They'll Never Catch Us

by Jessica Goodman

  “We’re asking you to be safe out there on the paths in the woods,” Parker continues. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with just yet.”

  Heads nod around me. The Fitzwater cases are all burned into our brains. I may not know as many details as Raven or Julia, but I’ve watched the sensationalized documentary that barely featured the families, and listened to the true-crime podcast episodes that were mostly about the reporters—not the victims. I know the killers chose the Oak Tower route because it has no cell phone service, and that Marlisse, Beatrice, and Abigail were found with their shoelaces missing. I know that for years, no one let girls out on their own.

  It was hammered home season after season that even though going out for a jog can make you feel alive and whole and powerful, it also leaves you vulnerable and alone. But we keep running anyway. Because we have no other choice.

  We run in spite of this. We run knowing the dangers, knowing who we are and why we could be targeted. But that won’t stop us.

  “We need your cooperation,” Parker says, “If you saw anything, if you heard anything. If you know anyone who might want to harm Mila, we need to know. I understand she was new here in town, but she’s been on this team for six weeks now. That’s enough time to make some real connections, some real friendships.”

  Coach huffs and shifts his weight from foot to foot.

  “It’s also enough time to rise to the top, to make enemies,” Parker says, his eyes lingering a bit too long on Stella. “I’ll be on campus all day today, in Mrs. Tannenbaum’s office. Find me if you have any information you think might be useful. Anything at all.” He cracks his knuckles and the sound reverberates through the room, bouncing off the walls.

  “I know this must be very scary to hear,” Pérez says. “And that you might have a lot of questions. My door is open, as is Coach Gary’s. Right, Coach?”

  He nods and lets out a grunt of agreement.

  “We are all here for you, and we will do everything in our power to find Mila,” Pérez says. “Anything else, Detective?”

  Parker widens his stance and tilts his chin up. “That’s it for now,” he says.

  He and Pérez turn and leave the room, closing the door gently behind them, and as soon as they do, everyone erupts in high-pitched gasps and whispers that veer into conspiracy-theory territory.

  “Dude, you know she’s already dead,” Bader says. He runs a hand through his bright blond hair and his mouth forms a creepy smile so the gap between his two front teeth shows. “I read that you’re basically fucked if you’re left out in the woods overnight. Plus, it was raining.”

  I want to punch him in the face.

  “Nah, man. She’s so hot. Whoever took her would let her live just a little,” Noah’s friend Matt says.

  “You fucking pervs!” Julia calls out.

  “Have some respect, you dick.” Tamara elbows Noah in the arm, as if he can do anything to stop his friends.

  Noah looks at Tamara, then at me, and then back to his crew. “This is serious,” he says softly, his eyes narrowed and somber.

  It’s the way he says it that makes me lose my shit. The gentleness with which the words come out makes my head spin and I press my hand to my stomach. It’s the same way he spoke to me when everything felt out of control, when a bundle of cells was growing inside me.

  Stella turns around in her chair, her face slick with terror. She wraps her hand around my wrist and squeezes so hard, it hurts. I know she’ll leave a mark but I don’t care. Not this time. In an instant, I understand her. What the longing and the fear in her eyes might mean. We’re back to how we were when we were kids, communicating on the same plane, in a different dimension, where no one else can get in. I see her and she sees me.

  Stella drops my wrist but not my gaze, and I swear her lip quivers just a bit, just for a second. I know what she’s asking, but I don’t know how to answer. Because suddenly, the room is spinning and I’m falling out of space and everything . . . everything goes black.

  * * *

  —

  By lunchtime, my fainting is a punchline. The kicker to the end of a horror story that has obviously gone around school by now.

  “And then Ellie Steckler fainted!” I hear some sophomore squeal in the hallway outside the math wing. “Like, sure, make it about you. Go right ahead!” She and her friend burst into giggles without even realizing I’m right there. A few months ago this wouldn’t have happened. A few months ago, they would have pouted and cocked their heads and asked in earnest tones, Are you okay? And if this were last year, Bethany would have been by my side, screaming at anyone who dared say something cruel.

