Run (12 page)

Raped too, I think, but the paper doesn’t say so.

And finally, as I speed-read and print, I see the end of Shannon’s story. The transient was arrested and convicted of her murder.

There are three articles about the trial. I skim these too. The jury was convinced, but Mom wasn’t. I reach for the fake Chanel purse and pull out the envelope with the clipping. Mom has underlined a sentence.

Blume had recently had a heart tattooed on her shoulder, although her mother had no knowledge of it.

My mother thought that was significant and I need to know why.

I search for the Blumes’ address and find through online tax records that they haven’t moved.

The smelly body-spray kid glowers at me from across the room, trying to get me to leave. I glance over at the computer next to me—the one he’d been using. Two under-dressed women and what appears to be a German Shepherd are doing something on the screen that I don’t even want to process. Along with being degrading and humiliating, it is completely at odds with the stated purpose of the “Cool Teen Scene”.

EXPLORE YOUR WORLD. IT’S A BIG, BEAUTIFUL PLACE!

I look at him and mouth the word: “
Perv!
”

I don’t even wait for his reaction. I have too much to do. Next I look up information about victim number two. She’s another pretty blonde. And she’s sixteen at the time of her disappearance. Megan Moriarty was on the cheerleading squad at Kentridge High School in a suburb further south of Seattle. I look at her and make a judgement. I don’t think I would have liked her. I know that it’s wrong. But for some reason I never like the girls on the cheerleading squad. They are so over-the-top in their self-indulgence that if you weren’t a mirror they’d never look at you. At least they never looked at me. Caleb Hunter said I was way prettier than the six girls that considered South Kitsap their personal turf and the rest of us either servants (band members, coaches) or adoring fans (the suck-ups that make up most of the class). Outsiders like me hated them, but we were also kind of mesmerized by them too. Every second of the day the gang of six demonstrated their power. They were interchangeable—slender, larger on top, and teeth as white as ascending wedding doves. They could snare a boy with just a look.

I think of Caleb just now. I had told myself that I’d never see him again. When I did that, I just assumed that I could will him out of my memory. We’d done that as a family before, when we made the switch. We just packed up whatever we had that we needed and left everything else and everyone else behind. We didn’t disappear in the night. We couldn’t do that. That, Mom said, would arouse suspicion. Instead, we told neighbors and casual friends—because that’s all we ever had—that a family emergency had occurred and we had to leave. We promised to call and write, but we never did. Not even once.

I miss him.

I’m over him.

We never were anything anyway.

I try and shut him out, but instead I find myself logging on to Facebook.

I HAVE TOLD MYSELF OVER and over not to do what I’m about to do, but I can’t help it. The familiar blue of the Facebook login looks at me from the screen and dares me. I type in my email address and my password. I stupidly accepted some of the kids at South Kitsap as “friends”—only because I’d been goaded into it.

By Caradee Hagen of all people.

I remember the moment when she studied me like a lab experiment as we stood by her locker. She was fiddling with her smartphone.

I should have known better as she scrolled to my minuscule Facebook page.

“Rylee, it looks like someone is a bit of a loner.”

Her words so dripped with fake concern that I almost wanted to pull her aside and give her lessons on how to act sincere.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I lied.

“I had a stalker at my last school and had to start over,” I said.

She shot me a look of admiration. One that should be fake, but was genuine.

“Holy crap,” she said, a little too gleefully. “That’s so cool.”

“I guess,” I answered, knowing that Caradee is a complete attention skank and she’d no doubt welcome a stalker. Sure, she’d act all mad and scared, but deep down she’d love being in the center of such a drama.

“I’ll friend you right now,” she said, pushing the request button on her phone and waiting for me to accept. I didn’t want to, but I logged in and accepted.

“Let’s take a selfie right now and I’ll post it,” she said, holding up her phone and getting into position.

And, of course, since Caradee is in control, the photo she posted is great of her. My eyes are halfway shut and the angle makes me look about ten pounds heavier.

And that’s just my face.

I really don’t like that girl.

And now, here I am, on Facebook, looking to see if the only friend I really ever had is online. Immediately, my pulse quickens.

The little green light next to his name is on.

My fingers tremble a little and I don’t exactly know why. I take them from the keyboard and give them a shake, as though whatever was causing the tremor was physical and not emotional. I will not crack. But I will not let Caleb Hunter think that leaving town as my brother and I did was something that was easy to do.

His picture makes me smile. He’s got his arms folded in some kind of tough guy pose and a sheepish grin on his face. I took that photo. Two days ago at school. Forty-eight hours before my world spun out of control.

Before the knife.

The blood.

The truth about where I came from.

And the mystery of where Mom has been taken.

I put my hands back on the keyboard and type two words.

I’M SORRY
.

I wait. Nothing. Maybe he’s away from the computer. Maybe Facebook is acting up again. Maybe he’s blocked me. I type some more.

ARE YOU THERE?

Another moment passes and my heart sinks so low into my abdomen, I’m sure that I will need surgery to put it back where it belongs.

And then, like a blast of air through the room, words are thrown at me.

RYLEE! WHAT HAPPENED? WHERE ARE YOU?

I won’t need that surgery after all.

I CAN’T SAY
.

He answers right away.

YOU DIDN’T OFF YOUR OLD MAN?

