The Night She Disappeared (19 page)

Patience, persistence, and precision. That’s my stock in trade. The grit of the sandpaper, the right knife or pick, the correct primer, the exact shade of paint, whether it’s gloss, semigloss, or flat finish—all these things are vital. There are other architectural model makers in town, but none as good as me. A few are hacks who might use aquarium gravel to mimic a stone facade. The very idea turns my stomach.

I haven’t fed Kayla for several days, hoping to weaken her. My plan is to strangle her, come in when she’s asleep and be nearly done before she even has a chance to struggle. I’ve fashioned a cord with two wooden handles on it. I won’t do it like the other one—too much blood. And she took forever to die.

Kayla will be easier. And then I’ll take her down to the river and let it wash her clean.

The Fourteenth Day

Kayla

I’M GOING
to die here. In this stupid hole. I’ll never see my friends or Kyle or Mom or Dad. I’ll never go to college.

I’ll never again take a real shower or pet Wampus or drink lemonade or walk barefoot over our soft green lawn. I’ll never go to Hawaii or Florida. I’ll never hug anyone again or play my guitar.

Or eat. Because he hasn’t brought me any food in a long time. More than two days, I think.

When I first woke up here, I thought it was the gash on my head that would kill me. Now I think he’s planning on leaving me penned up until I die. But how long could that take? Don’t some people take, like, three months to die without food?

I know it’s less if you don’t have water, but I still have eight bottles. And I guess there’s an endless supply in the toilet tank, if he doesn’t turn off the water from outside.

Maybe I should have bargained with my body. Maybe I could have lived that way. On the outside, anyway. But part of me says that no matter what I did, I would still end up dead in the end.

Since I realized the pair of panties came from some other girl, another girl who is no longer here, I’ve prepared as best I could. The white plate he brought my last meal on—which I now realize might really
be
my last meal—I cracked into a variety of useful shards that I hid around the room. Because they’re white and the walls and the floor are white, they blend in. I wrapped the base of the longest one with the stranger’s underwear and practiced stabbing and slashing the air with it.

And I took one of the slats from the couch-bed and tucked it underneath the futon, after taking a few experimental swings. As soon as I hear the lock begin to turn, I’ll stand to one side of the door and swing. I’ll have to be careful. The wrong angle, and I could end up just bashing the wall and missing him entirely.

Yesterday, I tried screaming to see if he would finally come. I was tired of waiting. It was like the first time I was here, only I guess now I know it’s really hopeless. I stopped when my throat got raw. Which made me drink one of the precious bottles of water.

Now I’m curled up on the bed, with my homemade knife loose in one hand and the fingers of my other hand touching the hidden wooden slat.

I pray for my family and my friends, letting their faces come into my mind one at a time. Maybe being hungry has made my senses sharper, but it’s like I can really see them. Mom’s blue eyes are so clear to me that I whisper, “I love you,” and almost believe I hear her whisper it back. I even see the other kids from work. It’s like Gabie is looking right at me. Tears spill out of my eyes and run down to pool in my ear. I know I’m wasting water, but I can’t help it.

And I pray that I’ll be ready. Ready to kill him.

Or ready to kill myself, if it comes to that. Because I would rather draw my homemade knife across my wrists than take three months to die.

Kayla’s Horoscope

It’s not as easy as it should be for you today, because you are anchored to the past in a way that makes it hard for you to respond to what’s happening in the present. You know what you want and where you want to go, but are not free to execute your plan just yet. Don’t let restrictions or delays make you so frustrated that you impulsively do something stupid. Move carefully now. Think twice before making any unnecessary decisions.

The Fourteenth Day

Drew

THE FUNERAL
was yesterday. Today I guess we’re supposed to be back to normal. My chest feels hollow, like something is missing.

Gabie looks even worse than me. She said she couldn’t sleep last night and asked if I could still do deliveries tonight. I guess every time she closed her eyes, she saw Kayla. No matter how many times she told herself it was just a dream, just a delusion, Kayla refused to go.

