“Are you two thinking of having more kids?” Ava asks, eating a fluorescent-red potato chip out of the bag she bought from one of the vending machines. Barbecue. I remember again how Ava loves the strangest things.
“That was always the plan,” Andrea replies. “We’d switch off. I’d go first, then a couple years later she’d take a turn. But it feels sort of up in the air now, you know? Like, Olive is such a good baby, and it’s still so fricking hard. Sometimes I think we’d be nuts to introduce more chaos into our family right now.”
“Well, I was going to say that if Trish has a baby quickly enough, you could still be nursing in time to help out with the next one.”
Andrea lets out a hearty laugh, and I know my plan has worked. No matter her reservations about Colin, at the very least Andrea has developed a fondness for Ava.
“No way,” she says. “If I had to go it alone this time, it’s all up to Trish next time. Fair is fricking fair.”
* * *
* * *
I DON’T SLEEP when I return home from the hospital, despite how tired I am. My apartment is hot and my skin feels sticky, buzzing with awareness against the muggy air of my bedroom. I don’t open my windows, even for the breeze. Too many girls have gone missing from bedrooms with open windows.
Instead, I pour myself a drink and try to see what I can find on Facebook. In the past seven years, Sarah’s profile has taken on a shrinelike function, like the profiles of so many deceased millennials. Friends post messages and memories and links to songs that remind them of her, creating a sort of hazy shadow image of the girl Sarah was. The sort who, according to her friends, loved Florence + the Machine and Prince and—to the explicit dismay of a particular friend named Rick—Justin Timberlake. The sort who scored a bunch of Twilight posters from her local movie theater and took to hiding them in her friends’ apartments—in the bottoms of drawers, taped to the inside of a shower curtain. Once, brilliantly, beneath another poster hanging on a wall, which was finally found a year after her death, when her friend was packing up to move out of his apartment. He posted it to Facebook when he found it, a photograph of the smoldering eyes of Robert Pattinson tacked to his wall. “You still have me laughing, even after you’re gone,” the caption reads.
Dylan Jacobs, Sarah’s roommate, was also a frequent flier on Sarah’s Facebook wall. Particularly right after her death, when Dylan was trying his best—in those early days of social media—to crowdsource information about her murder. Had anyone in the vicinity of Greenview and Touhy seen Sarah leave her apartment? Had anyone seen a car parked at the entrance to LaBagh Woods after sundown on the nineteenth? The family was offering a $20,000 reward for any information that would lead to an arrest.
This was before Colin was implicated, of course. Based on the loose timeline I’m putting together, Colin was questioned the day after Sarah disappeared but wasn’t arrested until the following Saturday. After her body was found half-buried in LaBagh Woods. After the requisite time for them to get the DNA match, I assume. As soon as the CPD had that, they had their man.
The tenor of Dylan’s posts changed after Colin’s arrest. Suddenly, it was all about bringing the person who killed Sarah to justice. It was all about keeping her memory alive. I envied the shift. What a luxury, to find a place to put your fury. What a relief, to believe that justice is possible.
I comb through the comments, read every word of every post. This was 2012, after all. Back before the adult world believed that social media actually made much of a difference in anything, back before crowdfunding and doxxing and Russian bots and influencers were making the news. I doubt law enforcement spent much time here, if any at all. So I doubt they saw the commenter who said they saw a girl matching Sarah’s description at a bar, looking for her friends. Or the one saying they saw a girl a few blocks from Sarah’s apartment, except she was wearing a dress and not jeans. Or the account of a silver sedan that pulled off Foster Avenue and turned into LaBagh Woods, despite the fact that the woods weren’t a place most people would go after dark. I chew on nothing as I read them, all of them, drinking a screwdriver on my living room floor. My teeth hurt. My jaw aches. Has the CPD seen any of these? Do they even know these leads exist?
