The Night She Disappeared

  T: But you went to school with Kayla. You were in the same grade as her older brother, Kyle.

  R: Dude, I barely knew Kyle. I haven’t seen him since graduation. Kayla’s three years younger than me, so I really didn’t know her.

  T: When was the last time you saw her?

  R: I don’t know. In high school, I guess. Three years ago. She would have been a freshman when I was a senior. But I’m telling you, I don’t know her.

  T: Look, Cody, I am sure there is a reason that what happened happened. Whether this girl came at you for no reason, maybe confronted you, or she had a weapon, tried to fight with you, something of that nature. I don’t know what the reason was. But that’s why we’re here. There are always two sides to every story. And anything you say could be mitigating circumstances for you. I just want to get your side.

  R: But I don’t have a side. I didn’t have nothing to do with this. Look, I feel really bad for her and everything, but I didn’t do any thing to her.

  T: Cody, Cody, Cody. It is not a matter of whether you did or didn’t do it. Because I’ve got your blood on the rock you used to bash her head. DNA doesn’t lie.

  R: But it has to be a lie. There’s no way.

  T: I have the lab report sitting right on my desk.

  R: That’s just messed up. Someone must have made a mistake. Like at the lab. Because I didn’t pick up no rock. I’m telling you, I don’t even know this girl.

  T: You wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for the evidence. And we’ve got a seventeen-year-old girl we can’t find. There are so many questions I would like the answers to. And I think it would be nice to get that off your shoulders, because I’m sure it’s probably been bothering you. Maybe she argued with you. That wouldn’t surprise me, the things I’ve heard about her.

  M: What happened more than likely was an accident. I’m sure you didn’t go out with the intent to kill anybody. Did she come at you, and you had to fight her off and then she accidentally fell into the river? Is that what happened? Right now I think it would help the family tremendously if they knew what happened to their daughter. I think they have a right to know what went down. I mean, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if she turned on you. That wouldn’t surprise me one bit.

  T: That girl was known to have a temper. Some people say she’s real mean. But the bottom line is that if you don’t get that out there, if you don’t get that story told, it’s going to look bad.

  R: I want to get something straight. I didn’t kill anybody. I didn’t murder anybody. I never saw Kayla until I saw her on TV, and I never touched a single hair on her head.

  T: Okay, then who did?

  R: I don’t know, dude. How am I supposed to know?

  M: Why did you paint your truck?

  R: It got a scratch on it.

  T: A scratch? You just happened to get a scratch on it, and you just happened to think to paint it the day that it comes out that we’re looking for a white truck in connection with Kayla Cutler’s disappearance?

  R: Maybe I heard about that. Maybe I heard about it and didn’t want no one looking in the wrong direction.

  M: But you were down by the river, Cody. You were there. We have an eyewitness who saw your truck near where that girl’s car was found.

  R: I might have been near there, maybe, but I never saw that girl.

  T: Okay. Well, let’s talk about what you were doing down by the river.

  R: Uh.

  T: What were you doing out there? I mean out of all the places to be, you just happen to be at a place where a girl goes missing.

  R: Shoot, it happens.

  M: Yeah, but you don’t live anywhere close. What were you doing out there?

  R: Okay. Here’s the thing. I’m only telling you this because I ain’t got nothing to do with that girl, that Kayla chick.

  T: What were you doing?

  R: Sometimes I sell scrap metal. There was some down there. It’s just scrap. It don’t belong to anybody.

  T: Look, we’re not interested if you’re stealing metal and selling it.

  We’re only interested in where Kayla is. If you help us with that, we can make everything else go away.

  M: You know, Cody, how sometimes things happen like in a dream, only they’re real, but they feel like a dream? I know I’ve had that happen to me. It’s like you’re sleepwalking and you don’t even really know what happened. It’s not like you decide to do something, it’s more like it just happens all by itself. Is that what happened with this girl? Something happened that wasn’t your fault?

  R: It’s not like that, man. It’s not like that.

  M: Then tell us what it is like. That’s why we’re here.

  R: Okay, look. I seen another car that night, man. And there was a dude driving it. He was there. You should be looking for him.

  T: What kind of car?

  R: I don’t know, man.

  T: I mean big car, little car, red, green, white—what kind of car?

  R: Silver? Maybe silver. And average size. But it’s not like I knew something bad was going to happen that night and you were going to be asking me all these questions. I saw a car drive by. And there was a guy in it.

  T: How old was he? What did he look like?

  R: I don’t know. Maybe as old as my dad. And his hair looked dark. I only saw him for a second.

  T: But if you were there, then I’m sure you actually know who this guy is. And then it comes off of you. Because if you aren’t the one that did it, then someone else did.

  M: I think someone was with you, Cody, and they’re the one who really did it. The flip side is, the longer you wait, the more chance that somebody else is going to tell their side of a story that doesn’t sound good for you. And then you won’t ever get to tell your side because then we won’t need to talk to you. Your story won’t get told.

  R: But I don’t have a story.

