All the Missing Girls

by Megan Miranda

  * * *

  THE COPS HADN’T FOUND anything yet—no hard evidence. Or if they had, they weren’t talking. And that didn’t sound like them. Not the ones I knew.

  Officer Fraize had been a cop ten years ago when Corinne disappeared. He’d told his wife about Jackson and Bailey and Tyler and me. His wife was the school secretary—maybe he thought she’d know something that would help with the case. Maybe he was looking for information, but he was really giving it away: Bailey and Jackson? Corinne and Tyler? Do you remember Daniel Farrell? Tell me about them. Tell me everything.

  Jimmy Bricks had been a senior when Daniel was a freshman. In addition to being the first Bricks to attend college, he held the school record for most beers funneled at a time. The record remained unbroken by the time I graduated. We were too close in age. Our circles overlapped. We’d see him at parties when he was home from college. He told rumors about Corinne as if they were facts from a police investigation and not the other way around.

  It wasn’t until they brought in Hannah Pardot from the State Bureau of Investigation that the case gained traction. Detective Hannah Pardot, who never smiled, not even when she was trying to play nice, with her piercing eyes and the bloodred lipstick that sometimes stained her teeth. She made me the most nervous, mostly because she was once an eighteen-year-old girl. She seemed to know there was more to Corinne than anyone could say.

  She was in her thirties back then, with curly auburn hair and gray eyes that revealed nothing. Maybe she’d had kids and settled down by now. Maybe she took an early retirement. Or maybe the cases shuffled in and out and we didn’t last with her—not like she’d lasted with us.

  Hannah was thorough and tight-lipped, concentrating on the cold, hard facts. If she’d been here from the beginning, maybe she would’ve discovered what had happened to Corinne.

  Maybe if she were here now, they’d find out what happened to Annaleise.

  The facts. The facts were difficult to see clearly. The facts were like the view from our porch—shadows in darkness and shapes you could conjure up from fear itself.

  * * *

  THERE WAS SOMETHING OUT there. Feet crunching leaves, getting louder, moving closer—someone running. Adrenaline propelled me to my feet as the blood rushed to my head. The footsteps were moving faster, approaching from my left. I held my breath, strained to see, but whoever it was remained hidden inside the tree line. He continued past my house, the leaves crunching under his steps at a steady pace before an extended pause as he leaped across the creek that had long ago dried up, onto Carter land.

  I looked for my phone—inside—and thought of the time it would take for someone else to get here. The footsteps fading as I debated what to do.

  Go.

  I was quick through the grass, but my bare feet recoiled as I entered the woods, turning my steps tentative. I bit back a yelp as a sharp twig caught my ankle, and I held on to a tree, listening for the sound of footsteps. Nothing but silence now. Had he heard me? Was he gone?

  I held my breath, gripping the tree, and counted to twenty.

  Still no sound.

  I stepped carefully, pausing every few seconds to listen, until I reached the hill between our property and the Carters’. I crouched low, climbing the hill on my hands and knees, trying to get a better view of the place through the trees.

  There. A light. A shadow moving in front of the gap between the shades from inside the converted studio. I moved closer, sidestepping down the hill. The light was dim—not strong enough to be coming from a lamp, just a flicker through the shades. A flashlight, a television screen, a computer, maybe.

  I sneaked closer, but the shades moved aside and the shadow peered out. The way the moonlight angled into the window caught the eyes, set off a glow, and I closed my own eyes in case they were doing the same. I slid behind the nearest tree, kept my back pressed against the trunk, and tried to slow my breathing.

  A door latched, a lock turned—the other person was outside now. I heard movement in the leaves, circling around. Slowly at first, coming closer. And then faster, moving away, into the distance.

  I waited for minutes, maybe longer, before heading back to my house, my legs shaking, my feet numb to the trail. Someone had been in Annaleise’s place in the middle of the night. Someone who knew the woods well. Someone who had a key. Someone who could run in the dark by heart.

