Look What You Made Me Do

by Elaine Murphy

  And now she’s not.

  My driveway is only big enough for one car so Graham parks on the opposite side of the street, and we cross over to my place. It’s late afternoon and the sun has poked out its head for the final hour of daylight, making the house appear charming and historical instead of daunting and deadly.

  “Hello?” calls a voice behind us just as we reach the steps.

  Graham and I turn together to see a man in a beige trench coat getting out of a car. He’s short, barely my height, and slim, with thick glasses that make his eyes look overlarge and concerned. He offers a smile as he approaches.

  “Carrie Lawrence?” he asks, and when I nod he extends a hand. “I’m Harry Schroeder. I work with Detective Greaves at the Brampton Police Department.” He shakes my limp fingers and reaches inside his coat to show us the badge hanging around his neck before passing us each a business card. I’m so stunned I can barely read it.

  “Detective Greaves said you stopped by this morning to file a report about your sister, is that right?” Schroeder blinks, his eyes owlish behind the thick glass.

  “Um, yes,” I manage. “I didn’t—I didn’t think—” I didn’t think Greaves had taken me seriously or had any intention of doing anything more with my message than balling it up and throwing it in the trash.

  Schroeder waits patiently.

  “Um…” I shake my head to clear it, to remember the story I’d told Greaves. “I didn’t think you would look for her,” I say. “Since it hasn’t been forty-eight hours.”

  His smile is terse, official. “Given your connection to one of the people found at Kilduff and another missing person, we thought it was a good idea to talk to you sooner rather than later.”

  Beside me, Graham stiffens. “Another missing person?”

  Two of my neighbors have come out to sweep their steps, no doubt searching for entertainment now that their afternoon programs are over. Graham notices them watching and rests a hand on the small of my back. “Maybe we could talk inside,” he suggests.

  I want to balk—I do, after all, have a foot in my kitchen—but it’s freezing, and Mr. Myer is slowly sweeping his way down his driveway, heading in this direction.

  Schroeder smiles politely. “Sure. If now’s a good time.”

  I lead the way up the steps, glancing automatically at the welcome mat, seeing that it is again askew. When Graham and I left, I’d made sure to check it, ensuring the corners were lined up with the dots. And now they’re not. Maybe Schroeder knocked on the door first and then waited in his car for us to return. But maybe not.

  I unlock the door and turn the knob just as Mr. Myer calls out. “Hello? Excuse me?”

  I see Schroeder wince and force another smile, like he’s used to being accosted by citizens asking him to solve their problems. We all turn to see Mr. Myer hovering at the end of the short driveway.

  “Is that Graham?” he asks, though there’s nothing wrong with his vision. Graham once helped him rake the leaves on his front lawn, and he interpreted this to mean Graham was the new neighborhood handyman. “I wondered,” he continues, voice deliberately wobbly, “could you help me with something? Really quickly?”

  It’s clear Graham doesn’t want to go, but he’s too well mannered to say no.

  “Of course,” he replies, starting back down the steps. “Leave the door open,” he says, lips barely moving. “I want him to know I can’t stay.”

  I try not to laugh. “Of course.”

  Schroeder and I watch Graham jog over to meet Mr. Myer, his hand on the older man’s elbow as he guides him back across the street. I push open the door and step inside, using a shoe to stop it from closing. Schroeder spots the baseball bat propped against the closet and gives an acknowledging nod. Apparently I’m not the first person in Brampton to arm themselves, however inadequately.

  With the cold winter air slipping in, I keep my coat and shoes on, setting Schroeder’s business card on the table alongside the card from Greaves.

  “So,” Schroeder says, hands in his pockets as he glances across the street where Graham is using a rake to help Mr. Myer knock old Halloween decorations out of his tree, “you’re worried about your sister?”

  “Yes.” I nod too quickly. “She hasn’t— What did Detective Greaves tell you?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you told him?”

  I recap my conversation with Greaves, and, like him, Schroeder asks to hear Becca’s voice message. I keep an eye on Graham, still preoccupied, and play the message. It’s not great that Graham thinks our funeral visits were morbid, but if he learns they were a means to catch a serial killer, he’ll lose it.

