The Night She Disappeared

  “What? What are you saying?” My stomach lurches.

  “I’m just looking out for this poor family the way you won’t. You two have been zero help in this investigation. Zero. Drew can’t remember anything about the person who called. You both talk to Cody Renfrew, but you don’t bother to tell us until the next day. And now you’re trying to upset her family with your wishful thinking.” He reaches out and gives Gabie’s shoulder a little shake. “Kayla Cutler is dead, and I don’t ever again want to hear you saying anything different.”

  Transcript of The Opal Show

  Opal: Today we’re talking to famed psychic Elizabeth Lamb about the missing pizza delivery girl in Oregon, Kayla Cutler. On Friday, the man suspected of abducting her committed suicide while on the phone with a 911 operator. In his pocket was a note asking for forgiveness.

  Lamb: With all due respect to her parents, and I hope I say this with sensitivity, you know, her physical body went into the river. But her spirit is here with me now to reassure her parents that everything is all right.

  Opal: How do you know that?

  Lamb: Partly, it’s a heaviness. It’s hard to explain. It’s a knowing. You see, what happened is that the night before I received a packet from Ms. Cutler’s parents in the mail, I awoke around three A.M. I saw an attractive-looking girl standing at the foot of my bed. I realized it was a ghost.

  Opal: A ghost!

  Lamb: Being a psychic all my life, it wasn’t that strange a thing. I knew there was some reason for it. The next day I received the packet of information, including an eight by ten photograph. I told my husband, “That’s the girl who was in our bedroom.”

  Opal: And what did you think when you saw this photo?

  Lamb: My first impression was—this girl is dead. That it was sudden, violent, a lot of fear, a lot of terror. Someone Kayla recognized and knew, but not a close friend. You see, one of the things I can do is read photographs. Like when law enforcement has a suspect or sometimes not even a suspect but just a victim, they’ll ask me to look at a photograph. Just by looking at the picture, I know whether or not a suspect committed the crime. Or, in the case of a victim, I can often see what happened.

  So I flew up to Oregon and I had the police take me to where her car was found in case I could get some insight into where she was. Standing on that lonely road, I had a vision. I saw Kayla in her car, coming down the road, looking for an address.

  And I saw a guy in a pickup flag her down. He was real friendly, and he leaned out of his window and told her he was sorry, but he had given her the wrong address. And Kayla got out of her car, got ready to hand him the pizzas, and he grabbed her.

  Opal: Oh, no.

  Lamb: One thing you pick up as a psychic is impression of trauma or terror. This spot on the road had that kind of feel to it. I literally had goose bumps. It was like I was Kayla, living her desperation and fear. When we were at the site, I asked the detective if he could read me the names they had collected of people who had white pickups, which was the type of vehicle seen in the vicinity the night Kayla disappeared. And when he read me Cody Renfrew’s name, I knew. I asked the police to take me to where he lived. And the officer took me up to his apartment and introduced me to Cody. When we shook hands, his hand was cold, clammy, and limp, and I knew that he knew that I knew. We didn’t talk for very long. He wouldn’t say much. But then again, he didn’t need to, did he? Because I already knew what he had done.

  Opal: And then just a few hours later…

  Lamb: Cody killed himself. My first reaction was anger because he didn’t leave us any idea where Kayla is. But at least we know what happened to her. I’m not God, I can’t walk on water, and I’m not always right. But in this case, thankfully, I was able to locate the perpetrator.

  Opal: How do you react to those naysayers who say that what you do is a trick?

  Lamb: I can’t. This is my work. I do the best job I can. To prove that what I do is true, that’s a personal thing. It is like saying, “Prove God.” If you have a belief system, and you have faith, then there is nothing really more than that. We can learn so much from people who have passed on about love and forgiveness and how to live a better life on this earth.

  Opal: Thank you for bringing answers to those who so desperately seek them.

  The Fourteenth Day

  “John Robertson”

  IT’S OFFICIAL. Everyone thinks Kayla is dead. Everyone.

  So why should I disappoint them?

  As I think about what to do next, I use two-part liquid epoxy to place the figure of a tiny young woman in the roller coaster, her hands raised above her head. Or below, in this case. She’s upside down as the coaster does a 360-degree loop. The other figures were easy enough to locate, but I had to special order the girl from England. She only arrived today, the day the model is due. She’s part of a circus set, her arms originally reaching out to catch the trapeze, but she serves my new purpose well.

  The roller coaster is one portion of a mock-up for a proposed new coastal amusement park seeking financial backers. The scale needs to be large enough that investors can visualize it. Mentally walk along the paths, stand in line for the rides. But the model can’t be so big that it won’t fit through a doorway.

  Waiting for the epoxy to set, I think about Cody Renfrew. I saw his white truck that night. Drove right past it, with Kayla Cutler unconscious in the trunk. I had pretended not to see him, my hands easy on the wheel.

  The Renfrew kid must really not have seen anything, or he would have told the police.

  I resist the temptation to take my fingers away to see if the girl will stay in place. It’s too soon, and cutting corners always leads to problems. I’m working nonstop to meet the deadline. Because modeling happens late in the design process, I am the one who is expected to make up the time that was earlier frittered away. The only break I’ve taken was to go to the funeral yesterday. It was hard to hide my smile. All those people crying in the packed pews. Thinking they knew everything. When they didn’t know anything at all.

  With my free hand, I pick up a color swatch to make sure it matches the shade of the metal roof. I have swatches for all the surfaces: metal, bricks, rocks, trims, wood, siding. For each color you actually need three, to add depth: one as a baseline, one for highlights, and one for shadows. While coats of paint dry, I’ve been catching naps on the couch. Kayla was screaming yesterday, but today she’s quiet. Each time I wake up, I feel a little fuzzy, but once I pick up the tiny paintbrush, my attention to detail snaps back.

  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, lik
e, 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

&
nbsp; 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.”