The Missing Woman: Utterly gripping psychological suspense with heart-thumping twists

by Georgina Cross

  He settles against the booth and takes another long look at me. “It’s good to see you.”

  My chest warms over. The heat rises in my cheeks and I glance away, not wanting him to see me blush. “It’s good to see you too.”

  The waitress returns with our waters and says the sandwiches will be another five minutes. But Terry’s phone rings loudly and he fumbles in his pockets. He pulls out a phone but its screen is black; there’s no sound. “Shoot,” he says, and digs in another pocket, bringing out a different phone. He studies the screen as it shrills a second time. “Work call,” he says, apologetically.

  Terry places the phone to his ear. Whoever it is says as little as five or six words before Terry is making a face, his mouth twisting with frustration. He holds out an arm to catch the waitress’s attention, who is just starting to walk away. He tells her, “Can I take that to go?” His eyes dart to me. I’m so sorry, he mouths.

  Seriously? He has to leave so soon? But we haven’t had lunch yet.

  Terry listens to the person on the other end of the line. His other hand reaches up to his face as he absently pulls at his chin before rubbing his index finger along his mustache. I’ve seen him do that before. The last time we were together, I asked him a question about his family and where he’d grown up. He asked me the same and I told him about Louisiana, the small town of Pearl River where my granddad took care of me most days, the front yard covered with magnolia blooms, and he listened, running his hand along his mustache and patting it down smoothly. I remember thinking how we hadn’t kissed on the lips yet.

  Terry’s eyes dart to mine and once more, he mouths, I’m sorry. And then to the person on the phone, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Disappointment blooms in my chest and I wave the waitress back over, adding two cheeseburgers and fries to the to-go order. I can’t leave without bringing home what I promised Tish.

  Terry ends the call. “I’ll make this up to you,” he says. “How about this weekend? We’ll try again. I promise—” But his phone rings again and he’s already moving out the door.

  Twenty-Three

  My lunch date having been reduced to a dismal fifteen-minute event, I’m back on the highway when I call Tish and tell her I’m bringing lunch sooner than expected.

  She doesn’t ask why, only says, “No. Meet me at your place. More reporters were here. Sitting around and waiting for another group is driving me crazy.” She tells Charlie to put on his shoes. “We’re going to Aunt Erica’s,” she says. And then to me, “How far away are you?”

  I’ve only just left the outskirts of Scottsboro. “Another twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll let myself in.”

  “Don’t forget to punch in the code.”

  She tells Charlie, “Your shoe. It’s under the bed,” followed by a sigh and the door slamming, the jangling of car keys. “See you soon.”

  Cheeseburgers are eaten—well, only Charlie, since Tish can’t seem to sit still long enough to open her to-go box—and I’ve also had my sandwich. The barbeque is good, Terry is right about that, the bread having a soft baked taste in my mouth. I wipe at the sauce on my chin, squeezing the napkin absentmindedly and trying not to be too irritated as to why Terry left so suddenly.

  But another look at Tish and I’m also wishing she would sit down and relax.

  She’s turned her phone on silent as several reporters have tracked down her number and she’s tired of answering with, “No comment.” She leaves the phone face-down on the sofa and walks circles in the living room.

  “I thought you said you were okay. I wouldn’t have left…”

  “I thought I was okay.” She breaks from her path to look out the front window. Since coming home, I’ve closed the blinds just in case anyone followed her, or the news stations take a guess and assume she’s hiding out at my place. A couple of calls is all it would take to find out I’m her best friend living two streets over.

  Tish retreats from the window. No one’s out there—I could have told her that. But her anxiety is increasing every minute.

  “I refuse to look at the news,” she says. “I don’t want to check Facebook. I’m sure it’s already out there.”

  I’m not looking either—I’m tempted, but I don’t peek. The revelation Tish Abbott is Jacob’s alibi and the woman he’s been seeing is, no doubt, spreading across the internet like wildfire. We don’t have to see it to know it’s happening. Any minute now my phone will start ringing with colleagues and nosy neighbors asking for the scoop. As if I would tell them.

