I Hope You're Listening

by Tom Ryan

  “No,” I say quickly. “Not at all. I’ve never looked into that online.”

  She looks at me skeptically.

  “Seriously, Mom,” I say. “I have no interest in reopening that can of worms. I’m better off forgetting about it as much as I can.”

  I can tell by the look on her face that she believes me and is relieved.

  “That’s good, honey,” she says. “I think that’s very wise of you. You have your own life to live, and you’ve come so far.”

  She embraces me, and I let her. I feel my father come in from the side, and soon we’re sharing a giant, obnoxious family hug. Part of me wants to cringe at the sitcom moment, but the rest of me can’t help but lean into the comfort it gives me.

  I wonder what my parents would think if they knew the whole truth. It’s true that I haven’t been reading about Sibby’s disappearance online, but that hasn’t stopped me from digging into other cases, to put it lightly.

  “I think I’m going to head up to my room and do some homework,” I say, pulling away from the love fest.

  “You sure?” my dad asks. “I could make us all hot chocolate. Maybe we could watch a movie?”

  “I’d love to, but I have an essay due for poli sci next week, and I haven’t even started researching yet.” They both look so frazzled and concerned that I force a smile onto my face. “You guys don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  I’m not fine. Back in my room, I drop into my desk chair and do some controlled breathing. I think of Layla, and a hundred different outcomes run through my mind, one after the other. It’s a mystery just like the ones I’ve been covering on Radio Silent, but I didn’t ask for this one, and just like the one that got its claws into my almost ten years ago, it’s far too close to home.

  I think back to the note Avery showed us. Playing with fire. It was a warning for the Gerrards, but it might as well have been directed at me.

  I shake my head to remove the invasive thoughts. Desperate to shift focus, I turn to my laptop and check my email. Waiting at the top of my inbox is a message from Carla Garcia in Houston. She’s sent me the information I requested about her friend Vanessa, along with a whole lot more.

  This is just the kind of distraction I need at the moment.

  12.

  Carla’s email is a podcaster’s dream. Not only has she taped a video of herself and a friend walking the route between Vanessa’s work and her house, and made a list of the people Vanessa interacts with on a regular basis, she’s gone to the trouble of recording high-quality interviews with several of Vanessa’s closest contacts, each of whom state their explicit permission for me to include their recordings on Radio Silent.

  I sift through the information and begin to make notes, and it isn’t long before I’m ready to record the first episode about the disappearance of Vanessa Rodriguez.

  I’ve just set up my recording equipment when I hear the doorbell ring downstairs. It’s an antique doorbell, an ancient contraption that my dad found on eBay and arrived a week later in two boxes. It took him weeks to put together and install, and it sounds like an off-key gong in the center of the house. The twins call it the “horror movie chime.”

  I hear my parents talking to someone downstairs. For a moment, I worry that I’m going to have to talk to more police, but the voices sound cheerful, if muffled, and soon they move down the hallway toward the kitchen and out of earshot. It seems weird that anyone would choose tonight to stop by for a visit, but at least it’ll keep Mom and Dad from stressing out about me for a little while. I turn back to my computer and am about to turn my headphones on when there’s a knock on the door at the bottom of my stairs and the door opens.

  “Hello?” an unfamiliar voice calls up the stairs.

  I scramble to shove my microphone back into my desk drawer as someone ascends the steps. I slam my computer closed and spin around in my chair just as, to my immense surprise, Sarah Cash appears at the top of the stairs.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi,” I say. I must be unable to disguise my confusion because she laughs and takes a final step into my room.

  “Sorry to just pop in on you like this, but my parents decided we should visit the neighbors. I told them it wasn’t cool to just show up unannounced, but they said that’s how people do things in small towns and insisted that I come along. I’m Sarah, by the way. I know we’re in the same class, but we haven’t really met exactly.”

  “Come on in,” I say, somehow managing to compose myself. “I’m Dee.”

  She gazes around the room. “The truth is, my father has had a boner for this place since the minute we moved in. He and your dad are downstairs talking about renovations while our moms drink wine in the kitchen.”

  “Sounds like a match made in heaven,” I say. “Dad loves to talk about this house.”

  “No kidding,” she says. “I didn’t realize houses had genders,” said Sarah. “But he called it she. Just like a sailboat, I guess.” She glances at me, amused. “Have you always lived here?”

  “No. We’ve always lived in Redfields, but we moved into this house when I was eight.”

  There’s no sense playing coy about it. “My room’s pretty great,” I admit. “I’m lucky they let me have it.”

  She stands for a moment longer, just looking around. “This might be the coolest bedroom I’ve ever seen,” she says.

  I feel a rush of pride at the way I have it set up. The only other person outside my family who ever comes here is Burke, and he’s never even commented on it. I might make fun of my father for his renovation obsession, but I’ve inherited his love of interior design, and over the years, he’s helped me collect a few cool things. On the worn wooden floorboards, I’ve laid a bunch of faded multicolored rugs that we’ve found at yard sales and antique shops. There’s a beat-up old leather couch against one wall, and my bed sits in the gable opposite the big octagonal window. I try to keep the walls mostly bare, but there are a couple of posters neatly tacked onto the angled ceiling, an “I’m With Her” poster from when my mother and I went to a Hillary rally in the city back during the ’16 election and a vintage Runaways poster that I bought on eBay.