And then a new possibility occurs to me—Dylan Jacobs might not even know about the hair in Sarah’s shower drain. That evidence was only uncovered after Colin’s conviction, and it’s possible that nobody ever questioned Dylan about who might have been showering in Sarah Ketchum’s apartment that week. Sarah’s roommate might be the key to this whole thing, and he might not even know it.
Dylan isn’t hard to find. Though his Facebook and Instagram accounts are set to private, his LinkedIn fills in the blanks. He went to law school at Chicago-Kent after Sarah’s death, purportedly to become a prosecutor, according to a post on Sarah’s Facebook wall when he got his acceptance. Telling her that all he wanted was to protect the next vulnerable girl, put criminals behind bars. It makes me think of Ava, actually. The reason she chose emergency medicine when a different path might have been easier, or at least made Ted happier. How experiencing that kind of violence—the kind that happened to Sarah—can slip inside someone’s DNA. How it can be the seed of something else, an entirely different kind of life. I wonder if that’s what Ava and I recognize in each other. The dark blooms that have flowered within us, from coming so close to that kind of violence and escaping. Alive, if not unscathed.
Dylan’s virtuous thinking apparently didn’t last past his 2L year, though. Because according to his LinkedIn, he ended up at Waller Goodman, a Milwaukee litigation firm, after graduation. I find his email address on the firm’s website and start composing a note. Standard stuff, really, saying that I’m a victims’ advocate, working on a podcast about violence against women on the North Side of Chicago. Asking if I can speak with him about Sarah. Within minutes of sending it off, I have a reply.
“Thank you for your email. This mailbox is no longer in use. For general inquiries, please contact [email protected]. If you are reaching out regarding an ongoing legal matter, please reach out to [email protected].”
I hesitate only a moment before I forward the email on to whomever “Grego” is, asking if I might have Dylan’s forwarding address or current contact information. After all, this is an ongoing legal matter, of a sort. My head is starting to cloud with the vodka, my thoughts turning like leaves caught in a swirl of wind.
My phone lights up the haze of my living room, making me jump. I almost decline the call without looking at it, because the only person I can think of who would call me this late is the man who’s been leaving me long, silent voicemails, content for me to listen to him breathe on the other end of the line, as if he wants nothing but to hear my voicemail recording. But no, there’s a picture attached to the name on my screen. Me and Eric, taking a selfie on the Michigan Avenue bridge, the pink flicker of sunset lighting up the buildings behind us.
I know I shouldn’t answer. Because the fucking divorce papers are sitting on my kitchen counter, and no, I haven’t looked at them yet. Because I’m in no condition to talk to Eric right now, well after midnight and well into my third drink. But there’s something about sitting alone on my living room floor, drinking vodka, reading the comments on a dead girl’s Facebook page, that makes me want to talk to him. Because I have not yet learned to break the habit of wanting Eric when I’m lonely. I tap answer before the call goes to voicemail.
“Hey.”
I can hear a subtle shifting on the other end of the line, as if he’s straightening up. I can tell he didn’t expect to reach me.
“Hi,” he says. “Sorry, I thought I’d get your voicemail.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “Well, is it something you can tell me?” I don’t know what is allowed anymore. I don’t know who we are, like this. People who used to know each other, to know each other, who are now on different sides of a line that’s been c
arved deep into the sand between them. So deep, any step toward each other might cause a slide, might open a chasm. Might turn the ground beneath us into air.
He’s silent for a moment, and immediately I think of the blocked number, the voicemails full of dead air. But no, Eric would know how that would scare me. And as much as I’ve hurt him, Eric would never be so cruel.
“I’m not sure I even know,” he says. He’s been drinking. I can hear it, in the looseness of his speech. I wonder if he can hear the same in mine. “I spoke to Andrea the other day.”
“Yeah,” I say, quickly, because I feel the need to claim Andrea’s loyalty, to prove she does not share confidences with Eric that she doesn’t also share with me. “She told me you called.”
“She was telling me about the next season of your podcast.”