  Tish returns to pacing holes in my carpet.

  “I need something to do,” she says. “Something to distract me. Something to get my mind off… I can’t sit and wait …”

  “We could do a puzzle? A board game?” Although under normal circumstances, Tish can’t stand playing board games. A time like this would be worse.

  But Charlie’s ears prick up. “Yeah! A board game!”

  Tish shakes her head and his shoulders droop.

  “I’ll play with you.” And his eyes light up. “Run to Taylor’s room and find something.” He scurries away as if I’ve just promised him a hundred bucks.

  “I need to do something with my hands,” Tish repeats. “Like cleaning. Organizing. Scrubbing.”

  I glance at my kitchen. “Want to tackle my oven?”

  “What about your shed? You’ve been dying to get that thing straightened out.”

  I frown; that’s a mess I don’t want to tackle right now. “The air conditioning unit went out a few weeks back and I haven’t had anyone fix it yet. You’ll be sweltering in the heat.” I motion at the kitchen. “Seriously. The oven. If you want to take out your frustrations, that’ll help.” I try to joke. “One less thing I have to do.”

  But Tish is heading to my bedroom. “Your closet then. I’ll sort through your stuff. Your clothes are a wreck in there.” She marches down the hall, mind made up, on a mission. I don’t say anything, thinking at least that will keep her from peering out the windows every five seconds and giving herself a panic attack.

  Charlie holds out a Connect 4 board game. “How about this, Aunt Erica?” He tugs on my arm so I can return to the sofa.

  Tish is in my bedroom for what feels like ages, when really, it’s only been about half an hour. But long enough that Charlie and I have played twenty rounds and he’s slowly tiring of the game. He tells me sweetly, “I don’t want to beat you this many times, Aunt Erica,” and I ruffle his hair, crowning him the official Connect 4 champion.

  While we play, my phone buzzes but I don’t respond to anyone, only looking out for messages from Amanda. She’s gone quiet since this morning. I’m sure she’s seen the news alerts and assumes we’re still hunkered down together.

  But just like I expected, that doesn’t stop neighbors or work colleagues from sending text messages asking if Tish is okay. Tish’s boss sends me a note too. A call from Carolyn Castillo goes unanswered. They’re not concerned, only looking for gossip to share.

  Charlie sees me put away my phone. The look on my face must say I’m done with playing because he asks, “Can I go to Taylor’s room now?”

  “Sure thing.” When he leaves, I no longer hear Tish rummaging around in my bedroom.

  Has she finished tossing the empty hangers? Or is she done sorting through my shoe rack and the absolute mess it was in, the shoes never lining up properly on the shelf? Maybe she’s found a pair of her sandals she tossed in the corner last month or her dress left from St. Patrick’s Day and wants to bring it home later.

  I push off the couch, telling myself I should check on her. Make sure that reorganizing my walk-in closet hasn’t let her thoughts drift and she’s turned into a crying heap against the wall. But what I find is neither. Tish is sitting in the middle of the floor with a box of photo albums she’s pulled from the shelf. Photos from my college years are scattered at her feet, an old party cup from a sorority mixer and some keepsake matchbooks from a graduation party. In he
r hand, a postcard my parents sent from their one and only vacation to the Smoky Mountains when they’d saved enough money. I remember when they left for that trip and I stayed with Granddad.

  Well, this isn’t the frenetic cleaning I thought I’d find from Tish, but I’ll take it over her storming around the living room and sobbing into her hands.

  I lean against the door and Tish doesn’t look at me. She’s placed the postcard aside and is now flipping through a small photo album, one of those old plastic ones they used to hand out at the supermarket when we collected our pictures from processing. The album holds twenty photos max, and from the looks of the party shots, I’m guessing they’re from my days in college, good ole Louisiana State University.

  She points at one. “You look so young here.”

