by A B Whelan
Prompted by curiosity, I spin around and face Cathy. “You aren’t caught up in some human trafficking ring, are you?”
“No, Betty, I’m not,” she says, irritated. “I go out a lot. I meet all kinds of people. I hear things.”
My eyes wander over to my husband and the circle of kids around him. They seem to be getting along fine without me.
“All right. Let’s grab what we need: clothes, shoes, makeup. We can change someplace else. I don’t want Brad to know what we’re up to.”
An hour later, Cathy and I change and prep ourselves for the job in the Ross store’s fitting room on Temecula Parkway. If this night goes wrong in any way, I’ll be in a heap of trouble with Brad.
Dressed in a see-through lace blouse and a black miniskirt, and with more glaze on my face than an Instagram makeup star, I match my steps to Cathy’s as we walk the railroad-style timber sidewalk to one of Old Town’s most popular beer gardens, The Joint.
We’re greeted with enough whistles and hoots from a group of bikers hanging out in front of a burger spot to last a lifetime. Our plan is to find a guy named Big Earl, who, according to Cathy, may have information on Skyler’s kidnapper.
As we get closer to the entrance, country music fills the street along with the usual pub noises of glasses clattering, laughter, and people chatting. My legs are shaking from the cold. I can’t believe I was crazy enough to let Cathy talk me into wearing fishnet stockings. My respect for working girls deepens. It must be a tough gig, standing on corners all night long in bone-chilling weather, dressed like I am right now, waiting for Johns.
At the entrance, the bouncer—a round, tall man with a long, combed beard wearing jeans and a leather vest—checks our IDs. It’s been ages since I was out on the town, so I’m not sure if it’s protocol or if my sister and I managed to look younger than twenty-one. To boost my much-needed confidence, I decide to tell myself it’s the latter.
On our way to the stage, where a five-member band is in charge of entertaining a crowd that’s surprisingly close to my age, we wade through a group of women dressed in tutus, butterfly wings, and crop tops that do nothing to hide their rolling stomachs and flabby arms. One of the ladies has a handwritten sign on her back: Birthday Girl. I suspect it’s her forty-fifth or fiftieth.
Amid the drunken hugs and occasional yelling in our ears—“IT’S A BIRTHDAY PARTY!”—we make it to the far end of the bar and to the very last table.
It’s not hard to spot the man we came to see, although he isn’t big—more like average in both height and body build.
Three young girls flank him, and an eager group of young men dangle on his every word as though Big Earl were a celebrity they adored.
Cathy tells me to stand back as she walks to their table and leans in toward one of the girls, who then passes on the message.
Big Earl gives his approval for us to sit down and then orders two members of his crew to pull in chairs for us from a nearby table.
Cathy plops herself on the closest chair to Big Earl, which makes me feel awkward since I’m the older sister; I should be the one to protect her, not the other way around. I take my place on the other chair, feeling painfully aware of my revealing outfit.
I watch my sister engage in a lengthy explanation of the situation with Big Earl and as interesting as it may be to him, he manages to smoke a few cigarettes, order drinks, and pepper his girls with kisses while listening.
To avoid staring at our company, I watch the band rock out for a handful of eager fans who give it their all as they shake their bodies to the rhythm. The last time I went to a pub, it was overflowing with hot babes. A lot has changed.
“You got the picture of the guy?” Cathy holds her hand out to me.
I pull out the printed copy of the sketch Ashley did with Skyler and hand it to her.
Big Earl rips it out of Cathy’s hand and breaks out into a fit of laughter. “What the fuck is this? A cast member from Twilight?” He tosses the paper on the table. It lands on a wet spot left behind from a pint of beer. “A child drew this?”
“It’s an unofficial sketch of the murderer. As good as it can be,” I yell over the guitar solo.