He’s fishing for something; I can tell by the way he keeps making statements and letting them hang as if they were questions. It’s a habit he picked up as our marriage dissolved, often repeating things I’d say back to me, as if the words had lost all their meaning. Like: “You’re six weeks late.” And: “You don’t think it’s mine.”
“Yeah,” I reply, less concerned with taking up the space of silence between us now. There was a time when I could not bear it, could not stand even ten seconds of Eric’s wordlessness. I remember begging him, actually begging, to tell me what he was thinking. To tell me what he wanted me to do.
“Do you think it’s a good idea?” he asks. “Continuing this? I mean, I know how successful the first season was. But I also know . . .” He trails off, but it doesn’t matter. I know what he was going to say. That he knows what it cost.
“Isn’t this what you always wanted me to do?” I ask. “Find an outlet for my grief? Use what happened to Maggie to fuel something productive?”
“Yeah, like volunteer work. Your mother’s foundation. A PhD. Something like that,” he says. “Not . . . citizen crime-solving.”
“It’s not about solving the crimes, Eric,” I say. “It’s about telling their stories. The girls. The families.”
“And you think you’re the best person to be doing that?” he asks.
“Maybe not,” I reply. “But it’s what I’ve got right now.”
It’s a trap that I’ve set, and he knows it. Because he won’t ask me to come back. To be his wife again. He finally knows me too well to want me back.
“I saw Coleman the other day at the gym,” I say, to break the silence. “He said you’re going to be his kid’s godfather.”
“Yeah,” Eric says. “He’s over the moon.” He lets it hang. The eternal comparative, someone else’s happiness, the sort that so easily could have been ours. “He didn’t mention that he saw you.”
“I get the impression that he’s not my biggest fan.”
“He wasn’t an asshole to you, was he?” Eric asks. Still the white knight. Still wanting to protect me. I think of Coleman’s cocktail party last summer, emerging from the upstairs bathroom with sweat at my hairline, my eyeliner smudged, my hands shaky. Like an addict, trying to mask the satisfied mania of a fix. Willing to do absolutely anything to prevent myself from coming down again. How I blamed Eric for not recognizing the change in me, blamed him for making me go to his friend’s stupid cocktail party in the first place. How horrible I was then. Sometimes I think the price of it—losing Eric, our marriage, my home, my family—was not nearly enough. Sometimes I think a bigger penance is still waiting for me out there.
“No,” I say. “He was a perfect gentleman.” Because Coleman is right to hate me for what I’ve done. And sometimes I wish Eric would hate me for it too.
It’s only after we hang up that I see the date on the screen of my phone. It’s after midnight, but still. Yesterday was our sixth wedding anniversary.
CHAPTER
NINE
Club Rush is particularly busy when I arrive, despite the fact that it’s a Wednesday night. I was planning on doing a full Elvira tonight, with my waist-length black wig, but after the call with Eric and the sleepless night that followed, I don’t have the time or the energy to make the effort. Instead, I use red lipstick to draw a line across my face at eye level and smudge it around my eyes like a mask, spiking my hair with some mousse my stylist gave me as a sample last time I was in. A silver choker collar is enough to make my black tank top and jeans look punk.
Marco gives me a high five when I arrive, and it can only mean one thing: he’s rolling.
“Are you holding out on me?” I ask, and he laughs heartily, in a way only a twentysomething on drugs can.
“You look ah-maz-ing,” he says, making the word its own three-act story. He loops an arm over my shoulder so we may speak conspiratorially. “So, admittedly, yes, I might have borrowed some of my friend Bobby’s pharmacopeia on the way here, but if memory serves I think I might have given the last of it to my Uber driver as a tip.”
He must notice my disappointment, because his dark-lined eyes go wide.
“Not to worry!” he says, as if I’m a child who has spilled my milk and he is Mary Poppins. He actually cups my cheek. “I’m never without my own supplies. I left a little present for you in the loo.”
“Is it your friend Bobby?” I ask, because I’ve met Marco’s cohort of friends, and every one of them could be a Gucci model.
“Better,” Marco says, grinning.
