Those Girls

by Chevy Stevens

  He ate for about five minutes or so, scraping his fork and knife against the plate loudly, like he was eating in a hurry, and then he got up. I could hear water running like he was rinsing his plate. He still hadn’t turned the music down, and I was surprised he didn’t mind the noise. I heard boots going upstairs, right over my head. Did I have time to escape? I tested the closet door, and realized something was in front. His chair from the table? It had gotten wedged under the door handle. I tried to push the door open but could only move it a couple of inches. I reached my hand out, tried to push the chair away, but I was at a bad angle. I needed to give it a good shove, but that would make noise and he might hear me. If he caught me in the kitchen, could I outrun him? He was tall and strong. My best bet was to wait until morning when he went to work.

  The music turned off upstairs, startling me. I strained my ears but couldn’t hear anything. He was gone for a while, then I heard his footsteps coming back down and passing through the kitchen. He turned on the TV and I could smell cigarette smoke. I needed to pee desperately and couldn’t hold it any longer. I backed farther into the corner, slowly unzipped my jeans shorts, and peed on his floor, hoping it soaked into the wood and didn’t roll out. It was hot in the closet, sweat dripping down my face and back, and I was thirsty as hell.

  Hours later the TV was still on, but I could hear him snoring on the couch. I stayed awake in the closet, counting every moment, every beat of my heart. My legs were cramped, my back aching. I wanted to stretch but couldn’t risk making a sound. I kept thinking about the room upstairs, the smell. Was Crystal trapped in there? Was she okay? Finally I drifted off, my head pressed against my knee, but I just dozed in and out, scared to let myself fully fall asleep in case I fell over.

  In the morning I heard him get up, fart, and walk to the bathroom. I heard the sound of him peeing, then the shower running. He didn’t go upstairs to get dressed. Maybe he put on the same clothes, which was disgusting, but everything about this man was revolting.

  He was in the kitchen now, the scent of coffee and eggs and toast drifting into my closet. My stomach growled and I hoped he didn’t hear it.

  He sat down at the table to eat his breakfast, and I said a mental prayer of gratitude when he stood up and pushed the chair back in this time. I could see him scraping something onto a plate, then he turned around and I heard him walk upstairs. I felt a jolt of shock, followed by fear. I was right. He must have Crystal locked in that room.

  A few minutes later the country music started up again. He came back downstairs, sounded like he dumped the plate in the sink, and left the room. It was hard to hear again, but I thought I heard his truck start up. I waited about another ten minutes, then pushed open the door slowly, listened. I couldn’t hear anything but the music. I crept out, looked around cautiously, then walked to the living room window, peeked around the curtain. I didn’t see his truck out front.

  I ran to his bathroom, barely making it to his toilet, and wanted to cry in relief as I emptied my bladder. When I was finished, I tiptoed out, looking around in case he’d come back in, then crept up the stairs. I was at the top, walking down the hall, my pulse beating hard in my throat, my mouth dry. Almost there.

  I tested the handle: locked again. I hit the door hard with the side of my fist, called out, “Crystal?”

  I thought I could hear something, a muffled noise, but the music was too loud for me to really tell. It also sounded like there was a fan going in the room. I had to break down the door, but I still needed a tool to knock the handle off.

  I was partway down the stairs when I heard it. The front door slammed shut. I froze on the stairs. Had he been outside this whole time? What should I do? Was he coming upstairs or just into the kitchen? I turned around, tried to head back up the stairs, moving as fast as possible while not making any noise. Maybe I could make it into the spare room.

  “The fuck you doing in my house?”

  PART THREE

  JAMIE AND SKYLAR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  JAMIE

  I’ve been scared many times in my life, in many ways, but I’ve never been as terrified as when I realized my daughter was missing. When Emily first called that morning looking for her I thought it was a joke, they were just screwing around. But then I called Skylar’s cell, and when it kept going to her voice mail, tried Taylor. She hadn’t heard from Skylar since Thursday. It was now Monday.