  If Bethany were here, none of this would have happened. If I just had someone to talk to . . .

  I slam my locker shut and rest my head against the cool metal. Get it together. Breathe. I lift my forehead and turn around, watching a sea of students go by, some turning their heads to gawk at me then quickly looking away.

  I spot Noah in the crowd, ignoring me as he ambles down the hall.

  “Noah!” I call. “Wait.”

  The bell rings and everyone else starts rushing to class. For a second I think he’s going to keep going, but then he turns and walks toward me, a frustrated look on his face. “What?” he says through gritted teeth.

  His tone startles me even though it shouldn’t. I know where we stand. But still I open my mouth to speak. “I think we should talk—”

  “Talk, Ellie? Are you serious? All you’ve done is talk—about us and your secret. Don’t you think you’ve done enough, huh?”

  I want to scream and lunge for him. I want to tear at his skin and gouge out his eyes. Because it didn’t have to be like this. It only is because of him. But before I can say anything, Noah turns and walks away.

  I force myself to be strong. He doesn’t control you. That’s what I tell myself as I make my way to the caf for lunch. The cross country team is all huddled together around our usual table. Everyone seems to be listening to something Tamara’s saying.

  I nudge in beside Raven, whose eyes are narrowed in concentration.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Tam’s going to organize a search party with Mila’s mom tomorrow,” she whispers. “Shawna’s worried Parker and his department are useless, since they never solved the cold cases.”

  My throat feels scratchy and I crane my neck toward Tamara to hear the plan.

  “I figure we can case the perimeter of the lake tomorrow,” she’s saying. Her wrist flies over a legal pad in front of her, where she’s drawn a map. She taps the back of her pen against an outline of a massive structure on the north side of the water. The Ellacoya Mountain Resort. “We can meet at the lodge at nine a.m. tomorrow,” she says. “The hotel will provide coffee and bagels for everyone, so come hungry, okay? We already have permission from Mrs. Keene, but she said she would love some privacy at this point, so no one even think of ambushing her right now.”

  Heads nod around me and Raven wraps her arms around her middle, murmuring her agreement.

  “Any other thoughts?” Tamara looks up with wide expectant eyes and scans the circle. Her face falls when she gets to Stella. I didn’t notice her on the other side of the table. But Stella’s rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

  “What, Sterile?” Julia says.

  My sister doesn’t even flinch. “I just don’t get why we’re doing this. It’s not like we’re going to find anything. You think there are random clues?” She scoffs. “It’s pointless.”

  I suck in a puff of air through my teeth and wish I could disappear through the floor. I try to catch Stella’s eye and tell her to shut the fuck up, to stop drawing attention to herself, to us, but she holds her ground.

  Tamara sits up straighter. I can almost feel her spine stiffen. “What about trying to find Mila is pointless?”

  Stell
a shrugs. “I just—”

  “She’s missing,” Tamara says in a firm voice. “Aren’t you two friends? Don’t you care?”

  I feel like I’m going to faint again. I knew this would happen. Come on, Stella. Back down. Her face turns into a scowl. As she readies a retort, I blurt out, “Of course she cares. We’ll both be there. Obviously.”

  Everyone turns to face me and Tamara swivels her head, her box braids swinging around her shoulder.

  “Fine,” she says in a muted tone.

  I don’t look at Noah but I can feel his eyes on me. I avoid Stella for the rest of the period, and the rest of the day. It’s only when I meet her in the student parking lot, looking for a ride home, that I’m ready for her wrath.

  But she’s silent as I climb into the car. “What?” I say, a spike in my voice. “Let me have it. Just yell at me, already.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stella says without looking at me.

  “Come on, Stell. I know you’re mad about lunch.”

  Stella turns the key in the ignition, reversing out of the lot. “There’s nothing to say.”

  I know what she’s doing. This is her favorite trick. Gaslighting me, as if I don’t know when she’s about to erupt, as if sixteen years of being her sister hasn’t prepared me for her ire, hasn’t made me anticipate her every move.

