I Hope You're Listening

by Tom Ryan

  Maybe it was you.

  Carla Garcia has been an incredible friend to Vanessa. She’s doing everything she can to help Vanessa’s family, her boyfriend, and her friends bring Vanessa home. She’s spearheaded a grassroots effort to turn over every stone. She reached out to me to see whether the LDA can help. She recorded the clips you heard on this episode, and she’s on the ground in Houston, willing to follow up any lead we can send her way.

  I’ve put all of this information on our show page, including several photos of Vanessa.

  I want to use this platform to tell you about Vanessa. I want to give her story the space it deserves.

  Is there something you can do to help?

  Listen up.

  Let’s try.

  14.

  Sure enough, I wake up to learn that school is canceled for the day. Normally, that’s a good thing, but today all I can think about is how it’s holding up the search for Layla. By the time Burke picks me up for the press conference, after dinner, the snow has finally stopped and I am itching to get out of my house. He rings the bell just as my parents are in the middle of gently discouraging me from going for the hundredth time, and I dart for the entryway, pulling on my coat and boots and yelling a quick goodbye before escaping outside.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I say to Burke as I hurry past him and down the front steps.

  “You fighting with your folks or something?” he asks, hustling behind me.

  “Worse,” I say. “They want to talk about my feelings.”

  Burke groans. “Gross. So they don’t like this shit any more than mine do, hey?”

  “They seem to think that being close to a missing person case will bring back bad memories.”

  He laughs. “Wait till they find out about the podcast.”

  I stop and turn to him, jabbing a finger in his chest. “They’ll never find out about the podcast. Capisce?”

  “Jesus, Dee. Relax. How many times do we need to have this conversation? I’m on your side, remember?”

  I nod, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m just tense. This is heavy shit.”

  “No kidding,” he says. “My family got questioned this afternoon.”

  “Wow, really?”

  “Yeah, they sat us down and asked a trillion questions. They’re trying to come up with a detailed schedule explaining where everyone in the neighborhood was at the time of the abduction.”

  I nod. It makes sense. I know that the most likely suspect in a missing person case is someone who lives close to the abducted. Usually it’s a family friend or relative, but sometimes it’s a neighbor or someone who works in the vicinity. Someone who had knowledge and opportunity.

  “Where were her parents?” I ask.

  “They were out running errands,” he says. “Apparently she was doing homework and they figured they wouldn’t be gone for long, so they left her alone. When they got back, she was gone.”

  “And it’s all been proven?” I ask. “I mean, did people see them?”

  Burke nods. “Yep. Multiple people saw them at the grocery store and the hardware store. I know you’re thinking the parents often have something to do with it, but not this time.”

  The parking lot outside the school auditorium is packed. As I approach, I notice several news vehicles lined up along the sidewalk, including a conspicuous baby-blue van with the BNN logo on it.

  “Shit,” I say, stopping on the other side of the street.

  Burke follows my gaze. “Shit,” he says, agreeing. “Do you think Quinlee Ellacott is here?”

  “I don’t know,” I say uneasily. “I hope not.”

  “Even if she is, it’s not like she’d ever pick you out of a crowd and say, ‘Hey! Are you the Seeker?’”

  “Maybe not,” I say. “But it’s still way too close for comfort.”

  The inside of the gym is packed tight, and it genuinely feels like everyone in town is here. At the back of the room, conspicuous in a dark suit and overcoat, among a room full of jeans and parkas, is Detective Avery. His arms are crossed, and his eyes scan the room slowly, as if he’s taking notes on everyone in the gym.

  Near the front of the stage, cameras are set up on tripods and reporters mill about, chatting with each other and occasionally soliciting a local resident for a quick impromptu interview. Sure enough, I catch sight of Quinlee Ellacott—not difficult, since she stands out from the crowd in her signature bright red jacket.

