familiar weight and smell cradling me. I pat down my pockets, hoping against hope to find my pack of cigarettes—there it is, with my lighter next to it—and at the bottom of the pocket, inside the lining, another heavy oblong-shaped object.

  In utter disbelief, I plunge my hand through the lining, tearing the seam. No, not here. I start to jog and sprint for several blocks, the wind whipping the sweat out of my hair. Only when I can’t run anymore do I let myself stop and pull my hand out of my pocket.

  I’m looking at my knife, just as I last saw it. The blade flies out without a sound as soon as I flick it, shiny and sharp. I glimpse the slightly distorted reflection of my shadow-ringed right eye before I flip it closed.

  He gave it back, trills the thought in the back of my mind. It must mean he believes me, or why would he do it? I recall his words, not without a shiver: be careful.

  But all that matters is that he knows it wasn’t me.

  It’s exactly what I needed. Now I can let go.

  I have nowhere to stay. My apartment? Out of the question, even if my landlord hasn’t put all my stuff out on the curb yet. No more hotel. And I’ve run out of people who are willing to put up with me. I’ve alienated everyone I could. Even the thing I had with Sean, no matter how brief, how messed up—no matter that he was never mine to begin with—I still somehow managed to fuck it up. I couldn’t do a thing to get Olivia back. I can only hope I didn’t make things worse, didn’t indirectly cause something irreparable. And my court date isn’t going anywhere. I have few doubts; no matter what Sean can or can’t prove about my laptop, I’m getting locked up someplace without windows.

  All I can do is keep walking. I barely know where I am but I know exactly where I’m headed. I’ve been heading for it my whole life. What’s surprising is how long it took to get there.

  * * *

  There’s a bridge across Lake Union called Aurora. A fence lines it but it never stopped anyone—and it won’t stop me. All I have to do is climb over, let go, and gravity will do its work.

  I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get to the bridge, and I don’t care if I have to walk all night. It’s raining—but then again, when is it not fucking raining in this place?—and I start to shiver, my chin tucked into the collar of my jacket.

  My kidnapper should have been the one to kill me, but he didn’t, and I’ll never know why. It’s time I finish what he started. As I walk along the empty highway, I take out my phone and turn it back on. There’s still one bar of battery left. I should call Sean, tell him how sorry I am about this whole mess. He probably won’t pick up, and I don’t see why he should. And later, when he learns the news, he’ll only feel guilty about it.

  But if I’m gone, maybe it’ll be easier for him. He won’t have to think about me anymore, or worry about me or torment himself about things that are out of his control. I owe him this much.

  I put the phone away and keep walking. Rain soaks through my clothes, and they cling to my skin, heavy and cold, leeching my life energy. I drag my boots like a punishment, and they seem to grow heavier with every step.

  The phone in my pocket erupts with ringing, making me jump. My heart springs back to life, hammering against my matchstick ribs in a desperate frenzy. I want it to be Sean so badly that, when I see an unfamiliar number, I almost drop the phone into the puddle at my feet. The call goes to voice mail, and I let out a sigh of relief but just as soon it starts to ring again.

  God, what do they want from me?

  I bring the phone to my ear, intent on telling whoever it is to just forget about it, it’s over, please call back never.

  But on the other end, I hear a slightly muffled woman’s voice. “Lainey?”

  “Who is this?” I frown. The voice is familiar but I can’t quite make it out through the static and the rustle of rain.

  “Lainey,” she sighs. “Thank God I got ahold of you. It’s me, Jacqueline.”

  “Hi,” I say on autopilot. “This isn’t really a good time.”

  “I know what happened. I’m so glad they let you go.”

  Mutely, I blink away the rain.

  “I know you have no place to stay, so I’m coming to pick you up.”

  “You really don’t have to,” I say
carefully. She can’t not know why I got arrested. That I’m actually a suspect in her daughter’s disappearance.

  “We’re staying at our summerhouse to get away from the reporters. I’ll take you straight to it; just tell me where you are.”

  I shake my head then realize she can’t see me. “No.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” The urgency in her voice alarms me—I can hear it through the background noise.

  “You don’t really want me there,” I choke out. I can’t bring myself to tell her the truth.

  “Yes, we do. I do. I need you to come over here, as soon as possible. Please.” A sigh. “It’s about Olivia.”

  I stop so abruptly that I nearly trip over the soaked hems of my pants. “What about her?”

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “I don’t think we should be discussing it on the phone.”

  “Did you—did you call Sean? I mean, Detective Ortiz.” It’s hard to say his name. Its syllables get stuck in my throat.

  “We’re trying. But at the precinct, they told us he’s not available and he’s not answering his personal cell. I don’t know what to do.” She sounds like she’s this close to tears. “Can you just tell me where you are? Please?”

  I listen to her ragged breathing through the hum of the rain.

  Before I can change my mind, I tell her and hang up.

  * * *

  The car pulls up to the curb, brake lights flaring. It’s Jacqueline’s white BMW, and I race toward it only to skid to a halt when I see the silhouette at the wheel.

  Tom Shaw rolls down the window. “Get in. Come on—hurry.”

  “Where’s Jacqueline?”

  His gaze grows somber. “She wasn’t well enough to drive. Now please, before you catch pneumonia in this rain and die.”

  Wouldn’t that be the easy way out? Reluctantly, I open the door on the passenger side and get in. My clothes drip murky rainwater all over the seat.

  “Good. It wouldn’t be very nice of you to refuse, since I’m the one who posted your bail.”

  I’m too astonished to speak when he takes off into the curtain of rain.