  M: Were you taking that scrap metal where you saw the girl? She was lost, and she asked you for directions and then what happened? She got pissy with you, is that it? She saw what you were doing, and she called you on it.

  R: What? I never saw no girl. I saw another car, I already told you that. But I never saw that girl, and I never touched a hair on her head. I’ve told you everything I know.

  T: But—

  R: I’ve told you everything I know. You said I could say stop when I wanted. Well, stop. I say stop. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.

  M: Okay, okay.

  T: Maybe not us. But I want you to think about talking to someone else.

  R: I already told you, I’m done talking. I don’t want to talk to the police.

  T: She’s not the police. Her name is Elizabeth Lamb. She’s a psychic. The family hired her to find out what happened to Kayla. They need to know. She might be able to help you remember.

  R: I don’t know. I might. Maybe. But with no recorder. And no people behind mirrors. Just me and her. That’s it.

  The Sixth Day

  Gabie

  I TAKE A DEEP breath before I push open the main door to school on Monday morning. Is it my imagination, or are people staring at me? But then I catch part of a whisper, and I know I’m not imagining it. Because this black-haired girl whose name I don’t know is looking right at me and whispering Kayla’s name.

  A knowing nod from the girl’s friend, Jade. I’ve known Jade since third grade, but now she stares at me like I’m not really a person. I’m like a human TV program, maybe True Crime Stories crossed with America’s Most Wanted.

  Even those kids who have never watched TV news or picked up a newspaper know what’s going on. Chase Skloot comes up to me as I’m walking to my first class. “Is it true that you switched shifts with Kayla? That you were supposed to be working that night?”

  “She asked me to trade.” Everyone knows who Chase is, but he has never said one word to me in his whole life. I’ve seen him talking to Kayla, though.

  He tilts his head to one side. “Do you feel, like,
you know, it should have been you?”

  That stings, but I just walk away with my head down.

  Our history teacher, Mrs. Sleater, starts off class by announcing that a counselor will be available all day for anyone who wants to talk about Kayla’s kidnapping.

  “And murder,” a guy named Jason adds.

  “We don’t know that, Jason,” Mrs. Sleater reprimands him. “Not yet.”

  AT LUNCH PERIOD, I’ve just finished paying when someone touches my arm. It’s Brock Chambers, Kayla’s ex-boyfriend. “Can you talk to me for a second?”

  I glance around the cafeteria. Everyone is staring at us. Everyone. Even the people I eat lunch with are watching with their mouths open.

  Brock usually looks sleepy, but today he just seems sad. Looking at him, I think there’s no way he would hurt Kayla. Even if she hurt him. He’s got these eyelids that pretty much stay at half-mast, like he can’t decide whether it would be better to be awake or asleep. Usually he doesn’t say much, although he has an unhurried, spacy smile. Because he’s on every team except the Mathletes, everyone knows him, so our walk over to a table in a far corner of the room is interrupted by people calling his name, or saying “hey,” or nodding. A few smile, but then you see their eyes flicker, like the smile is a reflex they’re embarrassed by.

  He’s wearing a red T-shirt that says KILLSWITCH, which I’m pretty sure is some kind of band. It’s tight over his muscled arms. Brock’s built like a series of squares and rectangles—square shoulders, a cube for a head, arms and legs thick as trunks.

  “So, you know, I’m Brock,” he says as he walks to a table at the back where two guys from the football team are sitting. “Kayla’s boyfriend. Well, ex-boyfriend.”

  I’ve waited on him a dozen times, or started to, before Kayla ran squealing to the front, but he obviously doesn’t remember that. All I say is, “I’m Gabie.”

  When we get to the table, the other two guys who were there stand up. They don’t say anything. They just take their trays and leave.

  I sit down. Right now, the last thing I want to do is eat my burrito with its oily side of refried beans. “Brock, I’m so sorry about Kayla.” I push a forkful of beans from one side of the plate to the other.

  “Thanks,” he says softly. Maybe that’s not the right thing to say, especially when no one knows what happened, but what is the right thing? He is staring at the floor, with its black round circles where generations of kids have spit out their gum.

  Brock’s first question is one I don’t expect. “Did she talk about me very much?” His eyes are all the way open now, and they plead with me.

  I look away. “Kayla and I, it’s not like we were really friends. You should be asking her real friends, not me. We just worked together.”

  He looks down at his hands, which are as big as catcher’s mitts. “She was just always so happy. I don’t know anyone else like her, always smiling. She never got mad, she was never depressed. She was just”—he runs his flat hand in a straight line across the table in front of him—“even.” He can’t decide what tense to use.

  “Why did you break up?” It’s hard to believe I’m asking this question of Brock. Harder still to believe he’s answering it.

  “It was her idea.” I wonder if I’m imagining it, but his voice sounds rough. “We’ll be going to different schools in the fall. She said she knew we wouldn’t be together then, so there was no use putting it off. Except I’m wondering if that was the real reason. Because she asked you to trade so she could have Friday off, right?”

  I nod. It seems like everyone knows this.