  * * *

  THE SHOWER RAN COLD, and I wasn’t sure whether I was shaking from the temperature or the leftover adrenaline. But the water felt good. The heat of the day had already begun, and I hadn’t even started looking for someone to fix the air-conditioning. Tyler had said it was probably the condenser fan, but Daniel wanted a second opinion. A real opinion, was what he actually said.

  I got dressed, started a pot of coffee, sank into a kitchen chair, and rested my head on my arms while it brewed. I tried to lull my mind, empty it, drift off into a worry-free oblivion. But I had to try to catch Tyler before he left. I had to look into his eyes when I asked. I had to know.

  Just one more minute. Just a moment, and then I’d go.

  * * *

  THE COFFEE WAS LUKEWARM by the time I pulled myself from the table. Shit. I downed a quick cup instead of breakfast and hopped in the car, driving straight to Kelly’s Pub.

  Tyler’s truck was already gone, but I could see the dim lights from the pub through the dirty window. Jackson’s bike was in the back lot, like always. Though it was a Wednesday morning, there were a few men at the bar already. Whiskey in a glass. Beer in a bottle. And a bowl of mixed nuts on the counter between them.

  The bell rang as I pushed through the front door. Jackson locked eyes with me from behind the bar. “Can I help you with something?”

  When I got closer, I could see he was biting back a smirk. “God, do you work here all the time?” I asked.

  “It’s my job,” he said, rough hands pressed flat against the counter, leaning so his muscles strained against his T-shirt, the tattoos on his forearms rippling with life. His nails were bitten down to the quick, and I couldn’t tell whether his fingertips were stained with liquor or nicotine. “By the way, you missed him by a few hours.” He said this without looking me in the eye.

  Jackson and I were always cautious with each other. Even when his words carried the weight of a threat, they were buried under something else. I knew too much of him, and he of me. Too much we learned about each other and Corinne during the investigation. It was only after she disappeared that I realized how little my best friend had shared with me. When I couldn’t find the answers to the exacting questions from Hannah Pardot. What did she think of her parents? What did she say about Jackson? Did you know she had plans to meet him? What was she asking him about in this message? I could only answer the hypotheticals. Those, I knew. Would she have gone off with someone she just met? Would she run away? Would she take your boyfriend and pretend it was for your own good?

  But the What was her state of mind? The things with substance—the tangible, real answers—those were elusive. I knew only the Corinne who existed in the hypotheticals, the theoretical possibilities: would she, could she, might she.

  It wasn’t until Hannah Pardot broke her open that I knew all of her. Corinne Prescott: more real presumed dead than alive.

  Jackson got away with the things he kept hidden: I didn’t see her; she never found me; I don’t know what the message was about.

  But only because I never called him on it.

  Back then people wanted to believe him. Jackson Porter, he loved Corinne, he would never.

  There was something about him when we were teenagers. Something about his appearance that made people want to believe him. He didn’t look honest, exactly, but his features made him seem trustworthy.

  People saw his brown eyes, which were large and framed by eyelashes too long for a guy and made him seem like he was always listening even when
he wasn’t. And his hair, which was exactly the same color as his eyes, something that seemed perfectly logical, that made you want to trust him. But it was more than that—it was the symmetry of him. Made him seem incapable of deceit. When Corinne disappeared and the questions began, I was seized by the sudden thought that Jackson could—and always had been able to—get away with anything.

  And I knew he was lying.

  I didn’t want to be in a room with him. Or talk about him. And it was this that Hannah Pardot seized on. Not my words but the distance I tried to put between myself and Jackson. This unwillingness to comment on anything Jackson said. To neither confirm nor deny. I switched to I don’t know, which was all Corinne had left me with anyway.