  Although the cameras are trained on the stage, I lead us toward the back of the room, yanking my hat down low and pulling my hood as far forward as it will go. Despite my best efforts to stay inconspicuous, I notice a few people looking my way and whispering. What happened in the woods has never totally disappeared, but usually people are pretty discreet. This new development, though, seems to have the old case on people’s minds. Ugh.

  The energy in the gym shifts toward the stage, as a small group of people come out and sit behind the table that’s been set up at the front. Flashes go off, and microphones on poles get shoved in toward the action. I recognize Mrs. Gerrard right away. She’s being guided toward the table by a tall, handsome man whose hand rests protectively on her back.

  I lean in to whisper to Burke. “Is that her husband?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Adam. Nice guy.”

  Once the Gerrards are seated at the center of the table, in front of the microphone, they’re followed by a man in a suit, then the mayor and chief of police.

  The suited man leans forward and drags the microphone over in front of him.

  “Thank you for coming,” he says. “I’m representing the Gerrards, who will make a brief statement. Then I’ll take questions.”

  He pushes the microphone back in front of his clients, who give him a nervous look. With one hand under the table, presumably holding on to his wife’s, Adam Gerrard leans forward. “We appreciate very much that you’ve all come out here today,” he says. “Bonnie and I are in a lot of shock right now, as you can imagine, but we are taking faith in the outpouring of love and assistance that’s come from the community and beyond.”

  He looks shell-shocked, his face blank and drawn. He stares down at the microphone, composing himself, then speaks in a halting, unhappy voice.

  “We have a message to whoever is responsible for the abduction of our daughter.” He looks up from the microphone and straight down into the bank of cameras. “Whoever you are, wherever you are, please, stop and talk to our little girl. Tell her that her parents love her and that this is a big mistake. Then please take her somewhere safe, where you can’t be seen. Leave here there, and phone the helpline that’s been set up for Layla. It’s anonymous and has been set up by the police so that you can’t be tracked. Just send her home to us and everything will be forgiven.”

  “Yeah right,” Burke whispers to me. “If that girl makes it home, the cops won’t rest until that guy is strung up by the balls.”

  “Shhh,” I say. This is the first actual missing person press conference I’ve attended, and I want to hear it.

  There’s a long pause onstage, and the crowd is completely hushed as Bonnie Gerrard continues.

  “We have a message for Layla,” she says, and her voice, quieter and softer than her husbands, cracks. “Layla, baby, we love you. We know you’re waiting to get home, that you just want to hang out with BamBam and watch Planet Earth. We’re here, baby, just waiting for you.”

  With an abrupt shudder, she jerks forward and puts her face into her hands and begins sobbing. Her husband leans forward and covers her with his body, leaning his face down onto her shoulder, and the two of them sit like that, shaking and crying.

  Their lawyer reaches across and grabs the microphone away from the Gerrards’ faces, but not before their combined, gasping sobs have filled the auditorium. I glance around me. Most people are exchanging horrified glances or staring awkwardly down at their shoes. It’s embarrassingly intimate.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Gerrard!” The voice that break
s the awkward moment is inappropriate, but it still comes as a relief. Quinlee Ellacott is pressing against the front of the stage, her red-sleeved arm holding her microphone up toward the table. “Can you say anything about the rumors that someone might have kidnapped Layla as an act of revenge or payback?”

  A ripple goes through the crowd, and I turn to Burke, who shakes his head at me, wide-eyed. This is obviously the first he’s heard of this theory.

  The lawyer leans in toward the Gerrards and speaks to them in a hushed, urgent voice. Adam Gerrard nods and begins to stand, reaching down for his wife, but she shakes off his hand and leans forward over the table, her glare fixed on the reporter, who stares right back.

  “That’s ridiculous,” she says. “Payback for what?”

  Her husband leans in and tries to say something to her, but she shakes him off and listens to the reporter.

  “There are rumors of debts,” Quinlee continues, unfazed by the commotion, probably relishing it. “Gambling, defaulted mortgages. Why did you move to Redfields in the first place?”