  I sit beside her, my legs folded Indian style, to stare at the picture. My hair was longer back then, a dirty blonde that went past my shoulders, my face smooth and clear with the youthful shine and optimism of a teenager. Those were the days…

  “I was.” I nudge her playfully on the arm. “We both used to be so young.”

  “It was so simple back then, wasn’t it?”

  I can’t remember exactly where this picture was taken but it’s a house party. A black beaded choker is around my neck and I’m wearing a red tank top.

  I point at the beaded necklace. “Geeze, do you remember those?”

  She makes a face. “Very nineties.”

  Tish hands the album to me and rummages through the rest of the box, something I haven’t gone through in ages—not even after we moved into the house and unpacked—when she pulls a soft jewelry bag out from the bottom.

  She teases, “Something fancy? You kept that necklace all these years later?”

  I reach out my hand but she’s sliding the jewelry out until it’s nestling against her palm. Silver bracelet. Blue charm.

  She gives me a funny look. “Wait, did you put Sabine’s bracelet in here? I thought you said you were giving it back.”

  A jilt to my voice. “I am.”

  “Well, what’s this doing in here?”

  She jumps up and heads for the bathroom counter. Next to the sink, she finds the bangle I left earlier, the one from my pool bag. She holds it up in her other hand, both bracelets dangling from her fingertips.

  Her eyes bounce between the pieces of jewelry until focusing on me. “Why do you have two of Sabine’s bracelets?”

  I don’t answer.

  She narrows her eyes. “What’s going on?”

  I stand up. “One of those is mine.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I take the bracelets from Tish and clutch them in my hands. She holds my look, waiting for an explanation.

  Finally, I say the words out loud I haven’t said in a long time. “We used to know each other in high school.”

  Tish’s mouth parts—disbelief, confusion, her eyes pinching as if she misunderstood. “You knew each other before? But you never said. You don’t even talk to each other.”

  A knot forms at the back of my throat. This will be hard for her to understand. Even harder for me to discuss.

  Leading her back to the box of mementos, I realize the only way may be to show her instead.

  Pulling out a yearbook—the memories going back to 1995 when I was a senior at St. Mary’s High School—I flip through some of the pages, the mostly black-and-white images from my alma mater and the Jaguar mascot that someone from the yearbook staff has stenciled in the corners. Without a word, Tish kneels slowly by my side.

  I find a picture of me at the head of a table, the caption reading: Erica Holloway, Student Council President.

  I show her several more pictures in the yearbook: Baccalaureate Mass. Students assembled in the cafeteria, group photos of the track and baseball teams… until I find women’s soccer. With my finger, I trace along the second row until I come to a stop. There I am, my hair in a ponytail with a blue scrunchie to match my uniform.

  And down in front, a girl with blonde hair kept shorter than mine, not in a ponytail, but tucked behind her ears with gold dangling earrings that would never be allowed on a soccer field.

  The caption below it reads, S. Taylor.

  Tish sucks in her breath. “Is that her?”

  I find a snapshot of a group of kids sitting at lunch. At the table is the same girl from the soccer team, and below the picture, featuring the girl with blonde hair and hazel eyes and the same parted mouth that makes her appear as if the picture has been captured mid-laugh, is the name Sabine Taylor.

  Tish points at me—the fact that I’m sitting right next to Sabine.

  Her eyebrows crinkle. “But I thought you didn’t know her before? I thought Sabine grew up somewhere else.”

  I’ve gone quiet.

  “You never mentioned her from high school.”

  And I look at my best friend—the things I haven’t told her yet. What happened so long ago. Why Sabine and I stopped being friends. Why our past is a big reason for what went down between us last year, that heated argument in front of our neighbors. Emotions sky-high and reminding us of another vicious argument from so many years ago.

  It’s time I finally come clean. Almost.

  Part Two

  Twenty-Five Years Ago

  Twenty-Four

  1995, Louisiana

  “Hand me that, will you?” My backpack drops to the linoleum floor with a thud—four textbooks and three binders filled with notes—reminding me of the weekend ahead of studying. First quarter exams getting in the way of our seventeen-year-old fun.