“Look, sweetheart. I knew Skyler. She was a good kid, not bothering anyone, trying to get by. Her folks didn’t want her. So, the street took her in.” He puts both of his hands on the table, silver bangles and rings jiggling. “She was fine until this creep started showing up, taking her out to lunches, filling her head with stupid ideas.” He rolls up the sleeves of his lumberjack-checkered shirt, exposing an immense tattoo. The random ink images are an eyesore, as if every time he felt inspired by something or someone, he inked mementos on his skin to remember.
“Do you know the guy?” Cathy yells to be heard above the music.
I sense a special moment between us, a very deep and warm connection, something I haven’t felt since we were kids, making grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner while our father was off somewhere with his girlfriend and our mother lay upstairs, drugged out of her mind.
“I don’t fucking know that prick.”
“What did he want with Skyler?”
“Saving her or some shit. How the fuck do I know? I’m not her father.” One of the girls beside him asks permission to go to the bathroom. He grants her wish with a heavy slap on her butt that hurts me to watch.
“Did you ever see Skyler getting into a car with the guy?”
He shrugs, ignoring my question. “I always got the impression that she knew the dude. When he first showed up here, I saw Sky pushing her way to him. She grabbed his hand and pulled him outside. I usually don’t pay attention to stuff like that, but that Italian suit and flashy ticker didn’t belong here, you know what I mean?”
“Did she come back after that?”
“Yeah, I saw her a few times.”
“When was this?”
He slams his back against the backrest of the chair and scoffs. “Do I look like the type who keeps a journal to you?”
“Can you at least narrow it down? Was it cold, warm, hot, winter, spring, summer?”
He leans forward so far that his face is inches from us. I notice his hand slipping between Cathy’s thighs, and my stomach turns.
I put my hand on my sister’s shoulder. “Let’s just go. We got enough.”
She smiles at me. “Relax. We’re not done yet.” She turns to Big Earl. “Do you know anybody who was close to her?”
All the men at the table start laughing. “We were all very close,” Big Earl says suggestively. “Angel!” he calls out to a skinny bald dude with a teardrop tattooed underneath his right eye. “Weren’t you the last one courting Sky?” He puts courting in air quotes.
“So what?” Angel says, without withdrawing his attention from the band.
“Do you remember when the last time you saw her was?”
“Few months ago. I dunno.”
“Did you ever talk to the police?” Cathy asks.
That manages to get Angel’s attention. “Hell no! I don’t talk to cops.”
“How about his man? Have you seen him talking to Skyler?”
He sighs, then unfolds his arms and honors me with a quick look at the sketch. “Could be the guy. Yeah, that looks like him.” He shows the drawing to his buddy. “Look at this motherfucker. Don’t you just want to bash his face in?”
“Did you bash his face in?” Cathy continues prying like a detective.
“No, but I almost did. Sky became so paranoid after meeting that dude. She had these crazy fucking ideas about going back to school. I told her, what for? It’s the street that teaches you, not stupid schools. Who the fuck needs to learn math? Get your fuckin’ calculator out, right?” He picks up his iPhone, which had been lying beside his drink. “What do you want to know? I’ll Google it for you. Everything’s here at your fingertips. School? Yeah, right!” he scoffs, dropping the phone back onto the table. “A pathetic excuse to control kids, if you ask me.”
Angel turn
s his chair toward the stage to get a better view, kicks the kid off the chair next to him, and puts his feet up. If this is the kind of nightlife I’m missing out on, then I don’t mind staying home.
Cathy lights a cigarette and, carefully exhaling the smoke to the side, asks Big Earl, “Is there anything else you remember about the guy?”
He opens his mouth wide and traces the lines of his lips with his fingers a few times before answering. “I’ll tell you the rest in private.”
Cathy takes two more drags of the smoke and then puts it out in a glass ashtray that’s being emptied every ten minutes or so by a busboy.
“Go grab a drink at the bar. I’ll be back in a second,” she instructs me. Then she stands up and follows Big Earl behind a black velvet curtain.
