by Hester Young
I know Rae is just throwing out any theory that will stick, but I bristle nevertheless. “What is with everyone dumping on Jocelyn all the time? She can’t do anything to please you guys.”
Rae yawns. “Hey, I don’t even know her. She just sounds a little uptight, that’s all. The burning desire to go to Stanford? She’s like that girl on Saved by the Bell, the one who popped pills to study harder.”
Using early nineties pop-culture references to justify a low opinion of Jocelyn strikes me as unsporting. “What’s so wrong with wanting to go to Stanford?” I demand. “So she keeps her eye on the prize. Good for her. Is she supposed to sit around letting family crap screw up her shot at a good future?”
Though I don’t say so, I have a pretty good idea where Jocelyn is coming from. At fourteen, I lost my father in a drunk-driving accident of his own making. Instead of tears and an emotional breakdown, I hit high school with a vengeance, let the goals I’d long entertained become my driving force. Was I overly focused on external markers of success? Sure. But my determination to achieve wasn’t just for me. It was for my grandmother, too. Her only son was dead. I was all she had left.
“Jocelyn is carrying the dreams of both her parents,” I say. “She has been for a long time. Maybe she’s not as fun or relaxed or likeable as Lise, but that doesn’t make her a bad person. If she were male, how many people would be mocking her ambitions?”
“You’re right,” Rae says. “That wasn’t fair.”
I can see her looking at me, intuiting the ways in which I might identify with Jocelyn. No, I think. We aren’t going there.
“The bottom line is that if Lise had a relationship with some older guy, Jocelyn might know about it,” I tell her. “She might’ve seen something, overheard a secret phone call, who knows.”
Rae picks up her phone, probably to launch another round of Tetris. “How does Marvel’s story about the older guy fit into what you’ve been seeing?” she asks. “You think he’s the creeper in the woods?”
“No clue.” I slide off her bed and stand by the door to the balcony.
The night is a thick, black strip between the curtains. “I still can’t be sure whether it’s Jocelyn or Lise he was watching in those woods. Hard to know what to do when I still don’t know which girl we’re dealing with.”
Rae’s too intent on her phone to answer.
Watching her fiddle with it makes me again crave my own missing phone. “Hey, I should check my email. Maybe Find My iPhone sent me an update. GPS coordinates or something.”
“Yeah,” says Rae. “I think you need to do that.” She’s staring down at her screen, forehead wrinkled, with an uncharacteristically serious expression.
“What? Why are you making that face?”
“You’d better get a look at this.” She holds her phone out to me.
Instagram, I realize with a sinking feeling. A new picture posted to my account about half an hour ago. Not a flower this time, but a person.
A woman with brown hair and a yellow T-shirt, her blurry face half-turned from the camera as she enters Marvel’s store. I glance uneasily over my shoulder, wondering who’s there, who’s been watching.
I know the woman in that photo. It’s me.
thursday
seventeen
I can’t sleep. My stomach is a bundle of nerves. My body reacts to every sound, every shifting shadow. I check the lock on the door to the balcony twice, feeling naked without my phone. The questions come in a feverish loop: Who’s been watching me? Why? Is it the same guy watching Lise/Jocelyn? Is it the mysterious older guy in Lise’s life? Exactly how many creepy men are out there?
Frankie’s voice plays in my head, offering up a chilling reply. Dat’s every dude, lady. Every. Single. One.
So far, technology has proved more alarming than helpful in tracking down my stalker. Though Find My iPhone did provide me with new GPS coordinates, the location indicated only that the person was in the square this evening—something I already knew, given the photo of me. I should’ve paid more attention to my surroundings, inspected every dark corner for a lurking stranger. From now on, I need to be on alert.
When morning comes, I’m only too happy to leave the prison of my bed. I trudge off to the shower, noting in the mirror the strange angle of my hair and the pinkish-gray circles beneath my eyes. Not a face you’d expect to attract a stalker.