  Sabine slides me a lunch tray. On it, chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes, a fruit cup and oatmeal raisin cookie. “Can I have your milk?” she asks, reaching for the carton.

  “Go for it.”

  She pinches the top of the cardboard and peels it open.

  The cafeteria at St. Mary’s Catholic in Slidell, Louisiana, is nothing but a beige concrete block. Rows of laminate tables and plastic chairs that squeak against the floor, although the nuns at St. Mary’s do their best to mop after us. I have no idea how they put up with us day after day, the sounds of two hundred kids talking one on top of the other, cackling and howling, slamming books and scraping table legs, especially as a group of football players are busy rearranging where they sit for no other reason than to be obnoxious. One of the teachers waves his arm, warning them not to knock the table against the wall.

  St. Mary’s, unlike so many of the schools in the Roman Catholic Archdiocese in Louisiana, is co-ed. Boys and girls walk the halls and attend class together. We kneel together in the gym for Mass. The girls wear crisp white blouses and blue plaid uniform skirts while the boys dress smartly in white collared shirts tucked into gray pants, the St. Mary’s insignia embroidered on our front pockets.

  Zach Howes, one of the football players, drags a set of chairs toward his table. He happens to also be Sabine’s boyfriend and I catch her flashing a smile before he sits down. They’ve been together six months, which is a super-long time to be going steady with someone. Sometimes I catch her adding his last name to hers as she scribbles in her notebook: Sabine & Zach Howes, with a red heart bubbled around the letters. From across the cafeteria he smiles back at her.

  We’re a small high school, just two hundred students in all four grades. But sitting in the cafeteria at the same time, all of us crammed in for the same lunch period—the nuns believing it’s imperative we squeeze religious studies class in after lunch—the high-pitched chatter is enough to drive me mad. After taking my time reaching the cafeteria, I’ve asked one of the girls to grab my lunch first.

  Sabine nudges my arm. “After next week, our exams will be finished and we’re off to Lake Tahoe.”

  Her reminder makes me smile as the two of us say, “Fall break…” in unison. A week-long holiday from school.

  Sasha pouts. “I wish we could go.”

  Our other friend Heidi says, “Me too,” and pushes a spoon through her food. “How co
me your parents didn’t invite us?”

  Sabine’s smile weakens—she feels badly, I know she does. But her parents only said one friend.

  “I wish you could. But it’s a long road trip. You really think my mom and dad could put up with all four of us for that long?”

  The girls mumble something and Sabine shoots me a wary glance, hoping they’ll be okay.

  In our pack of four, Sabine and I are the closest. We’ve been this way since freshman year, since the day we were assigned the same homeroom and found ourselves across from one another at lunch. We’ve been joining each other in the cafeteria ever since, inseparable on the weekends, sharing the same clothes, swapping makeup, confiding in each other about our boyfriends, the assholes and good guys among them, the ones we’ve broken up with even though Sabine is still holding strong with Zach. Sharing the same packs of cigarettes.

  The first time I got drunk was sophomore year sneaking booze into Sabine’s parents’ garage. That night, I realized how much I hated malt liquor. Sabine laughed at me, even though she was cradling her head the next day too and saying, “I think we should stick to beer.”

  On Saturdays, shopping trips to the mall. Sasha and Heidi tagging along, but always with Sabine and I making plans for the next sleepover. After soccer practice, raiding each other’s fridges before pushing through our homework, several hours of studying needed as our grades are becoming a bigger deal. It’s our senior year and we have college applications to complete.

  Lately, I wish we could take a night off and blow off some steam.

  Sabine says we need to keep studying. She’s been sharing her note cards and helping me with practice tests, but the truth is, I’m overwhelmed. My hands are full organizing the Homecoming committee. The dance is in three weeks and I’m tired of planning and wish I hadn’t agreed. “But it’s good for your résumé,” my parents tell me. “Colleges will want to see how much you’re involved.”