Shadows Among Us

by Ellery A Kane

  “That’s comforting.”

  “About as comforting as the knife you’ve got pointed at me. Aren’t you a doctor? A psychologist? You’re supposed to help people.”

  “Not anymore.” Still, I bring the knife to my side, thinking of my promise to help Wendall. And the part of me that still lives, barely, buried miles under the stinking refuse of grief and rage. “I need to know the truth about what happened to my daughter. And I’ll do whatever I need to do to get it. Understand?”

  He nods and scoots away from the wall, scooping up Yoda. She curls around herself, forming a twisted ball on the crook of his elbow, her skin pulsing.

  “What happened to you?” I ask him. “To your arm?”

  He deposits Yoda into a large terrarium, partially hidden by life-size cutouts of Luke Skywalker and C-3PO, and runs his hand down the length of her. “I fell into a fiery pool like Darth Vader. Only the power of the dark side kept me alive. Isn’t that right, girl?”

  Watching his shoulders slump over the tank, I feel the hot pinprick of pity at the center of my cold heart. Slowly, slowly, it starts to thaw. “I don’t think Yoda would approve of you cavorting with the dark side. Besides, from the way you’re dressed, I thought you were part Wookiee.”

  He laughs sharply. As if my humor caught him off guard. And why wouldn’t it? I’d been wielding a knife moments ago.

  “Dakota said you used to watch Star Wars together.”

  “What? What did you say?”

  My half-thawed heart clunks to a stop. I hear a soft splash as Yoda slinks into a basin of water. Boyd spins around to face me, his eyes wide. And then my whole world catches fire.

  “Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.” He stares at my hands, repeating the words like a mantra. I realize I’m pointing the bayonet again. Right at him.

  “You have exactly ten seconds to explain to me why you—a thirty-two-year-old man—were talking to my daughter about anything. And it better be convincing. Or you’ll get a taste of the real dark side from somebody’s who’s been there and back.”

  Boyd slips away from Yoda’s enclosure, muttering under his breath, and I stalk him as he scurries toward the back wall.

  “Wait—how do you know how old I—”

  “Nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .”

  “Okay, okay. We only talked online. In a chat room. I didn’t know she was a kid. Not at first.”

  “What kind of chat room?” I demand, waving the knife like a deranged conductor, commanding my own maniacal orchestra. With wrath pounding the bass drum in time to my pulse, fear piping merrily on the flute, and despair on the sax, wailing away like John Coltrane.

  Boyd raises his hands in defense against all of it. Against me. “Not the kind you’re thinking. The site was all about finding Shadow Man. A bunch of us true-crime buffs trying to piece the evidence together. Dakota was good at it. We worked together sometimes.”

  I flash back to Dakota, flopped on her bed with her cell or her laptop. She’d turn it over or snap it shut every time I walked in. When had that started? That blatant secrecy I’d attributed to normal adolescent development. Identity versus role confusion, according to Erikson’s stages. No one ever told me the line between normal and not could be razor thin, practically indiscernible. “The detectives never found anything like that on her computer. What was it called?”

  “Shadow Seekers. And they wouldn’t find it there. She always used the computer at the public library, because—”

  “Because?”

  “Because she thought you’d overreact. You and her dad.” A villainous laugh claws up the back of my throat, and Boyd backpedals blindly, bumping into a movie poster. The tape at the corners loosens, and it droops down from the wall, revealing a white board behind it.

  “She didn’t want to be at home anyway. She never really said why. Just that things were messed up. And she thought . . .”

  Boyd goes on without me. Because I’m stuck, gaping. Trying to make sense of what I see. But he flinches when I reach behind him and rip the first poster free. Then, the others. They fall to the ground unceremoniously.

  Boyd has his own suspect wall, as familiar to me as my own hand. With Tyler. Cole. And the same hodgepodge of copied newspaper clippings of the elusive Shadow Man and his reign of terror. But I’m drawn elsewhere. To the one face absent from my wall. Though I recognize the woman in the photocopy, she’s alien to me now. Clad in a stark white button-down, her sleek brown hair shining. She’s clearly a professional. She’s certainly happy. She must be. Only I know otherwise.