  “How dare you?” screams Bonnie, and her voice is so clear and loud and tight with anger that the entire auditorium goes still, as if her grief and rage have stopped time. Adam Gerrard’s hand hovers over her shoulder, the lawyer is momentarily silenced, and for the moment, all of Bonnie Gerrard’s energies are focused on Quinlee Ellacott.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Bonnie continues. “Don’t you see what has happened to our family? And you have the audacity to place blame on us?”

  Quinlee doesn’t back down; instead, she takes another step forward, but I think I can see a tiny tightening ripple across her shoulders as she braces herself to continue.

  “I’m not placing blame on anyone,” she says. “But it’s important to examine all possibilities here, and when a child goes missing, the likeliest possibility is always someone close to them.”

  “We have alibis!” yells Bonnie.

  “Yes,” says Quinlee, “but alibis only remove suspicion from you. I’m exploring whether some kind of association you’ve made elsewhere led to Layla’s abduction.”

  As if they’ve been released from a spell, the people onstage snap back into action. The lawyer leans in and whispers something to Bonnie, who seems to shake something off before getting up and pushing past everyone to get backstage.

  Adam Gerrard leans forward to the microphone.

  “If you’re looking for some Sopranos-style heavies who are out looking for me to repay debts, you’ll be looking a long time,” he says before pushing away from the table so aggressively that the microphone falls sideways with a loud thump.

  The lawyer ushers him away from the table and gestures to the mayor, Emma Jin, as they leave the stage. She steps forward to the microphone and leans in to address the crowd that is already beginning to chatter excitedly among themselves.

  Quinlee Ellacott has turned to her camera guy, and I can see the smug look on her face from here. Everything Adam and Bonnie Gerrard said was true, but with just a couple of well-placed questions, she’s prompted a dramatic reaction and created a new narrative out of thin air. This will make for much more exciting television than a straightforward press conference.

  “Thank you all for coming,” says Mayor Jin. “The entire town’s thoughts and prayers are with the Gerrards. The weather has finally cleared up, and fortunately, tomorrow’s forecast looks clear, so we’ll be going ahead with a search of the woods behind Layla’s house tomorrow. We ask that anyone who is interested in helping meet on Red Spruce Lane at first light so we can organize and head out. Police Chief Garber is going to say a few words about the search before we disband, but I’d like you all to think long and hard about whether you may have seen something strange in the days leading up to Layla’s disappearance.”

  The chief steps up to the microphone.

  “As Mayor Jin mentioned, we’re organizing a search for tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll be meeting at first light, around 0800, and spreading ourselves through the woods behind the block and the highway. The circumstances are far from ideal, since so much snow has fallen since Layla was reported missing, but we’re going to move ahead anyway, and we could use your help. I’ll go over these details again tomorrow, but for those of you who participate, remember not to touch anything. Take your cell phones with you so we have pictures. We’ll see you in the morning.”

  We join the crush of the crowd as it moves slowly toward the doors on the far end of the gym, until we finally escape outside. The air is crisp and light, just cold enough not to feel wet, just warm enough not to hurt your face. Reflected in the bright gleam of the parking lot, tiny crystal snowflakes drift down and melt on the sidewalk.

  “Are you going to do the search tomorrow?” Burke asks.

  “Yeah,” I say as we move off to the side, letting the crowd move past us. “Definitely. I feel like I have to do it.”

  “Me too,” he says. “I’m definitely going to search. Why don’t you come to my house first? My mom would love to see you.”

  I nod. “Sounds good. I’ll text you.”

  “Hey, check it out,” he says, staring past me. I turn back toward the school and notice that Sarah is coming out of the double front doors.

  “You should go see if she wants to walk home with you,” he says, a small smile on his face. I blush, cursing myself that I can’t control it, and the smile broadens. I swear an actual twinkle pings off his scrunched-up eye.

  “You think you’re adorable, don’t you?” I ask.