  It didn’t matter in the end. Bailey cracked at the first tap, after hearing about the pregnancy test in Corinne’s bathroom. Filled that box with each of our betrayals and all of her fears. Told Hannah Pardot what she wanted to hear: Nic? She thinks she’s too good for this place. But she’s nothing without us. Nothing. And No, we didn’t know Corinne was pregnant, but it must’ve been Jackson’s, and that must’ve been what her voicemail was about, and Jackson didn’t want it, obviously. Bailey followed the pieces Hannah laid out for her, feeding her back the story she demanded: that Corinne was impulsive and reckless—she’d burned down the Randall barn, even—and I was still pissed about her hitting on Tyler at the party. And Daniel was always too harsh on me—emphasis on harsh. Jackson wasn’t going to forgive her this time, Bailey said. He told me so.

  It was him. It had to be him. He didn’t want her or the baby.

  Bailey made it a story, and since she was one of Corinne’s best friends, that made it real—everyone else adding layers over the top: I heard her throwing up in the bathroom; she didn’t wear those cropped shirts anymore, because obviously she was hiding it; she was ashamed. Jackson dumped her. The poor girl. That poor, poor girl. Brought it on herself, though, you know.

  I don’t know what came over me when I found out. Why I pushed Bailey, why I yelled, why I accused her of ruining Jackson. Why I cared.

  Because she did ruin him. That was the story people ultimately believed, even if no one could ever prove it. And that was why he was working at this bar, all alone. And why he never had a girl who stuck around. Now those same eyes with the impossibly long lashes made him seem like he was listening too much, eavesdropping, plotting. His appearance was too coincidental. The symmetry of him was the mask. And he, the monster behind it.

  This bar was the safest place to put him.

  “Why don’t you leave, Jackson?”

  He didn’t answer. His tattoos rippled as he wiped down the bar between us. But I thought I knew. You wait for people here. For people to come back. For things to make sense.

  “Why do you keep coming back?” he asked.

  “I’m helping out with my dad.”

  “So you’re only coming back for him?” He smirked again, avoiding my gaze.

  I dropped onto a barstool. “Since when did it become socially acceptable to drink at breakfast?” I asked.

  Jackson pressed his lips together, looking at me for a beat too long. “It’s after lunch.”

  I checked the clock behind the bar, staring at the second hand jerking to a stop with each movement. I must’ve been out for an hour or two at the kitchen table. Trading time in the day for the sleep I wasn’t getting at night.

  “What do you want, Nic?”

  I drummed my fingers on the counter like my dad might do, then stopped myself. Held them flat. Willed them not to shake from the caffeine. “Do you know where Tyler works?”

  “Same place he’s always worked.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Tyler didn’t have an office. He and his dad used to work out of their home, where Tyler was happy to live until what I considered way past an acceptable age; he said he’d rather save the money.

  “But then you have to spend it on a motel whenever you want to take a girl back to your place,” I’d teased him, standing too close.

  He’d grinned and said, “I just take them to theirs.” And he’d taken me back to my place to prove his point.

  But now he lived here. In an apartment above a bar. And I wasn’t sure if he still worked out of his parents’ house or was on site today.

  Jackson threw the rag on the counter and motioned for me to follow him out of the bar, out of earshot. We stood in the vestibule between the front door and the staircase, and he leaned in close. “Stay away from him right now. Trust me.”

  “What are you talking about?” I felt the men in the bar leaning closer, trying to hear—felt all the rumors that could come from this moment: Jackson and Nic, whispering about the case. Jackson and Nic, standing too close.

  “Annaleise Carter,” he said. “They’re pushing Tyler hard on it. And you being here? Doesn’t look good for him.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just don’t add more fuel to the rumors, Nic.”

  “What rumors?”

  He cut me off with a look, and I brushed the comment aside. “I’m engaged. I just need to talk to him.”

  “You need to stay away from him. Annaleise was . . .” He trailed off, thinking. Annaleise was still a thirteen-year-old girl to me. I’d left and missed what she had become.

  “Annaleise was what?”