  Because that woman is me. I’d taken the headshot at Cole’s insistence. For the website he’d set up to promote my nonexistent private practice. In the office I’d never used until Wendall. Now, it’s practically a mug shot. Looking at her—me—from here, she’s guilty as hell.

  My legs shake beneath me, and I slump down to the floor, letting the bayonet fall. “You think I killed my daughter? You think I burned her body and dumped it in the middle of nowhere like a sack of trash?”

  Boyd gulps and points to the little red X on the edge of photocopy. “Not anymore. But I had to follow the breadcrumbs. That’s why I came to your group. I needed to see for myself what you were like.”

  “And? Was my grief convincing enough for you?”

  “It sounds bad, I know. But what do you expect? You and your husband were the last ones to see Dakota alive. And she said . . .”

  He looks at me the way I look at myself sometimes. The way the judge had looked at me too as a little girl. Like he can see down to the rotten core. Where the secrets and the half-truths writhe like worms. Suddenly Boyd doesn’t seem so powerless.

  “She told me you hit her.”

  I pull my knees to my aching chest and open my mouth to speak. To protest. But my lungs squeeze shut, trapping the words in my throat. They burn like poison. I can’t quite figure out what hurts the most—what she’d said or who she’d said it to. Either way, I don’t want Boyd to watch me lose it.

  “I think I should leave now.” But when I don’t move—I’m not sure I can—he extends his hand, his scars silvery in the lamplight.

  I’m too proud. Too shaken. Too indignant. He lets it drop, useless at his side.

  “Dakota was nice to me,” he says, looking down at his slippers. “And smart too. She told me, Chewie—that’s my username—just go where the clues lead you. So that’s what I did.”

  I’m halfway up the stairs when Boyd calls out to me. “Are you gonna tell the police about me? I mean, it’s not like I have anything to hide.”

  The doorknob feels as cold as death in my hot palm. I imagine Martha on the other side, pressing her ear to the door.

  “Hey, you left your . . . uh . . .” He holds the bayonet at arm’s length. I can’t blame him. Since I’d snatched it from the wall, the few screws holding me together had come unloosed.

  “Keep it.”

  ****

  Sawyer’s truck is parked in my driveway. Not that I’m surprised. I blame Luciana and her big mouth. Because after I’d dropped her off at home—and she’d begged me not to do anything stupid—he’d fired off a string of texts I hadn’t bothered to answer.

  Luci is pretty shaken up. Did you pull a knife on a guy?

  She wants me to check on you.

  I’m coming over. OK?

  I’ll wear my RBA.

  That’s Ranger Body Armor, FYI.

  C’mon, that was funny.

  I belt out one last chorus of “Welcome to the Jungle” before I put the Jeep in park and kill the engine. Sawyer waves at me from the front porch, hangdog. I didn’t think I could feel any worse, but I do. Because he’s still in his groundskeeper’s uniform: mud-spattered boots and a well-worn Blue Rose work shirt.

  “How long have you been here?”

  He shrugs. “Well, I
watched your neighbor take his kid to soccer practice and bring him home again. So . . .”

  “I didn’t ask you to come.”

  “Luci called me at work. She thinks you’re having a breakdown, and I’m the only one who can talk some sense into you.”

  I leave that last bit alone, ignoring the urge to collapse against him. “A breakdown, huh? That would imply I’m not already broken.”

  “Yeah, I figured you were fine. Like usual. So, if you’re all good, I guess I’ll just mosey on along.”

  He stands up and brushes past me, close enough for me to touch. I grab his arm and he freezes, his muscles tensing beneath my hand. I hate how warm his skin feels. But I especially hate how much I like touching him.

  “I thought you didn’t ask me to come.”

  “I didn’t ask you to leave either.”

  Frustrated, he sighs, and I let his arm go. In the silence, I hear Gus scratching at the front door. That sound, unabashedly needy, weakens my resolve.

  “It’s been a rough day,” I admit, heading for the door. “I can tell you about it—I’d like to—but I need to let the dog out first.”

  As I unlock the door, Gus pushes it open with his front paws, bounding into the yard with reckless enthusiasm. He stops briefly to sniff Sawyer’s boots, then dives into the grass, rolling like a worm. Sawyer laughs, and I do too. It’s like releasing a breath I’ve been holding.

