Marlo is a small town, considerably more shabby than Brampton. Single-story bungalows line the quiet streets, lawns flat and yellow, the houses in not much better shape. The sidewalks are empty, the occasional piece of trash marring the gray landscape, and it’s only when I make the turn for the church that I see any people at all.
The church is small, the tiny wooden cross perched at the top glowing stark white against the darkening sky. The double doors are propped open, and a man in a suit stands next to them, shivering. Getting out of my car, I quickly scan the few vehicles in the lot, none of which are Becca’s. I hustle toward the church as the wind picks up, cutting through my winter coat like a knife.
“Hello,” the man at the door says. He’s pale with dark eyebrows, drawn low in grief as he passes me half a sheet of paper. The funeral program. I don’t even remember whose funeral I’m attending, I’d just memorized the date and time.
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking the page and stepping inside. The church is so dim it takes my eyes a moment to adjust, even with the low light outside. There are only eight rows of pews here, all of the benches short, holding no more than six or eight people comfortably. There’s a closed casket at the front, a blown-up photograph of a middle-aged woman next to it. She wears a white blouse and a strand of pearls, her hair nicely cut as she smiles for the camera. She looks like the mother of the few friends I ever had.
The front three rows are full, but the rest are empty. I don’t see Greaves. I slip into the sixth row, by myself, and ignore the curious stares as I read the short program. Marcy Lennox, fifty-one. Mother of three, former banker. A drinking problem turned into a meth problem, and one day she left rehab and never returned. No one saw her again until the police unearthed her decomposed body in Kilduff. The family is asking for donations to be made to the local homeless shelter.
I put away the program and skim the heads in the front rows. No Becca. I wouldn’t put it past her to be hiding, to have something horrible planned. It wouldn’t be totally out of the realm of possibility for her to step up front to say a few words about the deceased. At this point, I’d welcome it.
But it’s the man with the dark eyebrows who says a few words about Marcy, the mother he hasn’t seen since he was sixteen. His words are kind and softly spoken, and people are sobbing by the time he finishes. A younger girl gets up and tries to speak but cries too hard to get out more than a few words. Someone hugs her and says it’s okay, a song plays, and then we’re done. For the last time. I’m not attending another funeral, no matter what. Graham accused me of coming here to take part in someone else’s grief, but he couldn’t have been further from the truth. I didn’t know these people, but I have been part of keeping other people from knowing the truth about their loved ones’ fates, people who hadn’t been homeless or addicted, people whose families did look for them, and are still looking. I may not have caused this family pain, but I have done the same to others, done worse.
I don’t bother filming. If Becca knows who Footloose is, then we have enough footage, and I don’t want to record this anyway. I get up and escape as soon as possible, keeping my head ducked in case anyone tries to speak to me. I gulp in the cold air when I’m outside, icy drops of rain already starting to spit down, hitting me in the forehead, making my brain hurt. I stand on the steps and survey the parking lot, but there’s no one there. No Becca.
I hurry to my car as the rain picks up, dropping into the driver’s seat and wiping my face with my hands. I only intend to wipe away the rain, but tears are coming, too, hot on my cold cheeks, and I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and let them fall, grief and stress and fear erupting in a torrent.
It’s hard to believe in the concepts of heaven and hell when you’ve done what I’ve done. But even though it’d be better for the world—or at least the residents of Brampton and the surrounding towns—if Footloose has indeed gotten to Becca, I’m still praying to anyone who’s listening that she’s okay. I promise not to help bury any more bodies, to anonymously reveal the locations of the others, to get her to stop killing. I’ll do anything.
The parking lot is empty when I recover. I haven’t been here long, but the other attendees wanted to be here even less. The sky is now nearly black, the rain washing over the windshield in sheets, obscuring me from any curious passersby. I start up the car and shiver as cold air whooshes out of the vents, turning on the wipers and making the return trip to Brampton.
I drive on autopilot, and it’s only when I reach the turn for my house that I realize again that I really do not want to be there. Instead of making a right, I flip my blinker to turn left and wind my way through the rainy streets to Becca’s apartment building. She lives just a ten-minute walk from the mall but insists on driving to work each day “just in case.” It’s her favorite joke. I’m the only one who’s in on it.
Her building is about twenty years old, three stories of white stucco and Juliet balconies. It’s not fancy, but it’s spacious and affordable, and the neighbors are old and unfriendly, which suits Becca, who’s only really nice to people intending to buy jewelry. They require a permit for street parking, and Becca always has a prime spot in front of the building. The spaces aren’t reserved, but a longtime elderly tenant had unofficially claimed one of the spots for his 1959 Mustang, acting, in Becca’s opinion, “like a smug asshole” about the whole thing. Until the otherwise-quiet street became a haven for vandals with a particular penchant for vintage Mustangs. His car was hit four times in two weeks—slashed tire, scratch in the paint, smashed taillight, stolen gas cap—until he finally sought out a private garage to keep his baby safe. Now it’s Becca’s spot.
And today it’s empty.
