The Night She Disappeared (15 page)

Her gaze only touches mine for a second and then she walks down the hall. She goes straight to the front counter, even though there’s no one waiting to place an order. I grab a slip from the wheel and join Pete and Miguel in making pizzas. But I keep watching Gabie out of the corner of my eye.

Suddenly, things aren’t so simple anymore. All I want to do is be back in her bedroom, watching her sleeping face. Her lower lip so full it looks like a pillow. Her lashes dark against her cheeks.

Sure, maybe I’d like to do a few more things than just watch her sleep.

But I’ve never felt like this before. Not about Kayla, not about those girls in the park, not about anybody. When I’m around Gabie, it’s like someone has stripped off my skin. Like I’m all nerve endings.

And now all they do is hurt.

But no matter how bad or confused I feel, I need to tell Pete that it’s not safe to have just two people working. Once the pizzas are in the oven, I ask him if he has a minute. I follow him into his office.

“What’s up?” He runs his index finger over his mustache. It’s so thick it looks fake.

I think of how Gabie acted when she talked to him and try to sound as confident. “We really need three people on at night, so that if one person is making deliveries, then the other one isn’t left here all alone.”

“I’ve been worrying about that.” He sighs. “I just don’t know what to do. My margin is already as thin as a razor. The price of cheese alone is up 30 percent over last year.” He rests his fingers on his calculator as if he’s already adding up the costs.

“Maybe you could raise the prices a little bit. Business is good, right?”

“Yeah, it’s good. But for the wrong reasons.” He shakes his head. “People are here so they can talk about Kayla, look at where she worked, wonder what happened to her.”

“So make them pay for the privilege. I just don’t think it’s safe to have someone here alone while the other person is on delivery. When I was gone last night, some crazy guy came in and told Gabie people were trying to pin Kayla’s murder on him.”

“Are you serious?” Pete’s eyes get wide. “Did she call the cops?”

I realize maybe we should have. “We talked about it. I came back while he was still here. When he saw me, he left in a hurry. But he just seemed crazy and pathetic.”

Pete starts scrabbling through his desk drawer. “I don’t think it’s up to you to say whether this guy has anything to do with this or not. That’s why we have cops.” He pulls out a business card and hands it to me, along with the phone. “You need to call Sergeant Thayer.”

ONCE THAYER
hears the guy was driving a pickup, one that looked like it had been spray-painted brown, he goes ballistic.

Thayer and Gabie and I are in Pete’s office with the door closed, although I’m sure Pete’s listening right outside the door. And Thayer is so loud I wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of the staff and customers can hear him, too.

“So you didn’t think this was important?” He leans right into my face. “Hello? When it’s been all over the media that a pickup was seen in the vicinity the night Kayla disappeared?”

“But it wasn’t white,” I say, even though I guess what he’s going to say next.

“It was white until three days after Kayla went missing,” he says.

“But he kept saying he didn’t do it,” Gabie says. “And it felt like he was telling the truth.”

“Really? Then tell me who this is.” Thayer pulls a blurry photo out of an unmarked manila envelope. An iron band tightens across my chest. It’s the same guy. He obviously doesn’t know he’s being photographed. He’s getting out of his pickup on some street.

“That’s him,” Gabie says. She sounds like she’s about ready to start crying. “So you know about him already?”

I pick up the photo like I’m studying it. I’m really looking at the white house the pickup is parked in front of, trying to make out the street sign in the background. But it’s blurry and out of focus.

If I managed to find that house and went there tonight and looked around, or kidnapped this guy and tied him up and punched him until he begged for mercy, would I learn what really happened to Kayla? What he did to her? With her?

Or would I learn nothing?

“Have you seen Renfrew before last night? Maybe ordering at the counter, maybe when you made a delivery, maybe someplace else?” Thayer watches us with his hawk-like eyes. “Because he went to the same high school as you, only he graduated three years ago.”

Renfrew. I file the name away, in case it might be useful. Both Gabie and I are quiet, thinking, then we shake our heads.

I try to picture him with Kayla. Hurting her. Throwing her in the river.