  “He’ll be at this for a while,” I say. “Do you want to come inside?” And just like that, I’m right back to not breathing. I’d made a total fool of myself last night with those very same words. “For coffee, I mean.”

  “Coffee sounds great.” He pauses for a beat and smiles. “Just give me a sec to grab my RBA.”

  In spite of everything, I smile back. “Safety first.”

  ****

  Coffee cup in hand, Sawyer follows me down the hallway to Dakota’s room, an exhausted Gus trailing behind him. I stop when I reach the door and take a quick, scalding sip. Thanks to the caffeine, I feel halfway normal again. Thanks to Sawyer too. So maybe Luciana had a point.

  I turn the knob and brace myself for it. Whatever it is that sucks me in here and won’t let me go.

  “So you didn’t know anything about the website? Or this guy, Boyd?” Sawyer asks, lingering in the threshold.

  He lets me go in alone, though I don’t ask him to. I wonder how he does that. How he reads my mind. Like he already knows this place doesn’t belong to anyone but me.

  “She was into serial killers. She’d been reading a bunch of books. Thriller and true crime. That sort of thing. Cole didn’t like it. I thought it was just a weird phase. Maybe something to do with my work at the hospital. But she never said anything about the Shadow Man. And she definitely did not mention Boyd. I’m not even sure she knew his real name.”

  I walk to Dakota’s desk and unplug her laptop, feeling ridiculous for leaving it plugged in. Since the detectives had returned it, I’d opened it twice and then only to listen to her music. But when I look to Sawyer—shame reddening my face—there’s no need to explain.

  “Do you think it’s possible that Dakota . . .” He steps aside to let me out, laughing a little under his breath. Like he can’t quite believe what he’s about to say.

  “Do I think my teenage daughter solved a twenty-year-old cold case? No.”

  Still shaking my head, I cart the computer and my coffee cup to the living room and take a seat on the sofa. I run my hand along the laptop’s cover and across the SpongeBob stickers Dakota had affixed there before she became too cool for cartoons.

  “So it’s just a coincidence? What does Boyd think?”

  That I murdered my daughter. “I didn’t ask him.”

  The exasperated way Sawyer flops onto the couch next to me qualifies as sarcasm. “Right. Because what the heck would he know?”

  “He wasn’t exactly cooperative.” I picture Boyd hunkering down in the basement, staring at his own suspect wall and flinging the bayonet at my photo. Bullseye.

  “I’m guessing you had something to do with that. Where is that knife you stole anyway?”

  “I didn’t steal it. It belonged to my dad. I just reclaimed it.”

  I ignore Sawyer’s frustrated muttering and turn my attention to Dakota’s computer. With a few clicks on the keyboard, I find it.

  Shadow Seekers: Join the Hunt for Shadow Man.

  “I think I’ve heard of this site before,” I say, scrolling through the links to articles I’ve read and reread. At the bottom of the web page is a timeline and with each hatch mark, a different face. The faces of Shadow Man’s every known victim.

  Sawyer clears his throat, points to the screen. “What’s Shadow Snoops?”

  But I don’t look. He’s only trying to distract me. Dread crawls up my neck and stands my hairs on end as I follow the timeline. The long stretch of unmarked line between 1996 and 2016. I can barely stand the anticipation. Though I already know how it ends.

  There it is. That goddamned yearbook shot. “She hated this photo. It seems wrong, you know? To use it. I should’ve picked a different one for the detectives.”

  Sawyer shuffles to the other side of me so he can lay his good hand on my back, rubbing small circles between my shoulder blades that don’t solve a godforsaken thing. But somehow, they make it so I can keep going.

  I click on the link for Shadow Snoops and a log-in box appears. Registered users only.

  “She probably used her email address for her username, right?” I ask, hopeful.

  Sawyer nods, so I key it in. DRoar18@qmail.net.

  “It’s the year she would’ve graduated. 2018.”

  “What about the password?” he asks. “Any guesses?”

