My mother was paranoid and didn’t want Julia or me going out at night. Julia was fine with that. I wasn’t. Whatever psycho was snatching teens was only interested in girls. I was safe. But my father insisted I needed to be at home when he was working overnight. No one had disappeared from their homes, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen. Suddenly, I was in charge of Julia’s safety, and it irritated me that the burden had been placed on my shoulders. I had friends, a social life, a girl I made out with when her parents weren’t home. Unlike Julia, I was popular and not afraid of what might happen.
As more girls disappeared, the halls of the high school started to adopt a quiet, zombified atmosphere. Our classmates, our friends were disappearing. School counselors offered support to those who needed it, but even they were freaked out. What was happening in our quiet, uneventful town? Who’d be the next one to be taken? Who’d be next to disappear?
At the same time after school on Thursdays that I had football practice, Julia had cheerleading practice. We walked home together. But a week before Christmas, I’d been injured in a game, so I was ditching the last practice before Christmas break.
Julia begged me to wait for her anyway. No one else was going in our direction. The boys on the football team always went out for wings and beer at Ellie’s Diner, where the waitress didn’t give a shit about serving minors, and Julia refused to date jocks.
The other cheerleaders weren’t exactly friendly to Julia.
I never understood why she’d wanted to be on the squad. They always treated her badly. They refused to include her in activities that weren’t directly related to practice or competitions, though they all hung out together on the weekends. The more she impressed their cheerleading coach, the worse the treatment became. Cheerleader hazing was one of the most brutal I’d ever witnessed. Julia had been put through the demeaning, often dangerous tasks worse than most, but she’d endured it. She’d been hoping for a cheerleading scholarship for college. It would be the only way our family would be able to afford to send her.
Then the cheerleaders started to go missing. One disappeared after leaving her job at the ice cream shop. One vanished while walking the two blocks to her home after a night of babysitting. The third after a date with a college boy she wasn’t supposed to be with.
With them gone, Julia had been promoted to captain of the squad, which helped her scholarship chances, but the treatment from the other girls only got worse. Still, she refused to miss a practice.
She’d be walking home alone that day if I didn’t stay.
I didn’t stay.
She didn’t come home.
September 6—8:23 p.m.
Every light in the house is on. I’ve always been afraid of the dark. This new neighborhood, these new walls around me, haven’t sunk into my bones yet. Every little noise makes me jump. And now I’m here alone.
I stare at my silent, unringing phone. Hours without a call or text from Malcom can only mean one thing. Malcolm and Mikayla are gone.
I want to hate him, but I’m still numb.
Emotions take the longest to sink in, to take hold. So much of my life has changed, been altered in the last few days. Emotions take time.
At first, my body was acting on impulse—scared, angry, confused—but now those involuntary reactions, spurred by the unexpected, have subsided, and I’m calm, clearheaded, as I wait for answers, for clarity.
Detective Ryan’s update didn’t reveal anything. The school confirmed what the receptionist had told me on the phone. Next, he’s going to talk to Fran. All I can do is wait. Wait and hope that Mikayla is okay. Wait and hope that Mikayla is safe. That Malcolm will walk through the door, safe, unharmed . . . not a liar.
Truth rocks my core.
I don’t know Malcolm.
I don’t even know myself.
Right now, nothing makes sense. Puzzle pieces are missing, and I need to put the whole picture together before Detective Ryan does.
Time passes as though I’m trudging through quicksand. Has it really only been nine hours? This nightmare feels like days.
I can’t sit still, but there’s so little to do. The house appears clean as I wander through it now for the first time since walking in the door with the detective. I felt safer being confined to the living room, but I can’t just sit on the sofa forever. My shadow follows me, and I feel as though I’m being watched. The secrets in this house threaten my sanity.
I pass the laundry room and see that the dryer is full. I open it, and the sight of Mikayla’s tiny clothing makes my chest tighten.
Can I do this?
I reach in and take out a white-and-yellow sundress. Soft, delicate lace trims the edges, and buttons shaped like little baby ducks adorn the front. So small. Hard to believe a real live child fits in it. I hug the fabric against my chest and breathe in the scent, wishing it were still dirty so that it would smell like Mikayla instead of fabric softener. Sweet, baby powdery innocence instead of this chemical, floral, sickly smell.
My fingers grip the fabric as my jaw tightens.
Where is she?
I force several calming breaths, and my fingers relax.
She’s with Malcolm. She’s fine.
The words provide no comfort.
I fold the laundry, ignoring the tears that fall and dry on my cheeks. Sadness and despair are the emotions rising to the forefront now. I don’t know why this is happening. I don’t know what I could have done to prevent it or what I can do to fix it.
I pick up the tiny stack of clothes and slowly climb the stairs. I haven’t been up here yet today, but I can’t avoid these rooms forever. The hardwood floor is cold beneath my bare feet, and a shiver runs down my spine at the eerie, empty silence. The feel of a house not fully lived in yet surrounds me. It’s cold and hollow upstairs. No happy memories have been made here yet, no lingering permanency of a loving family inhabiting the home.
I walk slowly down the hall and enter Mikayla’s room.
Unlike other parts of the house, there’s nothing left to unpack in here. The convertible crib has been set up near the window, transformed into a toddler bed. She’s so big already . . . pink ballerina-themed bedsheets and comforter neatly wrapped around the tiny mattress.
The small white dresser in the corner is princess themed, with girly pink accents, and I walk toward it with the clothes. I carefully place everything in the proper drawers.
On top of the dresser are several framed baby photos, and a lump strangles me as I stare at them. I need to find her. I need to get her back.
In the center is an old jewelry box. An item from my own childhood. My hand shakes as I open the lid. A tiny ballerina rises up into the center, and the familiar music from the Nutcracker Suite starts to fill the air around me.
I stare at the pink tutu as it spins around and around . . . the music getting slower . . . then broken, choppy as the wind-up key reaches the end of its rotations. The ballerina stops.
I shut the lid quickly and put it down. I scan the bookcase along the wall. Dozens of children’s books line the shelves. All of Mikayla’s favorites.
Seeing her baby album, I take it down, sit on the floor, and open it.
Her birth announcement on the first page is starting to fade slightly, the blue ink smeared a little. April 3, 2018: five pounds, two ounces.
She was early. By almost six weeks.