  I sat on my couch, heart thundering in my chest, staring at the phone in my hand. Skylar had had a pink phone when she was a baby. She used to carry it around and have pretend conversations. She’d grown up to be a teenager who never left home without her cell. Panic was sliding in and around, choking me. Think, where could she be? I played back our last conversation in my mind, scrolled through the texts she’d sent. She’d sounded happy. And I’d been happy that she hadn’t asked about Crystal. A whisper of a thought started creeping in. No. She wouldn’t.

  I got out my address book, started calling all of Skylar’s friends, even people she hadn’t mentioned in years. No one had seen or talked to her. A boyfriend? I thought of Aaron, the boy at the gym who was always talking to her. Maybe him? No, she didn’t seem interested. Someone else? She’d been secretive lately, lying more. Her sneaking out with Crystal that night. I’d lain awake for hours after I’d brought Skylar home, horrible images of what could have happened to her making my body stiff with tension. What if she’d been hurt? The whisper was back.

  Crystal.

  I tried her cell. It also went to voice mail.

  I searched Skylar’s night table, under her bed, her closet, all her drawers, my hands feeling under her pillow, the edge of the mattress, looking for notes, something. Her knife was gone, her packsack, laptop, her favorite flip-flops. Gone. I stood in the middle, looked around at the mess. She’d made her bed. Skylar never made her bed. I remembered seeing her that morning at the kitchen table, kissing her cheek. She’d smiled at me, her cheeks flushed, her eyes flitting away from mine. I’d thought it was excitement.

  I logged onto the computer, checked her bank records. She’d pulled out a couple hundred dollars at a bank machine in Vancouver the morning she left, but there hadn’t been any activity since. I also checked my Find My Phone app, but it wasn’t working. She’d disabled the location services on her cell phone.

  One of her ponytail holders was on the desk, some of her hair still twined with the elastic. I picked it up, wrapping it around my finger.

  I thought again of that last conversation, how upset she’d been about Crystal. Had she reached her somehow? Had they met up? Maybe at a festival or a DJ event somewhere? Crystal knew I’d never let Skylar go to something like that. She loved being the fun aunt, the one Skylar idolized. I felt anger mixing with my fear, but then it cooled. Crystal wouldn’t go that far.

  I’d gone to her house the day after Skylar left, looked around. I’d checked on her place when she’d taken off in the past, watered her plants, collected her newspapers. It wasn’t unusual, the sudden departure, but I was surprised the dishes were washed, the trash can emptied. I wondered if Skylar had cleaned up. Before I’d left I’d also searched for Crystal’s gun. It wasn’t there, but I hadn’t been worried, had only thought my sister wanted it for protection. From what?

  The whisper grew louder. Skylar had thought she’d gone to Cash Creek. What if … No, don’t think that. Skylar had probably just gone to a concert, or was DJing at a party somewhere to earn more money for her equipment.

  But Skylar had been worried, really worried. She’d been angry at me for not going to Cash Creek. I can’t believe you’re not going to look for her.…

  The whisper became a scream.

  I knew where my daughter had gone.

  * * *

  My hands were shaking so much I had to dial the gym’s phone number twice. Dallas answered right away.

  “Skylar’s run away.” My voice was high, the words strained and unnatural-sounding.

  “What do you
mean?” Dallas sounded wary. “You sure?”

  “I think she’s gone after Crystal.” I told her what I’d discovered. “She must’ve decided to look for her.” I thought about my daughter alone in that town, felt another wave of horror and panic. “Can I borrow your car?”

  “Crystal wouldn’t go back there.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Skylar thought she did.”

  She paused for a long moment. “I’m coming with you.”

  “We can’t both leave,” I said. “What about Patrick?”

  “Let me think. We have to tell him something. He’ll wonder why we need a couple of days off suddenly.”

  “I wasn’t on the schedule. Can you tell him you’re sick?”