Then I think of how nervous he was, chewing his thumbnail. Since my mom started using, she’s not a big planner. Exactly the opposite. But whoever took Kayla planned this.

And the voice—I still don’t think the voice was the same. Something nags at me about the voice of the man on the phone. He sounded…smug, that’s it. Like the cat who swallowed the canary.

“Yeah, this is the same guy who came in last night. But I’ve never seen him before.” I look at Gabie for a second, and she nods. “And his voice didn’t sound anything like the guy on the phone the night Kayla disappeared. I may not remember exactly how that guy sounded, but I know it wasn’t like that.” I wave the photo. “This guy looked like a tweaker. He could have painted his pickup just because it was white and he was worried. Tweakers, they don’t think straight.”

“Yeah, well, you would know something about that, wouldn’t you, Drew?” Thayer narrows his eyes. “I checked you out.”

Something cold traces my spine. “What? Why?”

“All we had was your word that Kayla left here to make a delivery. You were the only two working that night. You could have had something to do with her disappearance.”

“No way!” Gabie says.

I’m too stunned—and too angry—to say anything.

“Don’t worry, we came up with a witness at one of the other businesses who saw Kayla load the pizza boxes into her car and drive off alone. But while we were asking about you, Drew, we found out your mom seems to have a little problem. In fact, she got picked up earlier today. Someone reported a break-in last night at a storage facility where she leases space, and your mom showed up on the surveillance camera. What do you know about that?”

“That’s my mom.” I say. “Not me.” My left eye feels wet. I turn my head and run my knuckles over it. I really don’t want to be having this conversation.

At all.

The Ninth Day

Kayla

EVEN BEFORE
the lock turns, I can smell the food. I sniff and sniff. It’s all I can do to keep from begging him to give it to me
now
. Instead, I stand up, with my hands clasped tightly together so he can’t see how they tremble.

“I saw her,” he tells me. He’s holding the tray high enough that I can’t see what’s on it. Saliva fills my mouth. In his other hand is a white-and-red plastic Target bag. “I saw your friend Gabie yesterday. She looked good.”

“Gabie?” At first, it’s just two syllables that don’t mean anything. My world has been reduced to these four white walls, this navy blue futon couch-bed, this TV, this tray of food I want to tear from his hands. It’s hard to believe there’s anything else.

And then I say Gabie’s name to myself again, and it’s like I see her. Really see her. I’m not sure how many people really do see Gabie. She’s smart, she works hard, but she doesn’t say a lot, hiding behind her slantwise bangs. But then she’ll say something so funny that you just can’t believe it came out of her mouth.

Still holding the tray above my head, he says, “Gabie was the one I really wanted. Not you. You were a mistake. You weren’t supposed to be working that night.”

“I’m sorry, master,” I say.

I look down, so he won’t see me. Won’t see that there’s still a real Kayla inside. I’m only a few feet from the food, but it might as well be miles. Last time when he saw me start to stuff the food in my mouth, he tore the rest from my hand and took it away. He told me he would not bring any more unless I acted with decorum. That was how he put it. “With decorum.” I’m pretty sure that word was on the SAT. Dignified, orderly, regular. Living in a hidden room with a head wound and a guy who wants me to call him master is anything but.

I still have to play along. I can’t afford to let him see that I’m still here. Inside the other Kayla. I have to pick my time and place. And I’ll only have one chance.

I imagine taking the silver pen from his pocket and sinking it in his throat, the way they do in movies when someone is choking in the wilderness and the doctor has nothing but a pen. What happens if you perform a tracheotomy on someone who doesn’t need one?

The pen glints dully in the light. And then I realize it’s really a metal X-Acto knife, like we use in art. The kind that holds a tiny slanted razor blade under the cap.

He keeps looking me up and down, but he doesn’t say anything after I apologize for being a mistake. Finally, he just shakes his head, his lip curled in disgust. I should be happy because that means he still isn’t interested in pushing me down on the futon couch-bed.

But if he doesn’t want that, then what good am I to him? Even if he did want me, it’s not like he’ll ever let  me go. I’ve seen his face. I know exactly what he looks like.

I wish I had been nicer to Brock. He was so quiet I never knew what he was thinking. Until I broke up with him. Then the words came pouring out, but it was too late. Because I had already met Nathan.