  Sarah glances up into the rafters, where I’ve hung tiny white lights, then walks over to stand in the gable window, and lets out a long whistle.

  “You can see the whole goddamn town from up here,” she says. “It almost makes Redfields look cool.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” I laugh.

  “Oh, hey,” she says, pointing. “That’s my house, like, right there.”

  “Yeah,” I say, doing my best to stay cool. “Mrs. Dunlop’s place.”

  “Jeez,” she says. “I’d better not get changed in the window. You’ve got like a full view.”

  Do not turn red. Do not turn red.

  “Does it always snow this much around here?” she asks. Beyond her, the snow continues to swirl.

  “Yup,” I say. “On the bright side, we probably won’t have school tomorrow.”

  She goes over to the sofa and flops into a corner. Instead of joining her, I grab the desk chair and drop into it backward, then roll it around so I’m facing her.

  “I hope that little girl isn’t out there in this weather,” she says. “It’s pretty crazy.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “It’s messed up.”

  “I wonder what happened,” she goes on. “There are so many perverts out there. Hopefully she’s just lost and she’ll turn up safe and sound.”

  “Hope so.” I don’t mention the note that Avery showed us. It’s pretty clear that it isn’t public knowledge. Not yet, at least.

  “Apparently there’s going to be a press conference sometime tomorrow,” she says.

  I nod. “They’re planning on a search of the woods too. As soon as the weather clears up.”

  “Are you going to go?” she asks.

  The thought of going back into the woods for the first time in ten years sends an uncomfortable feeling into
the pit of my stomach. “I’m not sure. Maybe.” I search for something else to talk about, anxious to change the subject. “I really like your car. It’s a Chevy Nova, right?”

  She looks impressed. “Good eye! You into cars?”

  “Not really,” I admit. “My dad told me it was a Nova. It’s really cool looking though.”

  “I bought this one back home,” she says. “Saved up for months. Worked two part-time jobs, which my parents weren’t thrilled about, although I managed to keep my grades up, so they couldn’t say much about it. I knew I wanted a muscle car, and when this one came up, I couldn’t turn it down. My dad says the road salt here will do a real number on it, but I don’t care. Cars were made to be driven, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s definitely a cool-looking car.”

  “My parents don’t like it, but there’s nothing they can do about it as long as I pay for it myself. We’ve been fighting a lot,” she says abruptly. “Me and my parents. I didn’t want to move here.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I say. “Redfields isn’t exactly exciting.”

  “It’s not like I was even all that attached to the last town,” she says. “But I wanted to be. That’s kind of the thing. We move so much that I never have time to get attached to any place. I just want the opportunity to settle in somewhere. Now they’re all over me to make friends, meet people, and I’m like, why bother?”

  “Yeah,” I say, suddenly very self-conscious.

  She laughs and puts her hand on her face. “Oh shit, I’m such a dummy. No wonder I don’t make friends easily. I’m glad you’re here. You seem cool. Maybe we can hang out. You can check out my car. Maybe I’ll even let you drive it.”

  “That’d be great,” I say. I don’t mention that I’ve never learned to drive and have no interest. I just want to be in her car.

  “It’s kind of crazy about that girl going missing, hey?” she asks. “That’s like, big-city shit.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s terrible.”

  “My mom says another girl went missing here a few years ago.” She leans forward eagerly. “It’s such a bizarre coincidence. Do you remember that?”

  “I was just a little kid,” I say, deflecting. It’s only a matter of time before she learns my connection, but I don’t have the energy to have that conversation right now.

  “I wonder what happened to them,” she says. “Here’s a random question. Do you listen to podcasts?”

  My heart skips. “Podcasts?” I say. “Not really. I mean, I know what they are, but they’re just not really my thing.”

  “You should,” she says, suddenly eager. “I’m obsessed with this true crime podcast. It’s called Radio Silent, and I can’t stop listening. It has this really cool host. I think they disguise their voice, because it sounds all filtered and weird, but in a cool way. They talk about missing people, like people who are missing right now, and then their followers kind of act like detectives and help them solve cases and shit. It’s awesome.”

  “Oh, yeah?” My mouth is dry, and I can’t figure out how to respond without sounding completely guilty or obvious. “Sounds cool.”

  “It’s such a cool premise,” she says. “I mean, they actually find people. It’s crazy. It’s happened like a million times.”

  I want badly to correct her, to tell her that it’s only happened a handful of times, that most of the time it doesn’t help at all. But I force myself to just smile and pretend I think this is all very interesting.

  “Anyway, I’ve been wondering if they’ll cover this case. The missing kid. Layla Gerrard. I keep thinking I would try to help, like investigate it or something.”

  “There are a lot of missing person’s cases, aren’t there?” I ask. “Don’t you think it’s a bit of a stretch?”

  “Maybe.” She shrugs. “But I feel like it’s the kind of case the show would take on. It’s kind of perfect, and the most important thing is that it’s totally fresh. After the first forty-eight hours, cases start to go cold. We’ll see what happens. Anyway, you should check it out.”

