The Pretty Ones

by Jamie Lee Fry

Charlie

  August 2012

  A hard knock on my window interrupts my internal debate. A lady with dark brown hair and thick-framed glasses is standing outside my car, looking down into my vehicle.

  “Ma’am, ma’am? Are you OK? My name is Officer Francis Dorman. Can you roll your window down, please?” The officer motions for me to roll down the window.

  I acknowledge her action, and Officer Dorman asks me again. “Ma’am, are you OK? I’ve been sitting in my patrol car over there—”she points to her dirty white patrol car backed into a parking space “— and I’ve been watching you for about ten minutes. You looked passed out and maybe extremely bothered by something. Have you been drinking, ma’am, or have you taken any drugs?”

  “Oh, my gosh, Officer. No, I’m sorry. I’m here to report a friend missing. I have not seen or heard from her in twenty-four hours.”

  Well, crap. The words came out. I guess I have to go through with it now.

  “I’ve just been in a panic all morning because I can’t find my friend. I guess I didn’t realize that I’ve been sitting here that long,” I respond.

  Officer Dorman is staring at me. I’m sure she’s judging my credibility.

  “I’m sorry, officer, to worry you. I would gladly take a test. I haven’t been drinking or anything.”

  “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. How about I walk you inside and help you get your friend reported missing?” she responds and pushes her glasses up that had slid down her nose.

  “Thank you, Officer,” I reply, and give her a kind smile. See I’m not drunk or on drugs.

  She assists me inside the police station and leads me down a narrow, well-lit hallway, and says, “I will have you wait here. I’m going to talk to someone and will be right back. What is your name, my dear?”

  “Charlie Faye,” I say softly.

  I am waiting for about fifteen minutes when Officer Dorman comes back with a man in a blue suit. He isn’t wearing the same uniform as Officer Dorman, so I assume he must be the detective.

  He doesn’t remind me of Detective Morgan whatsoever.

  “Miss Faye, Charlie Faye?” he says, staring me up and down.

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “I’m Detective James Hubbard. My colleague here tells me your friend is missing. What is the name of the missing person? How long has the person been missing?”

  “Um,” is all I can say. I’m starting to sweat. I’m feeling nervous. This is a bad idea. “Um, since yesterday,” I stutter. “Her name is Quinn Sullivan.”

  Detective Hubbard moves closer toward me. I’m getting more nervous. Is this all part of his schtick? Can he see me sweating? Does he sense the fear rushing through my body?

  “About what time did you last see her?”

  I slowly proceed, thinking of each word as it leaves my mouth. “I think it was late afternoon.”

  “And where was that at exactly?” he asks.

  “We were at the beer festival downtown at Waterfront Park,” I respond. I can only guess what he’s thinking when I say beer festival. Drunk girls, no doubt.

  I study him as he jots down some notes. He’s a stout man, but bulky from his muscles. The lighting is reflecting off the top of his shiny bald head. He has a stern face and lacks kindness in his features.

  “Was anyone else with you?” he says, breathing heavily. His nose squeals each time he takes a breath in.

  “Yes, her boyfriend, Asher. I just met him yesterday. I don’t know how to contact him, and I don’t have his last name.”

  I’m feeling more of my nerves setting in. I don’t know how much more I want to tell him. I feel the scratches on my forearms burning. I look guilty. I feel guilty. I quickly turn my forearms toward the floor, wishing I had worn long sleeves or had something to cover them up.

  Detective Hubbard ignores my sudden movement.

  “Can you tell me the last thing that happened before she went missing?” he asks.

  I speak carefully, choosing what I want to divulge. I want my friend found safe, but I don’t want to implicate myself in case I had anything to do with this. Which, of course, I didn’t.

  “We were at the festival, and I saw her fighting with Asher. I tried to follow her but . . .” I trail off. I don’t want to tell him I was drunk and blacked out. “ . . . She was too quick, and I have been trying to get ahold of her since, and she won’t respond to my calls or messages.” My voice has hints of panic in it. I’m sure the detective is picking up on that detail now too.