Coming back from my third delivery, driving near the Fremont Bridge, I notice car lights right behind me. Too close. I speed up a little. Maybe the driver is impatient because I’m deliberately going five miles an hour under the speed limit. That’s because I don’t want to risk getting pulled over by the cops. I’ve got my license, but I have no idea where Gabie keeps her registration. Plus, I never forget that it’s
her
car.

The driver stays glued to my bumper. So close that I can’t see the car’s headlights unless I lift my head. So close I can’t even see what kind of car it is. Just that there’s only one person in it. With both hands on the wheel. So probably not talking on a cell phone, unless it’s hands-free. But they must be on one, to be driving like that. Like I’m not even on the road.

Now I’m going five miles over the speed limit.

There’s an empty lane right next to me. In fact, the whole road is empty, except for us. This part of town, mostly factories and empty parking lots and huge metal storage tanks, is pretty quiet at night. I pull over to the right, then put my left hand up and wave, like,
Go around!

They don’t.

Ten miles over the speed limit. Fifteen.

Now I can’t even see their headlights when I lift my head. All I can see is the shape of the person in the car. I think it’s a man.

BAM!
Suddenly I’m thrown against my seat belt. The car is filled with foul-smelling powder. My face hurts. A huge white balloon is already deflating on my lap. It’s the airbag. Only then do I realize the other driver has slammed into me. Into Gabie’s car. Oh, crap! My hands shaking, I drive to the side of the road and throw the car into park.

It doesn’t matter that it’s not my fault. It’s Gabie’s car. How bad is it? How much trouble will we get into? Her with her parents, me with the cops?

I look in the rearview mirror. It’s some guy in a baseball cap and a dark jacket. He’s getting out now, bending down to look at the back of the Mini and the front of his car. I’m afraid to go look.

I’m opening my door when he speaks.

“Are you okay, miss?”

Suddenly, my insides turn to water.

I know who it is.

I know what he wants.

I remember the police asking me over and over about the voice of the guy who called in the fake pizza order. They asked me about it so many times that whatever memory I had of it evaporated.

Until now.

I’m ten feet away from the guy who called and asked if Gabie was making deliveries. The guy who really killed Kayla, no matter what the cops say. And now he thinks he’s got Gabie.

Only I’m her.

The Fourteenth Day

“John Robertson”

I’M DRIVING BACK
from delivering the amusement park model when I see a black Mini Cooper ahead of me. On top, a red and white sign glows. It says pete’s pizza.

Something inside my chest unfolds its wings. Gabie has been offered up to me. How can I not take this gift, so freely given?

I speed up until I’m right on her bumper. Her left hand comes up, tries to wave me past. I get closer. Close enough our bumpers could kiss. Gabie’s eyes flash in the rearview mirror as she realizes I have no intention of leaving her alone.

But how can I get her out of her car? Her screaming, the doors locked, the cell phone in her hand—I can’t have that. And my gun is at home.

Then I remember a fable my mother used to read to me. In it, the sun and the wind argue over who is stronger. They see a man wearing a coat and decide that whoever can get it off of him is the strongest. The wind tries to blow it off, but the man just cinches it tighter. Then the sun turns up the heat, and the man gladly sheds his coat.

I need to make Gabie
want
to get out of her car. Her precious car that always looks freshly polished, free from dents and dings.

I bite my lip and press the accelerator down a little further. Until finally our bumpers really do kiss.

I step out of the car, feeling my heart accelerate. I’ll need to get the dent in my bumper fixed and the airbag replaced, but none of that matters now. All that matters is getting my hands on her.

She’s slow to get out. It was just a little tap, wasn’t it? I can’t have hurt her. We are all alone on this road. No one can hear me except Gabie.

So I call out to her.

But when the person stiffens, I realize it’s not Gabie in that polo shirt and baseball cap. It’s one of the boys who works at Pete’s, driving Gabie’s car.

I have to get out of here. Put distance between myself and this kid before he has a chance to think about what just happened. Before he has a chance to get my license plate number. Before he realizes it was Gabie who was really my target.

Before he has a chance to think Kayla might still be alive.