  “Yeah, for sure,” I say.

  I’m saved by the bell, or really, the knocking.

  “Hello up there! Can we come up?” my father yells.

  He doesn’t bother to wait for my reply, just clomps up the stairs to my room, followed by a very tall man who I recognize as Sarah’s father from the night they moved in.

  “This is great!” he says, looking around. He looks at me and grins. “You must be Dee. Sorry to intrude on your sanctuary, but your old man said you wouldn’t mind. I’m just really in love with this house.”

  “Old man,” echoes Sarah. “You sound like a hippie,” she says.

  She’s right, and I wonder if tall Mr. Cash is going to be tagging along with Dad before long, hanging with Jaron and Pickle and smoking blunts behind the grocery store between errands.

  “We should probably be getting going, sweet pea,” he says to Sarah. “School night and all. Let’s go drag your mother away from her business talk.”

  Sarah gets up from the couch and stretches. “Guess I’ll see you at school tomorrow, hey?”

  “For sure,” I tell her.

  Dad steps aside and lets them exit first, and I follow him down to help see our guests out.

  “That was unexpected,” says my mother once they’ve left. She drops into an armchair and yawns. “I can’t say I was in the mood for company after the day we’ve all had, but they seem like nice people.”

  “Hard to blame them for being neighborly,” says Dad. “They’re probably the only people in town who don’t know about…our background. What did you think, Dee? Sarah seems cool. Cute too!”

  “Welp,” I say, ignoring his comment, “I still have homework to do.” I turn and escape upstairs before he has a chance to pry any further.

  Back in my room, I stand in my window and look down at the house across the street. To my surprise, Sarah is standing at her window, about to close her curtains. It happens so quickly that I don’t have time to duck out of the way before she spots me, so I just stand there like a deer in the headlights.

  But instead of being freaked out, Sarah just grins and throws me a peace sign. I find myself grinning back and returning the gesture.

  She gives me a final wave, then draws her curtain. I stay in the window for a few moments, staring through the snow at the forest in the distance. Could Layla really be out there?

  I pull myself away and return to my desk, then I pull my microphone back out of the drawer and begin to record.

  13.

  Transcript of RADIO SILENT

  Episode 42

  HOST (intro): A woman goes missing in Houston, after a routine shift at work. Police have asked the public for help, but so far, there are no leads. Does anyone out there in Radio Silent land have any relevant information? Is there something we can do to help?

  Listen up. Let’s try.

  Almost a million people are reported missing across North America every year. If we pay attention, if we work together, maybe we can help bring some of them home.

  I am the Seeker, and this is Radio Silent.

  HOST: Earlier this week, I received an email from Carla Garcia, a woman in Houston, asking me to look into the disappearance of her friend Vanessa Rodriguez. Vanessa, twenty-one, was first reported missing four days ago, but friends say that she’s actually been missing for longer than that. She didn’t turn up for her shift at a busy diner six days ago, which her employer thought was strange, since she’d never missed a shift before. When multiple texts and calls to her cell phone went unanswered, they assumed she’d quit her job. Over the weekend, her family assumed that she was staying with her boyfriend, Johnny, but he was out of town visiting family in San Antonio.

  RECORDING: (voice of Johnny) “I got back home around two or two thirty on Sunday. Vanessa and I had made plans for when I got back. You know, just hang out. She didn’t answer any of my texts, and when I tried calling, it went straight to voice mail
. Finally, I went over to her place. She didn’t answer the door, so I let myself in—I have a key—and nobody was home. Nothing seemed weird or out of place, but I started to get a bad feeling. That’s when I got in touch with her mom, and when she said she hadn’t heard from Vanessa, that’s when we started to get real worried.”

  HOST: Johnny and Vanessa’s mother began reaching out to her friends and family, which is when they realized that something was wrong.

  RECORDING: (voice of Carla Garcia) “None of us had heard from her in two days. I’d last seen her at work earlier in the week. We’d made plans to grab an after-work drink on Friday, because we were working the same shift, but then she didn’t show up on Friday. It was weird because Vanessa never missed a shift at work. I texted her, but I didn’t hear back. I didn’t think a lot about it until I heard from Johnny on Sunday night. We went to the police and they told us we had to wait forty-eight hours to file a missing person report, even though none of us had seen her in over forty-eight hours. It was bullshit, but they said it was standard procedure. It was clear that they weren’t concerned, but we were concerned.

  We were a lot more than concerned.

  HOST: Carla and Johnny and Vanessa’s family immediately began a search of their own. Her phone was discovered underneath a mailbox a few blocks from her apartment, and when they finally gained access to her bank accounts, it turned out that they hadn’t been touched.

  HOST: You all know why I’m here. I know why you’re all here. The world is full of missing people, and the sad truth is that many of them will never come home. But I believe there’s a story behind every missing person, and maybe, just maybe, if we begin to dig up the details together, we can find our way to a happy ending.

  It might be too late for Vanessa. But what if it isn’t too late? What if she’s still out there, waiting somewhere, hoping that someone noticed something?

  Maybe it was someone you know.