  “Hmm, I see,” the detective says as he scratches his shiny, bald head.

  “Miss Faye, do you think it’s possible that your friend met back up with Asher, and they went somewhere to ‘make up’?” he says, using finger quotes when saying makeup, like I don’t know what he was implying.

  “Detective, I understand what you’re saying, but it doesn’t feel right. I feel like she would have called me by now to let me know she is OK. I have been calling and texting her nonstop since last night. She was also my ride home. I don’t know why she would have purposely left me alone if she was going somewhere to ‘make up’ with Asher.” I copy his air quotes to make him feel silly for using them.

  He gives me a coy smile. He realizes I’m poking fun at him.

  “I think she would have contacted me by now. I told her that I was going to the police in my last message, so if she was just having sex with her boyfriend, I think she would have responded and told me not to report her missing,” I say, a hint of attitude in my voice.

  “Asher’s car is still parked where he left it yesterday too, if that helps with anything. It’s a silver Mercedes-Benz parked in the large parking garage by Waterfront Park. It’s in the third stall on the first level. So, they didn’t leave in his car to go make up.”

  “Well, miss, I will have you leave me all her info. Full name, phone number, address, places where she might go, her parents’ information, and anything you think will be helpful.” His voice is disinterested and robotic. Gosh, he doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t think she is indeed missing. I knew this would happen. He’s convinced himself that she is just with her boyfriend and I’m overreacting.

  I get all of Quinn’s personal info from my phone. Luckily, I have her home address saved with her contact information.

  While I’m waiting for Detective Hubbard to process the information and the facts I gave him, he has Officer Dorman stay with me like I am a criminal that was going to escape.

  “It’s going to be OK. I’m sure your friend will turn up,” Officer Dorman says, trying to give me some hope.

  I don’t even acknowledge her; I’m too busy watching Hubbard. He is on the phone, and he looks displeased. He hangs up the telephone and walks back over to Officer Dorman and me.

  He takes a deep huff in and says, “I tried the phone number you gave me for Quinn. Miss Faye, are you sure this is the right phone number? I called it, and it says it’s no longer in use.”

  How could that possibly be? Did his fat fingers dial the number correctly?

  “I’m positive that is the correct number for her,” I say, almost shouting. I’m beginning to feel personally attacked by this man.

  Hubbard doesn’t try to comfort me; he says things just as he thinks them. “Maybe your friend doesn’t want to be found. Sometimes that ends up being the case. We will look into it and get back to you.”

  My heart sinks. What if he is right? What if Quinn doesn’t want me to track her down? But why?

  I leave him my contact information in case he has a breakthrough, which I highly doubt he will.

  I leave the police station regretting my decision to come here. Once I get back to my car, I call Quinn’s phone.

  “The phone number you are trying to reach is no longer in service. If you feel you’ve received this message in error, please try your call again.”

  No! That can’t be right. That just can’t be right.

  CHAPTER 43

  Charlie

  August 2
012

  It has been hours since I left the police station. I drove around aimlessly before coming back to the hotel. I honestly don’t know how to process anything right now. How is Quinn’s phone number not in use anymore? I just don’t understand. How could that be? It was working just fine yesterday, and now the service has been turned off?

  I pick up my phone to try her number for the millionth time, hoping for a different result, when my screen lights up and a Portland area code flashes across it. My heart drops. Could it be Quinn calling? It’s the first time my phone has rung in days. I quickly answer with hope in my voice.

  “Hello!”

  “Hello, Charlie Faye?” I recognize the voice before he even says it.

  “Yes, this is Charlie.”

  “This is Detective James Hubbard from the Portland Metro PD. I want to speak to you about your friend, Quinn Sullivan. I checked the information you gave me today, and we don’t have any record of a Quinn Naomi Sullivan residing at 939 Bridgeport Way. No Peter or Jane Sullivan either. At this point I’m led to believe, that your friend either isn’t who she says she is and has been lying to you, or you are pulling our leg. Miss Faye, we do not tolerate that here, and it is a crime to utilize the PD under false pretenses. This is not a joke. Real people go missing all the time. Miss Faye, what do you have to say about all of this?”