Before that happens, Kayla needs to be really and truly dead.

The Fourteenth Day

Gabie

WHEN MY CELL PHONE
buzzes in my pocket, I jump. Miguel turns his head and stares. I look to see who it is. It’s Drew, so I walk toward the back for a little privacy.

“Gabie, it wasn’t Cody who took Kayla.” His words run together. “The guy who really did it—I’m following him right now!”

“What?”

“I was driving back, over in the—uh—industrial area, and this guy kept—uh—following me real close. He wouldn’t go around.” I can tell by the odd pauses that Drew’s driving and talking. “And then he bumped me.”

“What? He hit the car? Are you hurt? Is the car hurt?”

“I’m okay, and I’m pretty sure the car has some damage, but that’s not what’s important. Gabie, he thought I was you. I was wearing my Pete’s baseball cap and driving your car. He bumped the car, and then when we both got out, he started heading toward me, pretending he was worried. And then he called me miss. That’s when I knew.”

I feel like I’m going to throw up. “Oh, my God, what did you do?”

“When he realized it was me, he took off. And now I’m following him.”

“What? Stop!” I hold my hand up like Drew can see me. “You could be in danger! Just get his license plate number and call the police.”

“And what? You heard Thayer. They don’t want to hear one more word about how we think Cody didn’t do it. But he didn’t! And if that’s true—then Kayla could still be alive.”

“Does he know you’re following him?”

“I don’t think so. It took me a while to decide what to do, so it wasn’t like I drove off after him right away. There’s a car between us, and I’m keeping way back. His taillights have a weird pattern, so I’ll know if he turns.”

I hurry into the break room. My fingers find a set of keys in one of the cubbies. “I’m coming.”

“What?”

I wait until I have the back door closed behind me before I tell him the rest. “I’m taking Miguel’s car. Hold on a sec.” I unlock the car, throw the phone on the passenger seat, get in, and put the key in the ignition. I’m backing up when Miguel runs out the back door. I put the car into drive and swerve around him. Yelling, he reaches out to grab the door handle, but he misses.

Miguel’s a lot taller than I am. After screeching out of the parking lot, I adjust the rearview mirror. But I can’t figure out how to move the seat up, so I’m forced to sit on the edge. At a light, I put on the seat belt, then pick up the phone and ask Drew for directions. As soon as the light turns green, I start weaving around cars, going as fast as I dare. Seat belt or no seat belt, my parents would totally freak out if they could see me now.

As I follow Drew’s instructions, I think of what might have happened if I had been the one making deliveries. How my car might be sitting empty right now. Another empty car, another missing girl.

“He’s slowing down,” Drew says.

“Don’t let him see you.”

“I turned off my headlights when we went around a turn.”

“Is that safe?”

“This from the girl who jumped in the river and just stole Miguel’s car?” Drew snorts with nervous laughter. Then his voice changes. “He’s stopping. I’m pulling over.” There’s a pause. I cut around a dawdling car and then push the speedometer to a place where it doesn’t really belong. I’m out in the middle of nowhere now. No street-lights, and the houses are few and far between.

I strain my eyes, looking for his car in the darkness. “I’ve got to be close,” I tell him.

“Good, because he’s getting out of the car and going into a house.”

“Does he know you’re there?”

“I don’t think so. I’m about a football field away, and there’s some trees between us.”

A minute later, I pull onto the gravel behind the Mini. I barely register the dent in the back bumper. Wordlessly, Drew points through the trees at a sturdy old farmhouse, the white paint so pristine it practically glows in the dark. The curtains are drawn. The nearest houses are hundreds of yards away.

I get out. Drew’s holding a tire iron. I only recognize it because my dad insisted I learn how to change a flat. He hefts it and says in a half whisper, “I figure we need a weapon.”

Suddenly I want one too. All I find in Miguel’s trunk is a bag of gym clothes. I’m careful to close the lid as quietly as possible. Next I open the car door a crack, snake my hand in, and turn off the overhead light, and then slide back into the car to look on the floors and seats. There’s wrappers and receipts, but nothing useful.