  Dallas snorted. She’d probably called in sick once in her life.

  “What if we told him Skylar’s sick at Emily’s cabin and we have to get her?”

  “He’ll wonder why we are both going—and he knows Crystal took off again.” Dallas took a breath. “I’ll have to tell him part of the truth. Maybe just that Crystal’s taken off to Cash Creek and Skylar’s gone after her.”

  “He’ll be worried,” I said.

  “Yeah, but he’s smart. He knows some bad shit went down in our past, and the less he knows, the less trouble he’ll be in for helping us out.”

  “Get here as soon as you can.”

  * * *

  We hadn’t driven east in eighteen years, but neither of us was admiring the scenery. Dallas was behind the wheel, and I was riding shotgun. While I was waiting for her at my apartment, I’d stuffed a few things into a bag, blindly grabbing clothes and snacks, and pulled out the cash I’d hidden in the freezer in case of emergencies. I also checked Skylar’s Facebook page. No status updates since the day she’d left Vancouver, no comments on anyone’s wall, no activity. Crystal hadn’t updated hers since the night they’d gone to the bar.

  Dallas said she’d called Terry, her boyfriend, and told him we were going to pick up Skylar from the cabin because she wasn’t feeling well.

  “He didn’t ask many questions,” she said.

  “How was Patrick?”

  “He’s worried, but I promised we’d be careful and we’d keep in touch.”

  I took some deep breaths, told myself that everything was going to be okay, we’d find them.

  “Do you really think Crystal’s in Cash Creek?” Dallas said.

  “I never thought she’d go back, but Skylar was convinced.”

  “Crystal was so depressed when I talked to her on Sunday,” Dallas said, “but I thought it was just her usual shit.”

  I stared out at the road, the highway signs flashing by. I’d been annoyed at Crystal, tired of dealing with her crap, angry that she’d involved my kid. “I should’ve paid more attention. I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “We still don’t know if either of them is there.”

  “Then where are they?”

  * * *

  Dallas sped most of the way and we made the drive in a little over five hours, only making one stop at a gas station in the town before Cash Creek to grab some sandwiches and coffee and fill the car up—we didn’t want to have to go to the garage in Cash Creek. Dallas also bought a pack of cigarettes, lighting one as soon as she got to the car. I hadn’t seen her smoke in years.

  As we got closer to town, Dallas lit another cigarette, her hands shaking as she held the lighter. I was still gripping my phone, my nails digging into the plastic. My body tensed as we passed the garage. A tall, gangly young man with dark hair under a red baseball cap was having an animated conversation with a blond boy. They were laughing about something, the dark-haired boy’s mouth open in a big smile. He reminded me of Brian, and I had to look away.

  The pub was still beside the garage and I was hit with a new wave of memories: the boy standing outside, his father leading us up the back stairs a week later, the rifle gripped in my hands, the overwhelming fear that the men were coming for us. Those hours after we escaped were still a dark cloud, hazed over with shock and trauma. I hadn’t let myself think about it for years, had worked hard to forget everything that had happened. It hadn’t been easy.

  The first year of Skylar’s life had been a blur of sleepless nights and nerve-wracking days when I never knew if I was doing the right thing, all the while knowing I could never tell my sisters how difficult it was, how sometimes I just wanted to run away from it all. Karen kept me sane, took over when it got to be too much. Often I’d take Skylar over to her house just so I could rest for a few hours, and we’d end up staying the night. I’d never told anyone how sometimes I’d wondered if I’d made the wrong decision, if Dallas had been right and Skylar would have been better off with a real mother, a woman who was older and knew what to do. But whenever I felt Skylar’s tiny body next to mine—we slept together for years—or I nursed her in those quiet hours, I couldn’t imagine my life without her.