  I find myself grinding my teeth as he speaks to me. I unclench my jaw to reply to him. “First off, Detective, my friend is missing, and I know her name is Quinn Naomi Sullivan. We have been friends for almost four years. She wouldn’t lie to me. I still haven’t heard from her, and what if she is in danger? I don’t know why or what to believe about what you said, but I know my friend needs me, and I need to help her. Can you understand that, Detective?”

  A deep breath and sigh comes from the other end of the phone line, and Detective Hubbard, in an elevated, deep voice, now almost lecturing me, responds. “Well, miss, I don’t know what we can do until we have more information on your friend. To me, it sounds like she doesn’t want to be found, and if that is the case, then she isn’t who she really says she is, and that’s not a good friend in my book. Things can be black and white, and things can be gray. Let us know if you find out anything else. We will keep the case open for the time being. Have a good day, Miss Faye.”

  I throw my phone against the wall in anger.

  How could the police not help me? What is wrong with this detective?

  The police never seem to believe me.

  I retrieve my phone. Luckily, it didn’t break. I tried to call Quinn one more time, hoping things will be different.

  “The phone number you are trying to reach is no longer in service. If you feel you’ve received this message in error, please try your call again.” I end the call and slump down in front of the bed and cry.

  I’ve known Quinn for four years. Sure, she is self-centered from time to time, but she cares about me. She wouldn’t have lied to me for our entire friendship. Her parents, she told me all about them. Peter and Jane Sullivan from Portland. They lived here in Portland their entire lives. Her dad works at a factory and her mom is a secretary. Quinn talked to her parents every Monday morning before her classes. I wish I had a phone number for them. I need to find them so they can help me.

  I do have their address, though. Maybe Detective Hubbard didn’t really check out the information I gave him.

  Time to do some investigating on my own.

  CHAPTER 44

  Charlie

  August 2012

  I sit in my car at 939 Bridgeport Way. This is where Quinn supposedly grew up and her family still resides.

  Where are you, Quinn? Give me some sort of clue.

  I glance up and down the street, secretly hoping for any sign of her. So far nothing out of the ordinary.

  I’m not sure what to do now that I’m actually here. I have never met her parents, but I do not have a problem confronting them about their daughter. Maybe they can give me a little insight as to why she is the way she is. She would not shut off her phone without giving her parents an updated number, would she?

  939 Bridgeport Way is an old brick house with a swing set in the front yard. A large cherry tree houses a beat-up tire swing. I don’t recall Quinn ever telling me what her home looked like. So, I’m not sure what to think. She doesn’t have any siblings, so I do not know why they would still have a swing set and tire swing. A for-sale sign sits in the corner of the lot. Quinn didn’t tell me her parents are moving. Come to think of it, she said we couldn’t meet here because of home renovations. I see no signs of a home renovation either.

  I have more questions now than I came here with. I slam my car door shut and walk swiftly across the lawn and up to the front porch. My heart is beating fast. I’m rehearsing lines in my head. Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan, do you know where Quinn is? I can’t find your daughter. I think your daughter is lying to me. I think your daughter is in trouble. I think . . . I think . . . but I don’t know a thing.

  I rap my knuckles hard against the wooden door. I impatiently knock a second time. I wait a minute and as I’m in mid-pivot to turn around and leave, a little boy opens the door. He blurts out, “My mom is on the potty, hold on a second!” He slams the door in my face. Quinn said she didn’t have siblings, especially ones this young. This explains the swing set. An only child, she told me; just like me. We bonded over that. I feel defeated. This can’t be Quinn’s house. I attempt to walk away again, and the door opens a second time. “Hold on, girl, my mom is coming.” Again, he slams the door.

  I hear a lady beyond the large wood door yelling to the kid, “Who is at the door, honey?”