I remain seated, naively casting my eyes around the throng of people in the pub, feeling nothing but pity for the women at the birthday party who are trying too hard. Then a sudden realization hits me, like a fiery knife in the chest. I jolt up but almost fall back from a strong grasp over my wrist. “Where do you think you’re goin’?” asks Angel, holding me back.
“I need to talk to my sister.”
“You can talk to her when she gets back. Now either go get a drink as you were told or stay here.”
I want to tell him that I’m not taking his orders, but one look at his dark eyes and I nod instead.
Soon I find myself sipping on a glass of red wine by the bar, eyes fixated on the black curtain. Cathy is a grown woman who can take care of herself, I know, yet it’s hard to shake the idea that I’m responsible for her and that I set her up for something awful by bringing her here.
There are two annoying middle-aged guys behind me who won’t leave me alone with my thoughts and worries. They want to know my name and if I live around here. I show no sign of interest, but that doesn’t quench their thirst.
With my glass still half-full, I march to the black curtain, where I’m stopped yet again by Angel.
Drenched in self-blame and anger, I finish my wine, pondering the idea of calling Brad. As I’m about to give in to weakness and begin dialing Brad’s number, Cathy resurfaces, unharmed.
I watch her walking toward me, head down and hair brushed into her face, as if she’s ashamed of being seen.
“Let’s go home!” she tells me without stopping. I follow her, but I don’t make it to the exit because one of the men who had been bothering me at the bar pulls me onto his lap, asking me to stay longer. The bouncer helps me escape the clutches of the jerk and holds both men off amid apologies.
Things have changed around here in the past few years.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Cathy barks at me, standing in the misty darkness.
“These guys…” I point to the bar we left behind, “never mind that. Where did you go with that awful guy?”
The look she arranges on her face makes me feel like an idiot. “You didn’t think those guys were so chatty back there out of the goodness of their hearts, do you? Nothing is free in this fucking world.”
Dissecting the issue would only unearth more fury from Cathy, so I drop it. Besides, my mind is someplace else. I feel a little lightheaded, and although it’s been ages since I drank myself stupid, one glass of wine shouldn’t make me feel this tipsy. I’m not that out of practice.
By the time we reach my parked car, I’m wobbly on my feet and my brain feels mushy.
I ask Cathy to drive us home.
We stop twice on the side of the road so that I can vomit. Each time I can barely make it back into my seat. My limbs seem to have lost their power. I can’t focus on the road or keep track of where we are going.
I can’t go home like this or in this outfit. I know I must change, but my voice is slipping away from me.
I lean my head against the cold window, the lights of the city at night racing by me.
From time to time, I feel Cathy’s cold fingers against my forehead. Once I hear her talking on the phone, asking Brad to meet us in the driveway because I got roofied, but I may have imagined it all.
Ashley
FRIDAY
Relying on the stream of warm light from my flashlight to guide my way, I slowly inch forward along the first-floor hallway in Olivia’s mansion, looking for her husband’s so-called secret room.
As if being extremely nervous wasn’t enough to make me feel sick, the greasy and sweet Chinese takeout I had earlier sits heavily in my stomach and finishes the job. Beating myself up for not eating something lighter for dinner, I signal Peter to follow me. I invited him for one reason. Well, actually two. He is the only person I trust to do something illegal when it comes to Skyler. Second, I need his help to pick locks. I’m such so technically challenged that I hire a handyman to change my lightbulbs.
“Do you see the door we’re looking for?” Peter whispers from behind me, dressed in black from head to toe.
I try a door on my right. It opens to a bathroom, so I close it. “It’s gotta be here somewhere,” I say, nearly tripping over a thigh-high wrought-iron candle holder set against the wall. “This place is a freaking house of horror,” I hiss, arranging the massive white candle that rolled away back into place.
I could use a drink, something bitter, medicinal, like Jägermeister, to help settle the raging seas inside my stomach, but I promised Olivia that I’d do the job clearheaded.