  “So who was she going out with on Friday? Do you know?”

  What do I say? Do I say I don’t know? That’s true. She never said a name. Or do I tell him another truth, how Kayla’s face softened and her eyes lit up? She looked like someone in love. That’s true, too.

  I settle for “She didn’t say why she wanted to trade. Just that it was a favor.”

  “Do you think it was a customer? Someone at school? Did she say anything about him?”

  Everyone keeps thinking I know something, but I don’t. And even if I did, would it matter? Whoever wanted to take her out on Friday night probably didn’t kidnap her two days before.

  “She didn’t say anything at all. She just said there was something she wanted to do on Friday.”

  “I hear the guy asked about you. Do you know who it was that took her?”

  I stiffen. “What? Why are you asking me that? Don’t you think I would have told the police if I did?”

  He waves his hand. “I know, I know, sorry. It’s just that—maybe there are things you would tell me that you wouldn’t tell them.”

  “To be honest, Brock, if I was going to tell anyone anything, it would be the police. Because I want Kayla found.”

  He makes a small wordless sound, and again I wonder if I hear the beginnings of tears. “What will there be to find? Whoever did it is not going to just let her come walking home again.” And even though it’s his table, not mine, he stands up, picks up his tray of uneaten food, and says, “Thanks for talking to me,” before he walks off.

  On my way back to class, I pass what must be Kayla’s locker. Now it’s decorated with yellow ribbons. On the floor in front of it are a half dozen bouquets of flowers, still wrapped in plastic. But the flowers are already fading, their heads hanging limp from the stems.

  If I disappeared, who, besides my parents, would really miss me?

  The Sixth Day

  Kayla

  AT SOME POINT I noticed the water bottles lined up along the bottom of the bookshelf underneath the TV, and I drank some. There was a box of granola bars, too, but they are long gone. Mostly, I’ve just been sleeping. Maybe it’s a bad thing to sleep when you have a concussion, but I do it anyway. Sometimes I scream for help, but less and less often. I try to ignore how my stomach hurts, how it spasms.

  This time when I wake up, a man is standing over me. His arms are crossed.

  “Help me.” I reach my hand toward him, but he steps back with a frown.

  I push myself up so my back is against the wall next to the bed.

  He stares at me, expressionless, and doesn’t make a sound. He’s wearing tan pants and a navy blue short-sleeve shirt with a row of pens in the pocket. He’s got thinning dark hair and little round wire-framed glasses. He looks kind of familiar, but I can’t place him.

  “Scream as loud as you want,” he says, and smiles. The smile changes his face, makes his eyes go flat.

  I don’t scream. I don’t even cry. Or beg. Instead I say, “Who are you? Why am I here?”

  “You belong to me now.” He says it as if it’s a simple fact.

  The collar on his shirt is buttoned up tight, but right above it are three parallel marks, like the tops of angry red furrows. I think they’re scratch marks.

  And I think I made them. Looking at them, I feel a surge of pride.

  Pride and fear.

  And a red-hot desire to hurt him again.

  My eyes cut to the door, smudged with my bloody fingerprints. It’s closed. But maybe it’s not locked. Quickly, before I can telegraph what I’m about to do, I shoot past him with my arm outstretched. My hand closes on the knob at the same time his closes on my shoulder. He yanks me back just as I register that the door is still locked.

  “You’re a bad, dirty girl,” he says, and throws me onto the bed.

  I stand up really fast so that he doesn’t get on top of me. He just narrows his eyes. He’s so close I can smell his sour breath, but my back is against the wall and I can’t go any farther.

  Finally he says, “You shall call me master.”

  “What?” I heard what he said. I just can’t believe it.

  He lifts his chin. “From now on, you shall call me master.” He watches me. Waits for my reaction. He looks like my cat after she sees a bird in the garden. Still, but all quivery.

  “Say it,” he urges.

  But I don’t say anything
. When he moves, I don’t even see his hand coming.

  Slap!

  He hits me so hard that I fall against the white wall. Stars bloom behind my eyes. My ear is ringing. On boneless legs, I slide down to the cheap-looking linoleum. It’s cool against my cheek. The gold flecks twinkle. Or maybe that’s happening someplace in my eyes. In my broken head.

  When I push myself up, there’s a new smear of rusty blood on the wall. I touch the cut gingerly. My fingers come away wet and red.

  His nose wrinkles when he sees the blood. “You shall call me master,” he repeats.

  “You’re my master,” I say.

  Not meeting his eyes.

  The Sixth Day

  Gabie

  WHEN THE LAST bell rings, I run down the hall to catch Drew. I find him pulling his skateboard out of his locker.

  “Do you have your wallet with you?”

  His eyebrows pull together, and his hand reaches toward his back pocket like he thinks someone might have stolen it. “Yeah. Why?”

  I press my keys into his palm. “Good. Then you can drive me home. You need the practice.”

  “What? Now?”

  “I just want to make sure that you’re comfortable driving my car before you have to deliver your first order tomorrow.”