That he would even ask it makes me wonder how well I know him. Or how well I think I do. And yet I don’t blame him. Not really. He has a reason to ask. I would probably ask too.

I type:
YOU KNOW BETTER
.

Again, he responds without a beat to waste.

WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?

I don’t want to lie to him. So I shut him down. At least, I give it my best shot.

DON’T ASK. IT’S COMPLICATED
.

It doesn’t work. Not completely anyway. He answers right back.

WHAT’S COMPLICATED IS HOW YOU JUST DISAPPEARED ON ME. WTF! YOU’RE ALL OVER THE NEWS. I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD OR SOMETHING
.

He cares. I get that.

I look around and suck in some air. Since I’m uncertain about what to say, I type the obvious.

I’M NOT DEAD
.

THANKS FOR LETTING ME KNOW. I’VE BEEN SCARED SHITLESS
.

His response is so Caleb. He’s angry, sarcastic. But he cares and I know it. Given all that I’ve been through in the hours since my dad’s murder, that’s all I need right now.

I type a response and my fingertip hovers a little before I send.

I JUST WANTED YOU TO KNOW THAT YOU MATTER TO ME
.

Caleb Hunter must have taken Advanced Keyboarding in his freshman year because his response is instantaneous.

I KNOW THAT. WHAT HAPPENED?

I drink in more air and type.

I CAN’T GET INTO IT. LIKE I SAID IT’S COMPLICATED
.

He drops a tiny bomb at me.

THANKS FOR TRUSTING ME
.

My heart sinks again.
Ugh
. And my hands tremble a little more. Suddenly the screen seems fuzzy and I strain to see the chat window as I put the words into order and hit the SEND button.

IT ISN’T ABOUT TRUSTING YOU
.

Part of me wants to say more, but I know that I can’t yet. All I ever wanted was to be normal or something close to normal. Caleb made me feel that was all possible. He could be trusted. Liars like me know how to spot another phony better than anyone. Mom said more than once “it takes one to know one” when she sized up those we met when we were on the run.

The people who were hiding, running, trying to blend in without being noticed—Mom insisted she could smell the fear on the people like us.

I blink hard and the screen clears, but only for a flash.

I CAN HELP. I WANT TO HELP. YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO WHATEVER YOU ARE DOING ALONE, RYLEE
.

I know Caleb means it. But I also know that what I’m about to do, I need to do alone. I can’t involve another person that I care about, even though all I want to do is go to him and tell him that he means more to me than anyone.

Except my little brother. My mother. My dead stepfather.

And the man I’m going to find and kill.

I type what I hope are not the last words that I’ll ever direct toward him.

I HAVE TO GO
.

I think about adding something about my feelings, but I’m not good at that. I don’t know how to say what I’m feeling and, really, I don’t want the distraction of those feelings. Not now.

Probably not ever.

I look sideways at the screen, as though facing it head on would hurt more.

DON’T SHUT ME OUT
.

I turn away from his message on the screen. I can’t answer. I leave those words to twist in the vast void of internet.

I REFOCUS ON WHY I’M HERE. The clock is ticking. I read how Megan had been dropped off by her best friend in front of the Kmart where she worked—a fact that made me like her a little bit. I mean, Kmart. That had to be a come-down for a cheerleader. No wonder her friend dropped her off.

And she was never seen again.

Alive, that is.

A headline wraps around my neck like a strangler’s hands:

MISSING CHEERLEADER FOUND IN DUMPSTER

No one deserves that. Not even a cheerleader. I scan the article for the salient points. Missing twelve days. Found battered and partially decomposed in a dumpster behind the Kmart where she worked. Her boyfriend, Kim Mock, found guilty of her murder and imprisoned for life.

I search the local directories and find out that her mom has moved. Her dad might still be at the address in the paper, but I’m not taking any chances. I print out the articles and the directions to both.

The third girl was Leanne Delmont, also sixteen. According to the news articles, Leanne had been missing for more than three weeks when her body was found, east of Seattle. The case went unsolved until the arrest and a deluge of confessions made by a notorious deal-seeking serial killer named Arnold Cantu. His admittance of guilt meant that he was spared the death penalty. It seems Mr. Cantu was afraid of being on the receiving end of something so barbaric—and deserving—as the gallows, the method of capital punishment reserved for the worst offenders in Washington.

I recall that same article among the papers from the bank. Mom had made a notation. I fish it out of the envelope:

She was one too. I saw her.

Saw her?
Saw her when? Where? I don’t understand.

In any case, I capture Leanne’s family’s local address. I wonder what connection Arnold Cantu had with the case.
If any
. Mom seemed emphatic in the way she scrawled that note with a heavy hand, next to Leanne’s name.

I saw her.

I gather up all the printouts, more pages than I could manage to read at the moment. I have to get moving. I need to get closer to where he did his hunting, his capturing and his killing. I have to find out everything I can. My time is measured. And it’s running out.

“Did you pay for your copies?” the annoying pervy kid says. “Ten cents a page.”

“Do you pay to look at pornography?” I ask. My eyes steady at him, unflinching.

I don’t understand where this new, aggressive me is coming from. It scares me a little when my mind races to the changes in my behavior. It isn’t like me to confront anyone. I was always the person in the background trying to fit in, trying to be a part of something without really being a part of it. It was like I was the puzzle piece from the wrong box. I could be made to fit in, but not so neatly.