  “Look, I know you think Mila’s not actually missing, but we have to be part of the team. We can’t give them a reason to come after you like last year,” I say, a million possibilities swimming in my head.

  Stella bangs a hand on the dashboard. “You think you know everything, Ellie, but you don’t,” she says quietly, leaning toward me. “You’re so deep in your own drama wishing Bethany were here that you can’t pay attention to anything else, like the fact that I do think Mila is missing, and that Parker’s working the case, and that I’m fucking terrified.” She blows out a stream of air through her nose. “You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself right now.”

  Her words are like a knife in my side. We’ve always been aligned, even when we were little and horrible, in that foggy period after the Dark Years, when Mom came back and Dad was trying desperately to hold everything together with frozen meals and seltzers with lime.

  Mom would take us everywhere with her, trying to piece together some semblance of normal. To the bank, the post office, the Jewish bakery. Often, she would tell us to stay outside, on a bench, or by the front door where she could see us, and within a few minutes, Stella would pull my braid. Or I would elbow her in the side. That’s all it took for us to tumble into each other violently and with abandon, pushing and pinching and rolling around on the sidewalk, our little bones colliding with concrete or dirt, our carnal rage seeping out of us and onto the sidewalk. New moms would pass us and watch, curious if the precious babies in their strollers would turn into tiny monsters at some point too.

  The world hadn’t yet told us that little girls don’t fight with fists, but with words. Laughable now, though, after everything that’s happened. The idea that girls don’t fight.

  After a while, when Mom had finished with an errand, or when someone alerted her to the two wrestling beasts out front, she would burst through the door and pull us apart, forcing her body between ours. It was useless to scold, she found. We didn’t listen. We never did. It was her penance for leaving us, Stella told me once. One of us would walk away with a lock of hair or a torn sleeve curled in our fist. A scratch on one arm. A bruise blooming on a shin. We’d growl and snarl until a calm settled in, and after that, we could continue throughout the day, holding hands and skipping around the house, as if nothing had happened at all. As if that’s just how sisters act.

  But it is, though. How sisters act. Brutal and tender and out for blood.

  16

  STELLA

  On Saturday morning, Ellie and I drive to Ellacoya in silence. There’s a pit in my stomach, and the weather is crisp but warm, almost like spring instead of fall. It reminds me of the only time Ellie beat me. The Johnsons had invited the whole town for a barbecue out on the main lawn of Ellacoya to celebrate the Johnson Tavern’s first Michelin star. There were thick, juicy hamburgers made from grass-fed beef, enormous bowls of pasta salad, and vats of limeade sweetened with agave. Prize-winning biscuits sat in towers on the edge of the table, where you could slather them with jam and butter or strawberries and cream.

  It was a gorgeous weekend in May, with just a light, swaying breeze. It was also only six months after Mom had relapsed and I was furious at the world.

  Bethany was gone for whatever reason, and Ellie wasn’t interested in dealing with my gloominess. She ignored me for most of the day until finally Mom bent down, exasperated. “Play with your sister, Ellie,” she said, her voice unsteady.

  Ellie crossed her arms and stared down at her paper plate full of food. “But I don’t want to play with Stella! She’s no fun!” she yelled so loud, I was sure the other kids could hear it too. Who would want to be with me when my own sister didn’t even want to?

  Mom leaned in close over the wooden picnic table and narrowed her eyes.

  “Ellie, you do not speak that way about your sister,” she said. “You must take care of each other. That is what sisters do.” Mom rubbed her temples and swung her head around, looking for Dad. I spotted him, off by a canoe they had turned into a cooler, schmoozing the out-of-town guests, trying to sell them on a house not far from Ellacoya. Deadwater is in the past, he was probably saying. Look how great everything is now.

  “I can be fun,” I said softly to Ellie.

  “Oh, yeah?” she asked, disbelieving.

  “We can race,” I said. I scanned the field, looking for a flat expanse of grass. “How about over there?” I pointed to a volleyball net, set up next to one of the A-frames. “From that line to the lake.”