Just like she has—had—a key to my place, I have a key to hers, though unlike Becca I never use it. I can’t even remember the last time I was here. Either Becca’s at my place or I don’t want to see her. I run through the pouring rain, my new dress soaking through and sticking to my thighs, holding a hand over my head in a futile effort to stay dry. By the time I’m under the awning at the front door, I’m dripping wet, hair plastered to my skull.
I fumble with my key ring, the keys slipping through my wet fingers until I find the right one and stick it in the lock. I don’t bother with the buzzer. If Becca knows I’m coming, she’ll just hide and try to scare me when I get there. There’s no elevator so I take the stairs to Becca’s door, 301 nailed on in cheap brass numbers. I hesitate, key extended.
Standing here is like standing on the high dive at the local pool when we were kids, staring at the water miles below, too afraid to move. I’d stand there forever, the other kids in line starting to shout, the lifeguard patiently offering to come up and guide me back down. But as frightening as jumping was, going backward was even worse. Because Becca was waiting at the bottom of the ladder, and being mocked for backing down was infinitely worse than jumping.
I twist the key in the lock and open the door, as normally as I possibly can. If Becca’s inside watching a movie, I already know she’ll tell me she didn’t go to the funeral because she saw the forecast, and look how wet I am, my hair looks terrible. But she’s not here.
Her apartment opens into a wide living room with a couch beneath the window on the far wall, the murky light from outside spilling in. There’s a kitchen off to the left, a bedroom on the right. Though she takes pains with her personal appearance, she’s never been one for decorating or cleanliness, and the white walls are bare, no artwork, not even a clock to break up the bland expanse. The clean walls are in stark contrast with the rest of the space, discarded clothing, pizza boxes, wine bottles, and cereal bowls littering every surface. There’s a film of dust on the dining table, the garbage can is overflowing and starting to smell, and when I peer into her bedroom, the bed is unmade. The closet doors open to reveal a colorful tornado of clothing and shoes, half of which are probably stolen.
I call out “Becca?” as I approach the bathroom, even though I already know she’s not her
e. The door is ajar, and there’s no smell of death, but I still use my foot to push open the door and jump back in case someone leaps out.
But no one does. The room is empty, and the tub is not full of blood. Becca’s toothbrush and toiletries litter the countertop, a pair of lacy underwear forgotten on the floor. It would be difficult to tell if Becca left town, because this is exactly what her apartment would look like if she had. Likewise, it would be difficult to tell if someone had ransacked her apartment, because it would also look like this.
I keep replaying her voice message, that moment when she paused as though she’d heard something. I’m assuming she was home when she left the message, that she was sitting on her couch, laptop on her knees as she toasted her genius plan for finding Footloose.
Now I walk back to the couch, one of its cushions askew, two throw pillows stacked on one end, another two on the floor, and study it. The TV is on the opposite wall, and this is where Becca spends most of her time when she’s here. She doesn’t cook, and she doesn’t clean, so if she’s not watching something on television, she’s online, watching videos of dog rescues and movie trailers. I frown at the coffee table. Three mugs, two cereal bowls, and a copy of the book Graham gave her for her birthday, never opened. No laptop.
In my mental image of Becca phoning me, she had her laptop open, the software program running, the still images of Footloose matched on the screen, one from my video, the other from hers. Peeking out on the floor by the edge of the couch is the cord from her laptop. I trace it back to the wall, where it’s still plugged in.
The slick, icy feeling that’s been crawling along my spine returns, intensifying. I whirl around and scan the apartment, but I’m still alone. The front door is closed and locked, how I left it. I stride into the kitchen and scan the counters for the laptop, but it’s not there. The dining table is bare, save for the dust. In Becca’s bedroom, the night tables are cluttered, but no laptop. I shake the blankets on the bed, but it’s not there.
I search everywhere I possibly can, but I can’t find it. I’ve never seen Becca leave home with her laptop. I can’t picture her sitting in a coffee shop, working on a novel. I can’t picture her anywhere. Just as abruptly as I could envision her laughing at me, the visions are gone. When I try to think, I get a blank screen in my mind. Static. Like the connection is lost.
Becca and I do not operate on the same frequency. Becca is on a wavelength blessedly unknown to most humans. But a lifetime of fearing her, dreading her, and preparing for her has given me a sixth sense about her. And suddenly that sense has fled.
* * *
It is clear when I report Becca missing the next morning that the police do not care. That they have been inundated with hysterical reports of missing family members, all possible victims of Footloose, girls who turned out to have merely snuck off to be with their boyfriends and crept back in too late or husbands who went to the bar after work and passed out on a friend’s couch instead of going home to face their wives.
I’ve never been in a police station before, and even when I imagined it, it was always while I was wearing cuffs, being escorted in through a shower of jeers and slurs, wronged family members getting in their punches while they still could. The reality is far less dramatic. The Brampton police station is a squat, single-story brick building with the same yellow lighting as my kitchen and tile floors scuffed beyond repair. A bulletin board by the front doors is covered with posters providing the phone numbers for emergency services, an ad for a local private investigator, and several missing persons posters.