* * *
* * *
WHEN I STEP into the employee bathroom behind the bar, I’m elated to find that Marco has left me two perfect lines of coke on top of the toilet paper dispenser. Bless him. I snort them tightly and immediately promise myself that I will make good choices tonight, because it bears repeating now that I’ve stacked the deck against it.
The elation comes on fast, with a hard edge to it, as I slide into the rhythm of taking orders and mixing drinks. I remember how good this feels. To not think about dead girls. To let the Siouxsie and the Banshees song careening from the sound system batter me into a thoughtless daze. To not remember the things I have done, to Eric, to myself. The next time Marco crosses my path, I give him a giant smacking kiss on the cheek.
A face at the bar catches my attention, and the person gives me a little wave, though I can’t place him. Except to note that he doesn’t fit in this crowd, in his polo shirt and slacks. He looks like he belongs in a gastropub in Fulton Market, not here.
“Hi,” I say, because, while I’m definitely firing on all cylinders, it’s not really helping my cognitive function at the moment.
“Hey,” he replies, half-shouting over the music, giving me a perfect old-Hollywood smile. Fuck, he’s handsome.
“How are you?” I say, and he squints at me, as if he’s unsuccessfully trying to wink. But no, he’s assessing me, seeing what my game is. This is not the reaction he was expecting. Oh god, did I fuck this guy at some point? He’s wearing a wedding ring. Shit.
“I’m good,” he says, playing along. “I came to talk to you.”
“Okay,” I reply, unable to muster anything else.
He gives a little exaggerated laugh. “Can we go somewhere quieter?” He motions to the ceiling, clearly indicating the thrash of music that has us nearly hollering at each other.
But a silent alarm goes off within me, even despite the elation in my drug-addled system. It’s the sense I’ve honed over years of encountering men and evaluating how dangerous they are, beneath the surface. And I’m not sure I should go anywhere with this man. I’m not sure I should be alone with him.
“I don’t have a break for a while,” I say, but a bit too quietly, because he leans forward, so close I can smell the cool brightness of his aftershave. Something expensive.
“What?” he says. And then I remember him. Ted. Of course. Ava probably told him where to find me. Ava, who will be on shift at the hospital tonight. Relief heightens my euphoria, and suddenly tonight has that magic sheen,
like the whirling skin of a soap bubble. Like anything might happen.
“Okay! One sec,” I shout back, and motion to Marco that I’m taking five. He gives me two big thumbs up. Whatever he took must be really excellent shit, because he’s clearly out of his mind. The bar is packed, and on any other night, he would happily skin me alive rather than let me take a break. But I know better than to ask twice, and motion Ted toward the back exit.
I lead him out to the alley, which is quiet as soon as the metal door slams shut behind us. It’s raining lightly outside, with a bit of chill in the air. But not enough to drive us back into the noise inside.
“So what’s up?” I ask, leaning against the brick wall, ignoring the proximity of the dumpsters, which are probably crawling with rats.
“I wanted to come see you on neutral ground, without Ava,” he says, crossing his arms, as if touching anything in the alley will contaminate him. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to her, either.”
I can feel my heartbeat in my hands, in my tongue. Faster than a moment ago. What is this man after?
“Okay,” I reply. “Sure.”
“I hear you two went to see Colin,” Ted says. “What did you think of him?”
“Well, he’s not my type,” I say, even before I realize how it sounds. Like I’m flirting, unabashedly.
Ted’s teeth flash, in what could be a grin or a well-controlled grimace. “Ava seems to think his case is locked in for your second season.”
“We started recording last night,” I reply, trying somehow to reel back into my most professional persona. I stand up straight. Stop scratching at the skin of my wrist, which is my habit when I’m keyed up. Already, the skin there is raw. Wake up, I think. Be normal.
“I think you should reconsider,” Ted replies, unfolding his arms and shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He’s uncomfortable; I can see it in the way he holds himself. This is a betrayal. I recognize it from the men who were married, back in the day. Back when I was married too.
The Lost Girls Page 13
