Lizzy was like a big sister to me. And if she’d been my big sister, I’d never have been the little troglodyte that Gwen is. I’d never have let her change the way she did after freshman year. I’d never have let her take her own life. And I’d always, always wondered . . . how did it happen? How did Lizzy go from being the brightest girl at school to showing up to homeroom drunk at 8 a.m.?
The redacted report has been passed around the school like a dirty magazine. Of course I’ve seen it. But today, I held the unredacted file in my hands.
Don’t open it, my warning voice said. My warning voice is my voice of reason, or at least of practicality. My warning voice reminds me what Dad would do if he caught me, what would make me look bad for the Devino Scholarship, what would get me in trouble with Principal Mendoza or make the wolf pack look at me funny.
What if Dad comes in to get something? What if he checks the security cameras? My pulse began to beat double.
But I always knew that Lizzy’s truth must be different than the redacted report paints it. I always wanted to talk to her one last time. And this file was as close as I’d ever get. I flipped it open.
A lot of the redacted stuff is personal details, and stuff that my dad would term a “moral danger” to give to the public. Like, there was a torn condom wrapper on the back seat of Lizzy’s car, and fluids showed up under UV light that the police never tested, deeming them “too old” to be of significance to the investigation.
And there were footprints.
It rained the night Lizzy died, a brief thundering that made Anna roar and set all the wind chimes in Lorne clattering and clamoring. The storm was over by the time Gwen reports Lizzy left the house. So the dirt would have been fresh and wet, unusual for Colorado. Boot prints are clear in the photos, and from big feet. The police don’t really talk about them in the report. Maybe they’re from before Lizzy parked her car and stumbled down the ravine. It’s a well-used trail, after all.
Or maybe someone was with her the night she died. Someone who was never found.
THE LORNE EXAMINER ONLINE
December 6, 2018, 11:00 A.M.
Investigation Formally Opened in the Disappearance of Emma Baines
Police are officially declaring Emma Baines a missing person as of this morning. The teen girl, a dedicated student at Jefferson-Lorne High School, was last seen by her father, the chief of the police force, before he left for his evening shift on Monday.
“She’s a good girl,” Chief Baines told the Examiner. “She doesn’t mess around with drugs or drinking. She was going to go for a scholarship at Boulder.” Baines further asserted, in claims substantiated by Emma’s fellow students, that Emma spent most of her time at home, studying, or at school-sponsored extracurriculars. She was a finalist for the Devino Scholarship, a full undergraduate scholarship given to students of academic and moral excellence in financial need.
The entire Jefferson-Lorne community has become involved in the search, and police from as far as Westminster have driven up to take part. A video showing a physically similar girl being pushed over the edge of the bridge at Anna’s Run, posted to Emma’s Facebook profile early this morning, is undergoing thorough investigation.
Emma Baines is 5’4”, described as slender, with pale skin and pale blond hair cut at shoulder length. She is seventeen years of age.
Any members of the public with information regarding Emma Baines are encouraged to immediately contact the Jefferson-Lorne Police Department.
5
The Overachiever
Gwen goes to school anyway.
She waits until her mother’s hanging the laundry on the line out back, then sneaks out the front door. It’s a forty-five-minute walk in the chill air and biting wind. She sends a quick text.
This side of Jefferson-Lorne is a step down from the mobile home park. The houses are long and thin, propped on cinder blocks, with paint curling back from the rotting boards to reveal all the shades that came before, back when people were proud enough to care what the outside of their house looked like. It’s the kind of neighborhood where you nail a board over broken glass and cover it with plastic wrap because you can’t afford a new window. It’s the kind of neighborhood where all the fathers go around with shovels after a snowstorm, because half the mothers are single and working. It’s the neighborhood where all the miners lived, before the yuppies sank their claws into Lorne, and demonstrated, and lobbied their representatives, and got the mines shut down. Now the lucky ones among those men, people like Gwen’s father, have gone into construction, tearing down the little houses and replacing them with enormous ski lodges, winter homes of the wealthy white people that are ten times the size of the only home Gwen will ever get. If she stays in Lorne, she’ll slowly watch her neighborhood get bulldozed and replaced with carefully cultivated McMansions that loom empty three-quarters of the year. If she’s lucky, she’ll get a job as a housekeeper or a gardener in one of them. Trimming hedges while the Avery Crosses of the world sip spiced caramel lattes that cost an hour’s wage.
But that’s not going to be her. That’s the mantra she recites as she walks. She pulls her shoulders back and walks as though she owns the road, as though the cutting December wind can’t even touch her through her threadbare coat.
Her face and hands are red by the time she gets to the front office of Jefferson-Lorne, and she can’t feel her nose. She hands over a forged tardy note to the secretary in the attendance office. Through the thin walls, muffled conversation occasionally rises in volume. “Is Principal Mendoza in?” she asks.
“He’s at a meeting.” The secretary offers her a smile. “Thanks for coming in, dear.” She doesn’t even check the note.
Gwen hesitates as she leaves the office. The hall is silent—it’s the middle of second period. She leans against the wall outside the principal’s office, tilting her head toward the door.
“. . . Give us a few more days, at least,” Mendoza says.
“The Fund needs confirmation, the name of the college, and to verify credentials. We can’t sit on this. There are a lot of deserving applicants, and if it needs to go to somebody else—”
“She’s missing, for god’s sake.”
“We do understand the tragedy of the situation. But remember, a lot of other people are waiting on an answer from us until they decide where they can afford to go to school. We need to be sensitive to their lives, too.”
Chairs scrape and there’s a thump as someone gets to their feet. Gwen starts, and before she can chicken out, knocks.
There’s a pause. A few seconds later, the door is wrenched open. A man in a suit pushes his way past Gwen and down the hall. Gwen turns to Principal Mendoza, a lean man with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He wears the kind of face that makes students cry. “What can I do for you?”
Gwen does not shrink back. If anything, she straightens. Flips her dark ponytail over her shoulder. “I was just wondering. About the scholarship. Will the announcement go out today?” Nerves lend her voice a Welsh lilt, like her mother’s.
Mendoza stares at her for a long moment. “How . . . ? Never mind. The announcement has been postponed until further notice.”