“Stalker,” of course, could be a misnomer. Stealing a woman’s phone and using it to covertly take pictures of her strikes me as a distinctly male activity, but I could be misreading things. Maybe the thief is female, and she’s just trying to scare me. It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve come into a town in pursuit of a story and upset locals with my questions.
Rae is already guzzling coffee when I make it to the breakfast table. Though it’s early, she’s dialed up to about an eight, her enthusiasm the product of both caffeine and a discussion she and Thom are having about the recent Magic Mike sequel. She stops when she catches sight of me in the doorway.
“Good morning, sunshine. You look like death warmed over.”
“Sleep is overrated.” I sit down and pour myself a generous cup of coffee. “Have you checked Instagram this morning?”
“Nothing new.”
Though she puts on a good face, Rae is stressing at least as hard as I am about that photo. Last night, worried that we were in over our heads, she insisted that I call Noah. The conversation did not go well. Noah, bless his heart, is a take-action kind of guy. He can comfort a crying baby or replace a broken AC compressor, but he cannot sit idly by when he feels my personal safety is at risk. News of my watcher had him ready to airlift me off the island. Don’t go taking dumb chances, he begged me. The kids and I, we need you home in one piece. My assurances of vigilance were small comfort to a man who has seen me held at gunpoint.
This morning, Rae shares his doubts about how I’m handling things. “Did you turn off your cell service yet?” she asks. “Maybe it’s time to just wipe your phone and be done with this.”
“Hell no.” On that one point, I’m firm. “Every time that jerk posts on Instagram, they have to turn on my mobile data. That means I get GPS updates on where they are. I’m going to find this person. I’m going to figure out who it is.”
“Your call.” Rae doesn’t argue, but I can tell she doesn’t approve. “On a positive note . . .” She gives Thom a friendly tap. “This guy helped me find the schedule for the Free Thought swim team. They have a home meet at four o’clock today, which means Jocelyn will have some time to kill once school lets out. Thom says we can probably catch her in the square.”
“Great,” I say. “Thanks, guys.” I’m unsurprised that Rae’s managed to recruit Thom to our cause. Still, I wonder at what cost. How much is she telling people about our activities? How much is she telling them about me?
I sip my coffee, trying to come up with the best strategy for approaching Jocelyn. Even if she does know about the older guy her sister was seeing, I’m not sure how to extract the information from her. As far as I can tell, Jocelyn has resisted telling both her parents and the police. Why trust me?
“Is someone at the door?” Rae asks suddenly.
Thom and I look up. Sure enough, we hear footsteps on the porch out front. It’s not David—he’s in the kitchen prepping breakfast. Thom steps into the hallway and opens the door to a sight that leaves Rae and me speechless.
Victor Nakagawa, clad in form-fitting exercise gear, stoops over a large bouquet of red hibiscuses. It’s unclear whether he’s putting them down or picking them up, but when he sees Thom, he snatches the flowers up, startled.
“Oh,” he says, the corner of his mouth and eye jerking upward in that odd little tic. “Thom. Hi.”
Bringing flowers might be construed as a kind and neighborly gesture, but the sheet of white paper wrapped around their stems tells a differen
t story. In execrable penmanship, a single word is visible, large and loopy: “Charlie.”
From our seats at the dining table, Rae and I can only stare. Is Victor, a decidedly married man, bringing me flowers?
Thom is the first to recover. “Hey there, Victor.” Although Thom’s voice betrays no shock, his face can’t quite keep up. “Leaving us a little gift?”
Victor’s face reddens. “No, no,” he says. “I just . . . I was out for a run. Thought I’d stop by to say hello.”
“Ah.” Thom smiles. “Come on in.”
“I saw the flowers,” Victor says quickly. “I thought—I mean, I didn’t put them there. I found them. I thought I should bring them in.” He stares down at the bundle in his arms, aware of how awkward this has become.
Thom tries to give him an out. “Did Sue send those over?”