  The door opens for a third time and a slender lady with no makeup appears this time. “Hello, can I help you?” she says politely and then not one, but two little boys peak out from behind their mother. Identical twins. Cute little kids but I’m not in the mood for their games. I need answers. This woman is way too young to be Quinn’s mom, Jane.

  At this point I realize that Quinn doesn’t currently reside here, but has she ever lived here? Did she lie to me about this? I let the words fly out of my mouth. “I saw your house was for sale. I’m very interested and wondered if I could have a look at the place.”

  The lady with the two boys responds. “Yes, of course. I’m Karen, and these are my boys, Ryan and David. I apologize for the mess. It’s hard to keep up with these two sometimes. I swear the house was clean before I took a shower, and then I get out of the shower, and it looks like this.” With a wave of the hand, she leads me into the house.

  “I’m Marie, by the way,” I say. Another lie. They just keep coming out of my mouth. I am shocked at the ease of my fabrications.

  I continue, “My husband and I are looking for a home in the Portland area. I’m in town for business, and we plan to move here in three months. I was driving through this neighborhood, thinking how nice it would be to live here, and then I saw your sign and thought, how perfect. I must stop.”

  I tuck my left hand into my pocket to avoid Karen questioning the lack of a diamond on my ring finger.

  Karen smiles at me. “Oh, that is wonderful. We just love this house, but we’ve outgrown it. These two keep growing, and so does their toy collection.”

  Wow, Karen, you’re way too trusting. Do you ever watch the news? I could be some deranged psycho that you just let into your home.

  “Let me show you around the place,” Karen says as she guides me through the first level. “Let me know if you have any questions.”

  “How long have you lived here?” I ask.

  “Oh, let’s see. I think it’s been about seven years now,” Karen says as she’s counting the years on her fingers.

  Seven years! I think I have my answer. Quinn lied. I want to turn around and leave, but Karen’s phone rings. She gives me an apologetic look and says, “Please excuse me.”

  I smile and the boys continue to stare at me. I can’t run out on this sweet, trusting lady. What kind o
f person would scare someone like that? I may be a liar now, but I’m not that cruel.

  One of the boys yanks on my hand. “Hey, are you going to buy our house?”

  “Uh, maybe,” I say. I’m already in my lie. No turning back. May as well play along.

  “You can live in my brother’s room. I have a monster that lives in my closet—you shouldn’t live in my room,” he says.

  The second boy asks while tugging on my other hand, “Do you have a dog?”

  “Um, yes, his name is Shaggy,” I respond.

  “That’s a funny name for a dog,” he says, giggling.

  I need my two shadows to leave me alone.

  “I’m going to have a huge room at my new house. My mommy told me so,” my second shadow tells me.

  I have to get out of here. Karen, where are you?

  It’s clear that Quinn doesn’t or has ever lived in this house. This is a dead end. I’m not going to find Quinn here.

  “Sorry about that,” Karen says as she enters the room.

  I smile and say, “Your boys were sweet and showed me the rest of the rooms. Thank you for your time. I think I’ve seen what I need to. I will talk to my husband. Thanks again. Enjoy your day.”

  I’m back in my car and I want to scream. I’m beyond livid.

  Why would Quinn need to lie about where she lived? What is the point of this kind of lie?

  Is the detective right?

  Yet again, I have more questions than I had when I started my day. This morning I needed to find my friend and now I’m left with the plaguing question of who the hell is Quinn Sullivan?

  Who is this girl who posed as my best friend for four years? Yes, Quinn has lied to me a few times over the years—and who doesn’t?—but they had been little lies. Things normal girls lie and fight about, such as boys. Not this gigantic monster of a lie.

  Shortly after Quinn moved in, I heard a guy in her bedroom. When I asked her, who was in there, she told me it was no one and that I was imagining things. Then Nash, the guy from the frat party, appeared from her room. When I confronted her about it, she just laughed and shook it off like it was all a joke. That should have been a red-flag.