My skin itches from the hour and twenty-six minutes we spent hiding and lying in a chemically treated grass-covered ditch in front of Olivia’s home. If I had known the Campbells’ landscaper wouldn’t turn off the lights until midnight, I’d have brought a long-sleeved shirt with me.
“Stop shaking the flashlight,” Peter warns, frowning at my frenetic scratching. “You’ll attract attention.”
I spit on my arm and rub my saliva into my stinging red skin, pondering how I could have been such an idiot to agree to do something so reckless and stupid.
“Are you sure they don’t have a security system? The police could be on their way now while we stumble around in the dark like two fucking idiots,” Peter grumbles, tapping the walls as he moves along.
When I called him earlier today and told him my plan to look for an alleged pornographic diary, he resented the idea of breaking into the Campbell mansion while Richard and Olivia were away on some mountain retreat for the weekend. I wasn’t keen on being arrested for breaking and entering either, but if I was to believe Olivia’s story, I had to see the evidence for myself.
We reach the north side of the house when the scent of some chemical breezes past us. “Do you smell that?” I say, twitching my nose.
“Disinfectant,” Peter remarks, taking a long inhale. “It could be nothing. Maybe the cleaning crew was here earlier, and you let out the smell from the bathroom when you opened the door.”
“Or Olivia’s husband keeps dead bodies in his basement and uses antiseptic to mask the smell of decay.”
I shudder. I haven’t touched any drugs or alcohol for the past twelve hours, and with a sober mind comes clarity. I must have been out of my mind to have agreed to do this. Olivia sounded so excited on the phone when she told me about Richard’s surprise plan to spend the weekend in some remote camping site. She saw the trip as a perfect opportunity for me to collect evidence to support her theory. I couldn’t let her down. Especially after she found out that I was nothing more than a druggie, a drunk, and a waste of space who can’t seem to get her life in order.
“A killer who doesn’t leave a single clue for the police can’t be that stupid to keep dead bodies in his own house,” Peter comments halfheartedly.
“Let’s just do this and get the hell out of here. This place gives me the creeps.” I raise my flashlight up in front of us to light as much hallway as possible when a heavy whipping sound, accompanied by a few scratching sounds, echoes through the hallway and makes my blood curdle.
As panic sweeps over me, I leap behind Peter. Holding onto his arm, I move the flashlight around to find the origin of th
e sounds.
CREAK. SCRATCH. BANG.
In the stream of light cast by my flashlight, a tree branch is illuminated as it beats against the window from a ferocious wind outside.
“Fucking hell!” grunts Peter, pushing down my hand that grasps the flashlight. “It’s just a stupid tree.”
“I hope nobody saw my light,” I say, shaking like a leaf in the storm. My entire neck is pulsing with a rush of blood. My chest is tight, suffocating, but there is no time to panic.
Driven by a determination to defeat my fear and do what we came here to do, I launch forward and start marching ahead with a longer stride, trying every door handle on my way.
Determination meets opportunity when I come upon a heavy timber door that looks exactly as Olivia described it. It’s locked, too, as we expected.
“I think this is it.” I wave Peter to me. “Let me see that video again.”
It takes us nearly twenty minutes to pick the damn lock after watching three different YouTube tutorials. The click of the lock finally opening is a relief.
We glide down the spiral staircase and enter a Victorian-style room furnished with elegance and comfort. While Peter stands frozen, gawking at the interior design—stealing ideas for his office, perhaps—I go straight to the recliner Olivia instructed me to and tuck my hand between the cushions, feeling around for the journal.
My hand comes back empty.
Frowning with disappointment, I sweep through the contents on top of the vintage desk, excavate the paper bin, and scan the bookshelves.
As failure begins to shadow my mind, I randomly pull out a few leather-bound books and pop them open, hoping that one of them is a secret vault disguised as book.
No such luck.
The dust from the old books makes my nose itch. I lift my hand to scratch it and subdue a sneeze.