“No, not Sue.” Victor shakes his head vigorously. “Don’t thank Sue. I don’t know where they came from. I just came by to talk about the article. To see if there was anything I could do to assist you, Charlotte. If you had more questions.”
I don’t know if we caught him in the middle of what was supposed to be an anonymous flower delivery or Victor is simply thrown off by appearances. Either way, I’ve never seen him so nervous before.
“Why don’t we go chat on the back patio?” I suggest.
Thom swoops the flowers out of Victor’s arms. “I’ll get these in some water for you.” He purses his lips as he passes Victor, his bespectacled face half-covered by hibiscus blooms, and disappears into the kitchen. He and David will have a field day with this.
I give Rae a gentle push on the shoulder, silently urging her to follow Victor and me to the patio. There is no way I want to be left alone with Victor—especially not now. Because I recognize those hibiscuses, their veiny red blooms.
They’re the same flowers pictured in that first Instagram photo.
“So. Victor. You didn’t happen to bring my phone back, did you?” Though I pose the question casually, I watch Victor’s reaction like a hawk.
“Your phone?”
“It’s lost. I thought you might have it.”
Either Victor’s back on his game, or he genuinely doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “I haven’t seen it,” he says. “Did you leave it at our house?”
“I don’t know where it ended up. You’ll return it if you find it?”
“Of course.”
Rae plunks herself down beside me. “Nice morning,” she says, fingers laced behind her head. “Out for a run, Victor?”
He nods, still standing despite several empty chairs. “I have a presentation this evening, so I thought I’d head in to work late, get five or six miles in. And I was passing Koa House anyway.”
“Did you stop by Naomi’s place?” Rae asks.
“Naomi?” Victor’s face goes blank.
This is dangerous ground, and he must know it.
“You two are friends, right?”
“Oh,” he says. “I suppose. She’s got a big property to manage on her own, and I’m free labor. What woman wouldn’t love that arrangement?” If he intends this as a joke, it falls flat. “I haven’t seen much of Naomi lately. Adam has things under control.”
“Adam seems like a nice kid,” I venture, but Victor has no interest discussing anyone other than himself.
“I’ve got to finish my run,” he says. “Did you need anything else for the article? I assume you’ll run a copy of the story by me before you publish. I’d obviously like to fact-check. And I could weigh in on the photos you took, as well.”
Charming. The man is trying to micromanage his own feature. There’s no way a guy this self-involved came by with flowers for me this morning. Somebody else must have left them.
I clear my throat and avert my eyes from Victor’s spandex running getup. “I guess the one thing I’d like to expand on a bit in the article is the parenting angle. A lot of readers will relate to that. The struggle to balance work and family and training, the challenge of raising teenagers . . .”
“I have no wisdom to impart when it comes to raising teenagers,” Victor says. “As I’m sure you gathered from your visit the other night, it hasn’t been an easy experience.”
“No? Jocelyn seemed very responsible. Quite articulate, too.”
“Jocelyn isn’t the problem.” His jaw tightens. “I don’t want Lise mentioned in the article. She’s embarrassed her mother and I enough locally without broadcasting her actions in a national publication.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I understand.” With great difficulty, I choke back my anger. Victor is not a bridge I can afford to burn. “You find your daughter embarrassing? In what way?”
“Off the record? We all know Lise ran off with some boy. That’s her modus operandi, these . . . casual relationships.” He stalks around the dewy grass. “She’s been on a bad path for a while now. Poor grades, questionable friends. I’m sure there are drugs involved. Marijuana and . . . and . . . meth, maybe.” Victor has worked himself into a frenzy imagining all the sordid possibilities.
“Lise did meth?” That’s a far cry from the weed Sue said she found in her daughter’s drawer.