  “I’m just your friendly neighborhood Cupid,” he says. Then he spins on a heel and sprints away without looking back. I look after him, grinning as he disappears around a corner, then turn in the other direction, ready to leave. I’m assuming Sarah is already gone, but then I see her across the parking lot, walking away in the direction of our neighborhood. She’s close enough that I could catch up with her pretty easily, but for some reason I hesitate, and soon she’s turned a corner and the opportunity has passed.

  15.

  The morning air is colder and a bit thicker than it was last night. It sure feels like some weather is moving in.

  I arrive at Burke’s house a half hour before the search is supposed to begin. Cars are already lining Red Spruce Lane and the surrounding streets, people sitting inside them with their engines on, hands cupped round their takeout coffees. I climb the steps of the O’Donnells’ split-level and ring the bell. While I wait, I glance across the street at my old house. The Gerrard house now, I suppose. There are several cars in the driveway, and through the sheer curtains in the front window, I can see people moving about. Extended family, I guess. Friends from out of town. Everything I’ve heard about the Gerrards suggests that they didn’t know many people in Redfields yet.

  The door in front of me is yanked open, and Burke’s mother, Marion, pushes the screen door open for me. I catch it and step inside as she puts both hands to her cheeks and shakes her head, a look of complete awe on her face, as if I’ve just returned from ten years at sea.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Delia,” she says, reaching up to give me a big bear hug. “I can’t believe how quickly you’ve grown up.”

  Her reaction is a bit over-the-top, considering I saw her at the grocery store just a few weeks ago, but it doesn’t come as a surprise. Burke’s mom is dependably over-the-top.

  “Come on in,” she says. “We’re just finishing breakfast.”

  I kick my boots off into the giant pile beside the door and follow her across the thick carpeting of the family room into the kitchen. On the other side of the kitchen, Burke is sitting at the large, battered wooden table, engrossed in a comic book.

  He glances up at me. “Hey, Dee, I’m almost done.”

  A small man sits in the corner, hunched over a plate of toast and looking at something on his phone.

  “Delia, do you remember my brother-in-law, Terry?” asks Mrs. O’Donnell.

  The man looks up at me and lifts a hand hal
fheartedly off the table in greeting.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Kind of. From when I was a kid.”

  “How you doing?” Terry asks. It’s a brief, obligatory snippet of politeness, not a question I’m expected to answer. He returns to his phone.

  “You ready to go?” I ask Burke, unwilling to get caught up in a conversation about Sibby.

  Burke peels himself away from the comic and pushes his chair back, pushing to get around from the back of the table. “Yeah,” he says. “I just want to show you something in my room first.”

  I follow him down to the basement. His room is walled up into the back corner. Just like he said, Uncle Terry has taken over the rest of the basement. The couch is covered with blankets and pillows, and a giant, beat-up old duffel bag is sitting on top of the coffee table, ragged jeans and faded T-shirts and various mismatched socks pouring out of it onto the floor.

  “It’s like a tree fort,” I say.

  “Don’t get me started,” says Burke as we step into his room. To be fair, his bedroom isn’t really all that different from Terry’s camp on the couch, with clothes and papers strewn everywhere, but I know better than to point out the similarities.

  Burke shuts the door behind him and immediately turns to me. “I listened to your show this morning,” he says. “Why didn’t you say anything about Layla?”

  “I thought you don’t listen,” I say.

  “I listened today,” he says. “Because I wanted to hear what you’d say about it. You didn’t even mention it! What the hell?”

  “Come on, Burke. Do I really have to explain this to you?” I reach up and squeeze my temples, worried that this is going to turn into a headache. “It’s not the right kind of case for Radio Silent.”

  “Not the right kind of case?” he repeats, and he sounds so upset that I take a step back.

  “Shh,” I say. “Please keep your voice down.”

  He rolls his eyes, points at the ceiling. “They can’t hear us up there. Dee, a girl on my street is missing, a girl living in your old house, and you host a podcast that helps find missing people! Think about it. You’d be closer to the action than ever. You could get right into the thick of things.”