  I try all the usual suspects, sucking in a breath each time I hit Enter. Variations of her name, Gus, Grizzlies, Tyler. 123456. And even password. Each time, the same dispassionate message: You have entered an invalid username and/or password combination.

  Finally, I admit defeat and select the link to recover her username and password. The shadow of a running man appears on the screen. He stops in the middle like he’s mocking us, and words take form:

  To begin, please complete your verification phrase.

  His wings are clipped . . .

  The cursor winks at me, waiting. “We’re screwed.”

  I sit back against the sofa and close my eyes. “I didn’t know her at all. How is that possible?”

  “She was fifteen. That’s how. You knew more than most parents, so don’t beat yourself up. When I was fifteen, my mom thought I busted my jaw playing football.”

  “And? How’d you really do it?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He smirks, taking the computer onto his lap. “I have an idea. We’ll set up a new account. At least we can get inside and take a look around. But, Mollie, you’re gonna have to go to the police about this. They need to talk to Boyd.”

  I shrug, noncommittal. Because I’m not sure I want them talking to Boyd about me.

  “Promise me,” he says.

  If it comes to that, I’ve broken worse. “I promise.”

  Five minutes later, One-Armed Jack is a card-carrying member of the Shadow Snoops.

  “Keep scrolling,” I tell him. “All the way back. I want to see her last message.” But also, I can’t bear to see the newest ones. They rush by in a blur. Heartrending phrases. Mindless speculation. And the blame game. Step right up if you want to play.

  Was it really Shadow?

  After twenty years?

  I don’t buy it.

  What about the boyfriend?

  The parents?

  The mom looks guilty as hell.

  Okay. No one wrote that. At least not that I see. But I’m sure it’s there somewhere. An accusatory finger waiting to be pointed.

  “Wh
at’s with these names?” he asks, pointing to the screen, his wry smile threatening to break my concentration. “DocSherlock. Jojo666. DevilDragon, Wishbone3? Wishbone1 and 2 were already taken, I guess.”

  “Hurry.” I tap my fingers against Sawyer’s leg, and he scrolls ahead, faster, spinning the wheel of the mouse like we’re playing roulette. “Wait. Stop.”

  The wheel grinds to a halt on a winner.

  “Chewie?” Sawyer asks. “As in Chewbacca?”

  “Yeah. That’s Boyd. And look, August 16, 2016. That’s one day before she went missing.” One day. I’d had an entire day left with her and hadn’t even known it. The thought of that day—how I’d spent it—makes me sick.

  “I don’t remember seeing Chewie in the most recent posts. He must’ve dropped out after Dakota disappeared. It seems like he was the only one who knew she had been a member of the site. If that had gotten out, the media would’ve been all over it. I mean, what a story. Don’t you think?”

  I nod, sickened by the thought, and take the mouse from Sawyer’s hand, scrolling a bit further, my heart stuttering. I don’t know why I’m afraid. The worst thing has already happened. So many worst things. “There it is. That’s got to be her.”

  Cagedbird18: There will come soft rains.

  Chewie: Cryptic, Birdie.

  Cagedbird18: I’ll DM you.

  “Oh my God, Dakota.” I let the mouse rest on the table. Set my shaky hand in my lap. And turn to Sawyer.

  “Translate, please,” he says.

  “It’s a story by Ray Bradbury.” I hear Luciana’s panicked breath. But it’s coming from my own mouth this time. “It’s set in Allendale. That’s where Shadow Man’s first victim lived. My dad lives there too.”

  Sawyer takes a long swig of coffee. Then he says exactly what I’m thinking.

  “We need to get into Dakota’s direct messages.”

  BEFORE

  Chapter

  Eleven

  (Saturday, July 11, 2016)

  Dakota studied the computer screen through blurry eyes, dabbing beneath them with a tissue. According to Faces by Hannah, vigorous rubbing of the delicate under-eye area could cause premature wrinkles. Dakota had her doubts about Hannah’s advice and for good reason. After she’d brushed her teeth with charcoal—for a “Kardashian white smile”—staining her mouth a dead-man’s gray, Tyler’s crew had called her Zombie Tongue for an entire month. But what harm could there be in blotting? She didn’t have a good reason for crying anyway. Only the usual one.