  An icy gust of wind whips in, making us both shiver and shift farther down the hall, away from the cold. I stop after a couple of steps. I pretend it’s so I can watch for Graham, but I don’t want Schroeder in my kitchen.

  Unlike Greaves, Schroeder takes copious notes. He jots down Becca’s address and phone number, the make and model of her car, the license plate. He asks about her job, her friends, any boyfriends. I tell him as much as I can, but I know that’s not enough. Without the truth—without disclosing the real reason I think Footloose is involved—it’s clear Schroeder doesn’t think this is urgent.

  “Detective Greaves mentioned you also know Shanté Williams,” Schroeder says, watching me carefully. “And that she’s been reported missing.”

  “I don’t know her, know her,” I tell him. “I met her. But that was just one day. I haven’t seen her again since.”

  “What day was that?”

  I count back to Jacinda’s funeral. It already feels like a lifetime ago, like too many more worse things have happened. “Thursday. I met her at a funeral.”

  “And you drove her home?”

  “I drove her back to Brampton,” I correct him. “With her friend Laurel. I dropped them at the mall. They asked me to.”

  Schroeder makes a note, pursing his lips, like he’s thinking. Then he says, “She was reported missing on Wednesday. But she was last seen on Monday night.”

  I stare blankly, the words slotting into place, forming the wrong picture. That I was one of the last people to see another missing person. But I wasn’t. “Her friend,” I say, “Laurel. I dropped them off together. Greaves said she’s the one who filed the report. She knows Shanté was okay when I left.”

  “And you didn’t come back after, for any reason? Didn’t meet her again?”

  “No!” I try to keep the panic out of my voice. Not just because I’m being suspected of harming someone I didn’t, and not just because that person’s foot is in my freezer, but because every second they spend investigating me, they’re not looking for Becca.

  “Is everything okay?”

  We turn at the sound of Graham’s voice, see him at the base of the steps, one hand on the railing. He looks like a handsome football player, tall and strong. When he climbs the stairs and stands in the door, he dwarfs Schroeder, his shadow casting the smaller man in darkness.

  Schroeder takes his cue. “We have your phone number,” he says. “We’ll be in touch if we have more questions. And we’ll keep an eye out for your sister.”

  I don’t answer. I know I’ll cry if I try to speak. There’s a sick knot lodged in my throat as I watch Schroeder leave, and the tears spill over as soon as he’s in his car. Graham closes the door and wraps me in a hug, murmuring comforting nonsense into my hair.

  “They won’t help,” I sob. “She’s missing and they—they just keep asking the wrong questions.”

  Graham snags me a tissue from a box on the hall table, though there are too many tears for it to help. “I’ll make us some tea,” he says, leading the way to the kitchen. “Then we can talk about what to do next.”

  I slump into the chair at the kitchen table and bury my face in my hands. “I met this woman at one of the funerals,” I say, before he can ask about the other missing person Schroeder mentioned. “Her name was—is—Shanté. She was friends with the dead girl.
And now she’s missing, and they think because I—I’m—connected—” I hiccup and moan miserably. “I didn’t have anything to do with this,” I say. “I swear. I would never—”

  Graham turns from setting the kettle on the stove, his expression one of astonishment. If this moment weren’t so awful, it would be funny. “Carrie!” he exclaims. “Of course I know you don’t have anything to do with this! My God. I know you. The police are—are— They’re just doing their job.”

  “They’re wasting time. Every second—”

  “But,” he says, something about his cautious tone giving me pause. He pulls out a chair and drags it close, sitting so near our knees almost touch. “What about…Becca?”

  I blink at him, my lashes still damp. “What do you mean?”

  “Well…” He studies his hands, knotted in his lap. “She knew Angelica. And she knew she was trying to steal your promotion.”

  My eyes widen involuntarily. Graham thinks it’s because of what he’s suggesting, but it’s the accuracy of it. Growing up, there were a handful of people who thought maybe Becca was behind some of the strange happenings in our neighborhood, missing pets, stolen items, awful rumors. But even fewer dared point the finger, because the ones who did inevitably suffered some terrible fate.