  As she got older, she started looking more like Brian. Sometimes she’d turn and gaze at me a certain way, her dark eyes sparkling, or laugh in a certain pitch and tone, and for a terrifying moment it was like he was there in the room with us, looking at me. I’d go into the bathroom, shut the door behind me, and run water to cover the sound of my crying. I’d wonder again whether I’d done the right thing, whether I’d made a mistake. But then she’d knock on the door, her little-kid voice saying, “Momma!” Or she’d push it open, look up at me, and say, “Why you crying?” and reach for me with her chubby arms for a hug. I’d pick her up and she’d rest her head in the crook of my neck, tickling my nose with the baby-fresh scent of her silky hair, and I’d be filled with such love, such sweet joy.

  As the years passed, I didn’t see him in her face anymore, didn’t hear him in her voice or laugh. She was only my Skylar.

  When she started asking about her father I told her the first name that sprang to mind—Billy, my childhood friend. I’d just wanted to give her some sort of happy story she could believe—a story I could also believe.

  Once Dallas realized I was keeping the baby, she took over, bossing me around, telling me what diapers to buy, helping me give Skylar baths. But I’d seen the haunted expression on her face sometimes when she was looking at Skylar. I’d seen her turn away and gather herself, coming back with her face calm, like nothing was wrong. But then love had won out with her too. Her fridge was covered with every drawing Skylar had ever made her. She’d come to all her school plays, fretted along with me when Skylar was sick, shopped for days to find her the perfect Christmas or birthday present, then played with her for hours.

  Crystal never helped with Skylar, had never really bothered with her much at all when she was a child. I hadn’t thought she’d ever really let herself love her like Dallas and I had. But then Skylar had become a teenager, had gotten more into her music and started challenging me on everything, getting in trouble at school. Crystal and her had been drawn together, had become friends.

  And now she’d drawn Skylar into danger.

  * * *

  We debated about whether we should try to find Allen at the pub first or see if Crystal had checked into the motel. We didn’t know how many were in town now, but we remembered one on the main drag.

  “She’s not going to want people to know she’s here,” Dallas said. “I don’t think she’d have talked to Allen. Least not right away, not unless she needed information.”

  “She’d have to stay somewhere, unless she drove straight to the ranch.” I tried to imagine Crystal showing up, gun in hand, and couldn’t see it. “Skylar would need a place to sleep too, but she only took a few hundred out of the bank. Wouldn’t she have run out of money by now?” I refused to think about what that meant, was determined to only keep one thing in my mind: Skylar and my sister were okay and we were going to find them soon.

  Nothing else was an option.

  “Let’s ask at the motel before we talk to anyone else,” Dallas said.

  We drove there but didn’t see either of their car
s in the parking lot.

  “I’ll ask at the front desk,” I said.

  Dallas parked the car. “I’ll come in with you.”

  A woman was watering plants behind the front desk while she watched a small TV in the corner, shaking her head at something a newscaster was saying. A plastic rack with postcards and homemade greeting cards spun around lazily, pushed by a fan on the floor.

  She looked up with a smile. “Can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for some people,” I said. “A woman in her early thirties, blond and very pretty, and the other is a teenage girl, tall, with black curly hair.”

  She was already nodding. “The girl stayed here one night—stole a blanket and a pillow! The other woman’s not blond anymore.”

  I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think for a moment. I’d been hoping I was wrong, that she hadn’t seen either of them. That they were somewhere else.

  “What do you mean?” Dallas said.

  “She’s got brown hair.” The woman gave us a suspicious look. “The girl said she was her aunt. What’s this all about?”

  “Is the woman still staying here?” I said.

  “She rented the room for a week, didn’t want housekeeping, and I haven’t seen her since. She should’ve checked out a few hours ago. We’re going to have to clear her stuff out if she doesn’t come back by the end of the day.”

  “When was the last time you saw the girl?”

  “Friday morning, I guess. She was in here asking about her friend.”

  “Her friend?”

  “She had a blond girl in the car with her, but she split the next morning.”

  I exchanged a look with Dallas. Who the hell had Skylar been traveling with? And why had she stolen a blanket? Was she sleeping in her car?