  “She was obsessed.” He cleared his throat. “With Corinne. She’d been hanging out here a lot. Being way too friendly. Asking questions.”

  “About what happened?”

  “Not really. It’s not like she was obsessed with what happened, exactly. Just . . . her.” Jackson looked over my shoulder, into the bar, his mouth close to my ear. “She’d say things I swear Corinne used to say to me in the same tone of voice. It was creepy, Nic. Seriously fucking creepy. She could do a pretty sick impression of her.” His jaw tensed, every muscle in his body tensed. “I never . . . She creeped me out, more than anything. But the cops still talked to me. They were here just this morning. I bet they’re with Tyler now, since they also wanted to know where he worked. Bet they’ll talk to your brother soon enough.”

  “Daniel? Why the hell would they talk to him?”

  Jackson’s lips pressed together and he stared back, unwavering.

  “You’re not serious,” I said. “Daniel wouldn’t.”

  He shrugged. “I hear she called him a lot. She’d come in here looking for him, just like you’re looking for Tyler right now. Hear his wife spent a few days at her sister’s place a few months back—don’t know if it was related. Rumors. You know how it goes.”

  Rumors. They always start from something. Daniel hadn’t told me Laura had left. But then again, would he?

  “Just tell me where he works, Jackson.”

  “I really don’t know,” he said, his eyes sliding away from me.

  Lie. Again.

  He left me standing in the entrance to the bar. And somewhere along the way, as I felt myself losing a grip on everything I’d fought to hold together—my family—and as the panic surged up and over, I lost all semblance of pride. I followed him in. Raised my voice in the dim quiet. “Does anyone know where I can find Tyler Ellison?”

  The man with the whiskey coughed into his fist. I walked over to him, stood too close. “Do you know?” I asked, leaning so close that the liquor on his breath stung my eyes.

  He held the glass between us like a shield, smiled as he raised it to his lips. “Nah, I’m just curious what he did to make a girl barge into a bar looking for him.” He laughed to himself.

  The man with the beer ignored him. He frowned and tipped his glass toward me. “Patrick Farrell’s daughter, right?”

  The other man went silent. I nodded.

  “Ellison Construction’s got a project going at the railway. New station. Funded by the goddamn township.”
He took a gulp of his beer, dropped it to the counter. “For the goddamn tourists.” The other man mumbled something about money and funding and streets and the schools. “My guess, you’ll find him there. How’s your dad?”

  “Not good,” I said. “Worse. He’s getting worse.”

  “You selling the house? That what I hear?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. Everything was fluid again. Dad hadn’t signed the papers. But the house was just the tip of the thing now.

  I turned to leave, and Jackson grabbed my arm. “Be smart,” he said.

  And, like an echo, I heard Tyler whispering to Jackson down by the river. Be smart, he said, and then I stepped on a twig, and they both turned around, pretended they were talking about something else.

  Jackson told the police he didn’t see her after the fair, Nic, Tyler had told me later. He claims he never saw her at all that night.

  But that was a lie.

  I saw Jackson and Corinne. After the fair. But if I said that . . . you had to understand the way things were. The stories people could weave from the few facts they had, the truths they pulled together from that box.

  They needed someone to blame. Someone to vilify and put in a cell so they could feel safe again. Someone to play the part, be the monster.

  I couldn’t tell that. It would be enough to close the box forever. I’d be sentencing him.

  Jackson wasn’t some pushover who let Corinne wrong him time and time again. He wasn’t some angry kid who felt betrayed, like the investigation would have you believe. It had nothing to do with any baby, any fight. When Corinne turned on him, cut him down and made him push back, enough to push her away—he liked it.

  I know this because we all did.

  He liked it because of what came next—the phone call begging him to return. That phone message they played for all of us: Please. Please come back. The way she’d love him, surely, when he did. Nobody would ever love you so fiercely, so meanly, so thoroughly. And the parts of you that you wanted to keep hidden—she loved those most of all.