  It’s been years since I’ve heard someone suggest Becca in relation to anything bad, but murder? Even though his theory is entirely correct, it still feels wrong. Her absence is the first crack in the foundation of my idea of my sister as an indestructible monster. This accusation is the chisel sliding in, wedging open the concept even wider. It makes her a fraction more human. More fragile.

  Still, because I have to, I say, “Becca would never—”

  “And she was going to the funerals,” Graham adds. “I know you went, too, but you were grieving. Becca wasn’t. She was just…feeding off the situation. And I know she’s your sister, but Carrie, she’s always been a little bit…different. Unsettled.”

  “She wouldn’t—”

  He plows on, clearly having given this some thought. “Remember when you told me about the time you fell down the stairs in your prom dress?” he asks. “And how she filmed it and posted it online? The way she always brought up the story about your failed birthday party, just so she could laugh at it? Becca gets off on hurting you, Carrie. On watching you suffer. So maybe she didn’t hurt these people—I’m not saying she’s a serial killer—but I wouldn’t put it past her to be hiding in the shadows somewhere, laughing as you get caught up more and more in this mess. Don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing you suffer. Just…don’t.”

  My chest is tight. Graham is saying the words I’ve kept bottled up for so long, the ones I wanted my parents to say, the ones I needed to hear from some authority figure, someone who could actually stop Becca. Because knowing this is one thing; doing something about it is quite another.

  And while the thought of Becca being dead leaves me numb with horror, if I’m right and Footloose has indeed gotten to her—then this could all be over. Becca started it, after all. She killed Angelica and forced me to help bury the body. Introduced herself to our unseen watcher in the woods. Came up with the plan to attend the funerals and catch Footloose. It was all her.

  I know from a lifetime of experience that what Graham says is true. When a tormenter like Footloose gets off on the game, they keep playing. But if I withdraw from the competition—if I stop searching—he’ll get bored and move on. Maybe I’ve already played my part. Hung the posters, alerted the police. Maybe it’s time for me to bow out and let someone else clean up Becca’s mess this time.

  I can see Graham watching, feel him gauging my reaction as though he can hear the wheels turning in my brain. One time when we were kids, we’d gotten balloons at the fair, and Becca promised to hold mine while I ate my ice cream. Almost immediately she let them go, the strings slipping through her little fingers while she made no move to grab them. I’d cried, and my parents said it was an accident. But I knew better.

  I can’t give up on Becca too obviously. I have to try to hold on. Pretend, at least. And then maybe, hopefully, this game will run its course, peter out, all its horrible pieces turning to tiny specks in the sky, disappearing into the clouds. And then I can move on, too.

  * * *

  It feels wrong to buy groceries while your sister is missing. It feels wrong to grab just one box of cereal instead of two so I can hide one while she scarfs the other. Half a carton of eggs instead of the full dozen because she won’t be there to accidentally drop six on the floor and then claim she has somewhere to be instead of cleaning them up. An expensive chocolate bar I’ll leave on the counter instead of tucked inside my underwear drawer where there’s only a 50 percent chance she’ll find it. A million little things that should feel normal but don’t.

  I can’t shake the guilt. I imagine Greaves watching me on the security cameras, my spine too straight, my shoulders stiff. Reading the labels on packages before placing them neatly in my basket, like a first-time criminal trying to look unsuspicious and failing horribly. I picture him accosting me as I enter the dairy aisle, flashing his badge, everybody staring as he shouts at me for shopping while my sister is missing. What’s wrong with you? he demands. What did you do? What do you know?

  Nothing, I’d tell him. Nothing and everything.

  My hand shakes so badly I drop the jar of tomato sauce I’m holding, thick red goo exploding across the floor and spattering my shoes and jeans. An older woman at the opposite end of the aisle jumps at the sound, narrowing her eyes in my direction before disappearing around the corner, hand raised to catch someone’s attention. I stand frozen in place, fat shards of glass gleaming in the fluorescent lights, reflecting the growing red pool, reminding me of too many other messes I’ve cleaned up.