  A mischievous smile spread across her face. “You’re on.” My heart lifted and I felt hopeful for the first time in a long time. Ellie leapt from the picnic bench, her shiny ponytail swinging side to side, and we hustled to the court, ready to start.

  “On your marks!” Ellie yelled. “Get set! Go!”

  Together we sprinted, our little legs pumping up and down across the grass toward the clear, sparkling water. Other kids turned to watch us go, and my chest felt like it was about to explode. I loved the wind rushing through my hair, the way my feet hit the ground in an easy rhythm. This was what I was meant to do, this was . . . everything.

  But as we neared the water, I turned back quickly to see how far behind Ellie was. Only just a bit, but she looked crushed, like she couldn’t believe I was going to beat her, like she was devastated to be stuck with me, of all people, as her only sister.

  So I slowed down. Not all the way, but enough that she could have a chance, enough that she could hope. Her eyes widened and she picked up her pace, realizing she could catch me, she could win. In a flash, she was at my side, and then as we reached the finished line, she raced across it first, beating me by a hair.

  “Ha!” she yelled, jumping up and down, panting just a bit. “I beat you! And you’re older!”

  I tried to play along, to stomp out the part of me that wanted to rip her hair from her scalp and pin her to the ground. “You did it,” I said softly.

  Ellie skipped away, parading all around the field, relaying what happened to whoever would listen. A rage stewed inside me and by that time, I knew if I made a scene, if I pushed Ellie to the ground and started pummeling my fists into her side, that Mom would be mad. And I didn’t want Mom to be mad. I didn’t want Mom to drink, or to disappear again. I wanted Mom to be on my side in all of this, to love me. So instead, I walked to the lake and picked up a shiny flat rock, and tossed it into the water. I grabbed another and threw it, harder this time. I did it over and over, repeating the same words as the little pebbles soared into the horizon.

  I w
ill never let her win again.

  Now Ellie and I walk along the same field at Ellacoya, wearing leggings and oversized fleeces monogrammed with the Edgewater XC logo, ready to join the search party.

  The grass is damp and a blanket of fog hangs over the lake. But the sky is still and quiet, a murky mix of blue and gold. It’s so peaceful, like one of those Hudson River School paintings Mila loves. If I were Tamara, I would never leave the grounds. I can see why people shell out half a grand a night for rooms.

  “Look,” Ellie says softly. “The whole town is here.” I follow her gaze to the left of the restaurant and see the entire cross country team, plus dozens of other students, people who never even knew Mila’s name or that she had a tiny tattoo circling her wrist. There are reporters, too. You can always spot them thanks to their roving eyes, hungry for a scoop. We got to know their kind well over the years. They basically took over the Starlight Motel back when everyone thought the police would be able to pin down Monty and Kendall Fitzwater and get justice for Marlisse, Beatrice, and Abigail. They came back when Shira disappeared, too. Now they look eager and hungry for the next chapter in the Deadwater chronicles. They shoulder laptop bags and clutch recorders, phones pressed to their ears.

  As we get closer to the crowd I look for Mila’s mom, with her dark hair and worried eyes. I see her toward the back, huddled with Coach Gary and Detective Parker. My stomach lurches.

  Shawna comes forward and steps onto a small wooden crate near the front of the circle. She clears her throat and closes her eyes. Her skin is sallow and her hands are shaking. My stomach is tied into a knot. Where are you, Mila?

  “Hi, everyone,” Shawna says. Her voice is small and wavering. “I don’t know many of you, but I’m so grateful that you are here.” She pushes her hair behind her ears and lifts her chin, catching a glimpse of sun. “My daughter, Mila, is grateful you’re here. I say is because I know she is still out there. I know she’s waiting for us.” Her voice catches and another woman, who looks like she could be her twin, emerges from the crowd. She’s dressed in faded jeans, a worn sweater, and hiking boots. She takes Shawna’s hand in hers and steps up beside her, their shoulders touching. It’s so obvious they’re sisters.