Nathan is an umpire. He’s twenty and goes to Portland State, and he wants to be a teacher. We started talking after games, and I thought, I like Brock, he’s fun, but he’s not going to be the rest of my life. I started seeing that Brock was like a kid and Nathan was a man. So I broke up with Brock, and Nathan asked me out, and I was so happy to say yes. And then I asked Gabie to trade shifts with me.

Gabie would be here now if she had said no. And God forgive me, but I would give anything not to be here. I would even trade places with Gabie.

That’s how low he’s brought me. I close my eyes for a second and try to beam his face to Gabie. So that if he ever comes for her, she’ll look past his plain vanilla exterior. See the horror beneath that bland little smile, the round glasses, the tan Dockers.

“I brought you some clean clothes.” He holds out the bag. “You can use some of your water bottles to wash with, and I’ll replace them.”

“Thank you, master.” As I take the bag, I keep my eyes down. I’m wondering what would happen if the next time he stepped into the room I had filled the Target bag with water bottles and swung it at his head.

“It’s a practical matter. You smell.” My eyes flick up, and I see his nose wrinkle. Without saying another word, he sets down the tray and leaves.

He doesn’t get that look anymore when he watches me, I realize. The cat-watching-a-bird look. Now when he looks at me, his eyes are flat and unfocused. Like he’s looking right through me.

As soon as the door closes, I pounce on the food. I’m not sure, but I think he’s bringing it further and further apart. Everything on the tray has come from a fast food place and is now lukewarm. Three bean and cheese burritos, and ten pieces of what look like Tater Tots with chili powder sprinkled on them. It’s all salty and rich and good, even with no ketchup or salsa packets. Less than two minutes later, I’m licking my fingers. Which probably aren’t that clean. Like the rest of me.

I look inside the bag. He left me a cheap white towel, a washcloth, a men’s white Hanes T-shirt, size medium, and a pair of men’s gray sweatpants. Also from Hanes, also a size medium. I wonder if he’s afraid to buy women’s clothes. If he’s worried the clerk would wonder why Mr. Loser is buying women’s clothes. Maybe that’s why there’s no panties or bra.

I’m not taking any chances. I’ll do it in pieces, to make myself less vulnerable. I open a water bottle. I’ve been missing being able to drink cold water, but right now I’m glad it’s all room temperature. I touch my cut after first wiping my fingers on the wet cloth. The skin around it feels hot and spongy. Could it be infected? It throbs with every beat of my heart. Gently, I dab it with the wet washcloth. Soon there’s fresh blood mingled with dark on the cloth. Maybe I’m just loosening the scab and making it bleed all over again. I stop and try to rinse out the blood, wringing the washcloth over the toilet.

Next I scrub my face and arms, finding mud and sand in every crease. I reach behind me, slip my hands underneath my T-shirt, and unhook my bra. Then I slide the straps down my arms and pull it free. I pour half a bottle of water on the bra and wring it out over the toilet. I wash my body while still wearing my old T-shirt and then put my bra back on underneath it. It’s a lot harder to reverse the process. And it feels gross, all clammy and cold. I start to shake. I just have to hope my body heat will be enough to dry it out. I pull on the new T-shirt. It even smells new, that sharp chemical scent that clothes have before they’re washed.

I wrap the towel around my waist and take off my muddy, stiff jeans and panties. I sluice down my legs. Before I wash out my old panties, I finger the sweatpants. They feel so soft. I’m kind of tempted to put them on with nothing underneath.

That’s when I notice something else in the bag. It’s a pair of panties. Women’s panties. There’s no tags on them. In fact, they’re not new. They’re not all that old, either, and they’re clean, but the tag is a little faded, no longer crisp; it’s clear they once belonged to someone. That they’ve been on someone else’s body.

Oh, crap, crap,
crap
. Where did they come from? I don’t need to be told that I’m the only woman in his life. This is not the kind of guy who is leaving this secret room to return to his wife or girlfriend.

So whose panties were these?

I start to shake. Because I know.
I know.

I’m not the first girl he’s had here.

Only where did she go?

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