“I don’t know what Lise did,” Victor says irritably. “That’s the point. She was sneaky. And to be gone all this time . . . her mother cries at night, you know that? She cries. She thinks Lise is dead. I tell Sue, that’s what she wants us to think. She’s trying to scare us, so that when she comes home we’ll be so grateful we’ll let her do whatever she wants. Drop out of school, run around with boys, anything. Well, it’s not going to work on me. I am not going to abandon my rules in the face of this—emotional blackmail.”
Rae raises her eyebrows, incredulous. “You’re not worried? You don’t think she was hurt or—”
“No.” Victor shuts her down immediately. “All this speculation about Elijah is complete and utter garbage. I saw Elijah that night, after she ended their relationship. Lise hurt him just as much as she’s hurt Sue and I.”
“You saw Elijah?” Rae asks. “Where?”
Victor elects not to answer, no doubt aware the oddness of his presence at the Yoon home that evening vastly overshadows his defense of Elijah. He stands up. “I need to run home and shower before work. If you have any more questions—about me, not my daughter—then you can call.”
“I don’t have a phone,” I start to say, but he’s already off, racing across the grass toward the road.
“Well, that was weird,” Rae mutters, watching him. “Victor’s kind of losing it. And I can’t believe he brought you flowers days after we all hung out with his wife. That takes some cojones.”
I frown. “I don’t think he brought the flowers. Someone else must have left them on the steps. Whoever took my phone. Whoever’s been messing with my Instagram account.”
“Charlotte.” Rae speaks slowly, as if I am a slightly senile senior citizen. “That is pretty clearly Victor. I don’t know if he’s a nutso stalker type or just socially inept when it comes to making advances, but he’s got your phone stashed somewhere.”
“Victor isn’t attracted to me,” I protest. “There’s no way. You saw him.”
“I saw that he got flustered when he came to the door. That he was quick to distance himself from Naomi and didn’t like talking about his wife in front of you. He’s a science nerd. They aren’t exactly known for their smooth pickup techniques.”
“He wasn’t trying to pick me up!”
“No, I guess he wasn’t.” Rae pauses. “Maybe he prefers to watch you from afar,” she says, and then neither of us speaks because somehow that’s worse, much worse.
* * *
• • •
WITH NOTHING TO do until Jocelyn gets out of school, Rae and I spend our morning on a scenic drive-turned-hike. The road to the island’s eastern tip takes us past the remn
ants of an old Hawaiian village, through prehistoric forests and lava quarries and a cemetery with gravestones half buried from an old eruption. Pele’s path across the earth has ruthlessly transformed lush growth into barren rock. And yet, paradoxically, it is this same destructive force that forms new land, expands the island inch by fiery inch.
We end up on the jagged black coast. Standing on hardened lava, my face to the purple-blue sea, I find myself exhilarated by this strange and volatile island. I have never experienced a place with such raw power, never felt creation and annihilation so inextricably linked.
Rae raises her arms above her head as if the breeze might catch her and grant her flight. “Nothing between us and California but a little water!” she shouts. “Twenty-five hundred miles of it . . .”
“Water and wind!” I call back. “You feel this?” I bat my blowing hair from my eyes, suddenly giddy. “We need a kite!”
I wriggle out of my windbreaker and hold it over my head by the hood. Gusts flow through the chest and sleeves, lifting the jacket like a wind sock. I sprint along the lumpy black ground, flying my makeshift kite up and down the shore. Rae jogs after me for a couple of laps, laughing.
“Don’t let go!” she tells me. “The ocean will get it! You might asphyxiate a hungry turtle.”
I reel in my flapping jacket and stop to catch my breath. “I am so the kind of person who would kill marine life with her outerwear.”
“You think I’m kidding? That jacket could be dangerous!”
My voice drops an octave as I go into announcer mode. “An innocent turtle. The temptation of nylon. Will Shelly survive an encounter with Patagonia’s finest?” I stuff the windbreaker into my mouth and do my best impression of a choking turtle.
Rae dissolves into giggles. “Environmental protection is no laughing matter!” she exclaims. “But that turtle face, my God, I can’t even . . .”