  A skinny young kid in a green apron and white shirt materializes with a mop bucket and a dust pan, smiling stiffly.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It slipped.”

  “No problem.” He lifts the mop, gray water sluicing off its head before he drops it into the murky red smear and smudges it across the floor. “Did you need another jar?”

  “No. I changed my mind.” It’s getting hard to breathe. My winter coat feels like it’s weighted down, too hot and too heavy.

  “No problem,” he says again, not looking up as he mops, getting everything back to normal. The old woman resumes her hunt for the perfect pasta, and I back away, the metal bars of the basket handle digging into my hand where I hold it too tightly, afraid I’ll lose my grip on everything.

  I hurry out of the aisle and into the next, frozen foods, opening a door and staring at a wall of TV dinners, gulping in the stale, cold air. This is what I’ve wanted my whole life. Becca gone, disappeared. My life my own, not monitoring the shadows, nervously wondering which one she’ll emerge from and what she’ll have done or intended to do. I wanted mundane and boring. I wanted normal. Becca may have been other people’s idea of sick and twisted, but she was my normal, and now life feels like a boat ride on choppy waters that’s suddenly veered into a sheltered inlet, and all I can do is cling to the rail, waiting for the next bad thing.

  I give up on groceries and head toward the exit, the red and blue lights above the cash registers too bright, the shoppers too slow, the smells from the fish counter too strong. The floors are slick with tracked-in slush and snow, and my dirty shoes tinge the puddles orange-pink with tomato sauce. My stomach lurches.

  Outside, the sun is too bright, and I shield my eyes. Don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing you suffer, I hear Graham say. Just don’t.

  I look around anyway, but Becca’s not lingering next to the shopping carts, flashing her inane grin, a casual Did you miss me? as she stares too intently, memorizing the worry on my face, the lines around my eyes. Feeding off the panic.

  She’s not here because she’s missing.

  I stride back to my car, keys in hand. It’s midafternoon, and the lot is full of vehicles and shoppers, carts
rattling over the pocked pavement, someone calling out holiday greetings though it’s not even December. As I near my car, backed neatly into its spot, I see white papers pinned beneath the windshield wipers of half a dozen cars on either side. They flutter in the light breeze, folded in half, but one corner lifts just high enough for me to recognize the red font we’d chosen for the posters yesterday, the word MISSING waving at me.

  I stop, turning in a full circle, looking for the distributor. We’d hung every copy we’d made yesterday, but I wouldn’t put it past Graham to print more and hand them out again. But he’s not here. I don’t see anyone suspicious, no one moving from car to car, no one with a stack of paper in their arms. Only about a dozen cars have them, all on my side of the aisle. Some concerned citizen, redistributing flyers they’d found floating around? A teenager ripping them off lampposts and shoving them on random cars, not knowing one was mine? Becca, tormenting me yet again? I swivel, peering for her face behind a window, ducked behind a car, giggling as she watches me suffer. But she’s not there.

  I snatch the paper from my windshield, the wiper hitting the glass with a sharp crack. I want to crumple the poster and throw it away, but then I think of Greaves. Watching me. If he was following me in the store, my awkward behavior had certainly failed the test, and throwing away my sister’s missing poster won’t help my case. I take a breath and get in the car, tossing the paper on the passenger seat and twisting the key in the ignition. Cold air hacks out of the vents but I don’t wait for it to warm up, putting on a pair of sunglasses and pulling out of the spot. The poster crinkles as it shifts on the seat, trying to get my attention. I ignore it. Becca doesn’t even need to be here to be annoying.

  I drive past her apartment, parking in the spot she stole from the old man, the space still empty. Her unit looks over the street, and from here her windows appear dark, no blond head strutting past, laughing at her latest successful effort to make me crazy.

  I close my eyes and let out a breath. She’s missing, I remind myself. And while I have to keep up the pretense of looking for her in normal places, I can’t keep looking for her over my shoulder.