A bored police officer sits behind a desk and a plastic barricade, staring dispassionately as I do my best to explain why my fears are legitimate and more pressing than everybody else’s, why I think my sister may actually be a victim of Footloose. The woman stares at me balefully and repeats in the same flat tone as an operator: Your sister is an adult. She has not been missing for forty-eight hours. You cannot file a report. She probably met somebody, her phone died, and she’ll be back tomorrow. There’s no need to panic.
But I can’t stop the panic welling up inside me, not only because Becca is my sister and she might be dead, but because, unfortunate as it is, Becca is my ally. Becca is the only one who knows the whole truth, a truth I can’t tell anyone else without implicating myself. Becca, the town serial killer, is my safety net.
“Please,” I try again, hands trembling as I press them flat on the counter, attempting to compose myself. “Please just let me— My co-worker was one of the people found in the park and—”
“Ma’am.” The police officer eyeballs my hands like they’re weapons. “If you have not heard from your sister after forty-eight hours—”
“Ms. Lawrence?”
A deep voice has me turning to find Greaves behind me, still in the dark jacket and jeans, his expression politely concerned. I haven’t seen him since the last funeral, and I don’t know what his presence means now, only that he’s the one person in this building who might actually take me seriously.
“My sister is missing,” I tell him, my voice breaking on the last word. “It hasn’t been forty-eight hours, but she’s—I just know—”
Greaves shoots a small smile at the officer who was not helping me and places a hand on my elbow, swiping his card over a sensor for a set of sliding doors that open into the squad room. It smells like coffee and paper, and a series of desks and cubicles fills the space, not terribly dissimilar to the setup at Weston. Only here, no one is looking at me.
“We can talk over there,” Greaves says, leading me to a set of desks tucked into the far corner, beneath a window covered with bars. The desks abut each other, computer monitors in the center, the equivalent of a digital wall between the two stations. The other seat is unoccupied, and Greaves wheels it next to his desk, waits for me to sit down, and then does the same.
“You want some water?” he offers. “Coffee?”
I shake my head. “My sister is missing,” I repeat. “She’s—I know she needs help. She’s not okay. Something’s wrong.”
Greaves folds his hands on the desk. “Why do you think that?”
I gave this a lot of thought last night, trying to figure out what I could say without implicating either one of us.
“Becca is really fascinated with the Footloose story,” I begin, though fascinated is hardly the word. “After Angelica’s d-death, we—I—she’s been going to some of the funerals. Me too. She thought she might see him there and figure out who he was.”
Greaves arches an eyebrow but doesn’t seem particularly impressed. Probably because he’s been doing the same thing. “Did she have any luck?”
“She seemed to think so. Two days ago, she left me a message and said she’d found him. She was going to go to a funeral yesterday—for Marcy Lennox, in Marlo—and find his car and put a tracking device on it.”
Greaves’s other eyebrow goes up. “Where did she get a tracking device?”
“I have no idea. She said she bought one. But after that, I never heard from her again. I’ve been calling, and no answer. I went to her apartment, and she’s not there.”
“What about her car?”
“She parks on the street, and I didn’t see it.”
Greaves pulls a notepad out of a drawer and finally jots something down. He’s left-handed, his wrist blocking whatever he writes from view. “Does she work?”
“Yes, at Robson Jewelry in the mall. She was off the past two days so they haven’t noticed anything.”
Another note. “Does your sister have a boyfriend?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Any friends?”
“I—” I think of wife beater Nikk. “Not really. Not that I know of.”
“What about your parents? Where are they?”
“Phoenix. I called them. They haven’t heard from her.”
Another note. “Are they concerned?”
“I didn’t give them a reason to be.”
Greaves puts dow
n the pen. “Can I listen to the voice message?”
My heart rate kicks into overdrive, but I’d anticipated this, and now I take my phone out of my purse, call up the voicemail, and put it on speakerphone. There’s a low murmur in the office, but not enough to drown out Becca’s voice. I set the phone on the desk and play the message.
“Carrie!” Becca crows, sounding elated and proud. “I found him! I can’t believe this fucking worked, but I found him! He’s on your tape and my tape, and I bet he’ll be at tomorrow’s funeral, as well. I bought a tracking device on my way home, and I’m going to follow him…”
My eyes well up as the rest of the message plays, the pause, the bit about Graham. I use my thumb to wipe away a tear and look at Greaves, who’s looking at me.
“You haven’t heard from her since?”
“No.” I show him the call log, the two missed calls from Becca the same day, and all of my unanswered calls to her since.
“When did you go to her apartment?”
“Yesterday. In the afternoon. I went to the funeral first to see if she was there. When she wasn’t, I went to her place.”
“How did it look?”
“It looked…okay. She’s messy, and that’s how it was. I stayed there all night to wait for her, but she didn’t come home.” I also stayed because I was afraid of my own house and its bloody bathroom, but I don’t mention that.
“All right.” Greaves makes another note and puts down the pen. “I’ll have someone look into it.”
“You’re not going to?”
“No,” he says. “I have my hands full. But Detective Schroeder will be in touch.”
I glance around the busy room as though I might spot Detective Schroeder and be able to convince him to start working right away. Greaves stands, giving me my cue to leave. Now I can see the notepad, just four scant words scrawled across the yellow paper: Becca, missing, one day.
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