We’d plastered every electrical pole and streetlamp on this road with the missing posters, and the one in front of me is already hanging on by a single staple, threatening to slip away, like yet another lost soul. I don’t have the staple gun so I grab a piece of gum from my purse and chew it quickly. When I get out of the car, the icy breeze immediately makes my temples ache.
I pry up one prong of an old staple and use it to pin down the corner of my new poster. Pulling half the gum from my mouth, I wad it up to stick down the opposite corner. The mint makes my teeth ache in the cold, and I wince as I reach for the remaining gum to finish my work. I’m frozen in that grimace when I finally see what I’m hanging.
It’s not the same poster.
I know what I saw in the parking lot. I’d seen the lettering on someone else’s car, MISSING. I saw it.
But my poster doesn’t say missing. It says FOUND.
The picture beneath those bold red letters isn’t Becca looking as normal as she can, smiling in the sunshine. It’s Becca, looking dead. She lies crumpled in a way that makes my stomach turn, the eerie glow of an overhead light casting a halo around her body, deeper shadows sliding away into the edge of the photo. A thick, dark gash slices across her forehead, disappearing into her hairline, pointing like an arrow to the large pool of blood beneath her left ear. It glints in the overhead light, giving it life and movement, as though it continued to grow long after this picture was taken. Long after there was any life or movement left in its owner.
There’s nothing else on the page. No taunting message, no threat, no clue. Just a picture of my sister with a distinct smudge on her right cheek, darker than the blood, the red stark against her eerily pale skin. Not just any red, I know. Pirate Bride Red, the color she’d chosen for Angelica’s kiss of death that night in the woods when she’d announced her new calling card and Footloose had watched us from the shadows.
Slowly, I peel the new poster off the pole and straighten the original, Becca smiling back at me, her blue eyes watching me cover up yet another crime. I use my last piece of gum, telling the world the same story, but a new lie. MISSING.
I take the new poster halfway down the block to a sewer grate and crouch before it, glancing up and down the street. It’s empty. Quickly, I tear the paper in half one way, then the other, then again, and again, and again. I break FOUND into five pieces, feeding each letter between the metal grate. Finally, I slip Becca’s bloody face and its kiss of death through the slats, watching her puffy yellow jacket disappear, a dark smudge on the left side. Her jeans, tattered on one leg. I know those marks. I know what caused them. I’ve seen them so many times that I know even in death, Becca would appreciate the irony of dying by her own preferred method of killing. Somehow, somewhere, he got her. Mowed her down with her stolen car, took her picture, and gave it to me. The image stops at her knees, so I don’t know if Footloose took his trophy, but I don’t care. Becca was his real opponent, and now she’s dead. He won. The game is over.
I stand and wipe my hands on my pants before returning to my car. The missing poster waves to me from the electrical pole, trying to get my attention. But I refuse. Soon enough it will be scraped off by a city worker, disintegrate in the rain, or blow away with a strong gust of wind. Soon enough, it, like Becca and her victims, will be gone, too.
* * *
The next few days are a blur. I call my parents in Arizona. I call the jewelry store. I tell everyone Becca is missing and I don’t know if she’ll be back, but the police are looking into it. I give them Detective Schroeder’s name, in case they have a clue. My parents aren’t terribly concerned, not yet. They know Becca likes attention, and this is just as likely another petty ploy. The people at the jewelry store sound relieved, but I pretend not to notice, just as I pretend to be alarmed.
Despite the fact that my world has been upended, I haven’t noticed a single thing out of place. No strange sounds in my home, no objects where they shouldn’t be, my car just how I left it. I bounce among the five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance—trying to find the one that fits, but the way I’m feeling is not there. Relief.
I’ve known in my gut for days that Becca was dead. I’m angry at her for getting us into this mess, for putting us on Footloose’s radar, for choosing to play our hand instead of folding. There’s no one to bargain with, no god that would save Becca’s soul. I wouldn’t trade her life for anyone else’s; she’s already done that.
I don’t know if I’m depressed or just numb, that shock someone feels when they lose a job, stepping out of the office and into the world, the future stretching out interminably. What do you do when you have nothing to do? And acceptance. Accepting that I won’t get any more late-night phone calls to move furniture, no one else pointing out the spare ten pounds I carry, using me as their voodoo doll just because they like sticking pins into something.
It’s over.
I tell myself this again and again as I brush my teeth and change my clothes, eat breakfast, take out the trash, and sit silently with Graham while he keeps me company, just being there, because he can.
On Wednesday evening, I’m packing a suitcase. I have a flight to Phoenix at eight because I’m going to see my parents. I’ll stay a week. Maybe two. We’ll wait out Becca’s supposed game, and when enough time has passed, we’ll say maybe she’s not missing after all. And we’ll never say she’s dead, but we’ll all think it, and we’ll all agree maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Like me, they’ll stop looking over their shoulders, checking the locks on their doors for scratches, kneeling to peer under their beds. They’ll breathe.
I’ll never be grateful to Footloose, but the police are hunting for him for all the bodies at the start, so he’ll get what’s coming to him. There’s been no discovery of a body in a bright-yellow jacket, so wherever he killed her, he’s likely moved the body, hacked off its foot, and made her the first resident of his newest burial ground, just another mystery that will go unsolved.
I snuck out the night after I got the news, drove to the edge of town, and threw Shanté’s foot off a bridge, into the Brampton River. If it’s found, the police will know in which direction to point the blame. And if not, it’s not like it changes anything. She’s still dead. Becca’s still dead. They’re all still dead.
I zip up my suitcase and sit next to it on the bed, staring into my closet. The stapler painting is there, peeking out like a promise. I’ll hang it when I get back. It’ll be a fresh start. A new job, a new life.
I sniffle and wipe away a stray, conflicted tear. Even though Becca was a monster, she was still my sister, the one constant in my life. And I’m reminded of her every time I pour a bowl of cereal and the box isn’t empty; when I reach for my favorite pair of shoes and they’re still in the closet; when I drive through town and her face gazes back from every lamppost, bulletin board, and shop window. I think she’d like the idea of people believing she’s missing, searching for a girl who’ll never be found. It’s what she enjoyed while living. Wasting everybody’s time and taunting them forever, knowing death is the only answer.
A knock at the front door interrupts my mourning. I frown and go downstairs, opening the door to find Detective Schroeder on the other side. He’s wearing the same beige trench, hanging open to reveal a shirt and tie beneath, his badge clipped to his belt. His eyes are solemn and overlarge behind his thick glasses, and he gives me a small nod when he says, “Good evening, Ms. Lawrence.”
I don’t move to let him in. “Hi.”
The night sky is dark and low, a storm waiting to unleash. It’s the perfect time to leave town for Arizona’s sun and anonymity. In Brampton, I’ve become the lost girl’s sister, joining the ranks of the other grieving family members, the closest thing we’ve got to local celebrities.
Schroeder tucks his hands into his pockets. “Do you have a moment to speak?”
“Do you have an update?” I ask, though of course he doesn’t. “Where’s Detective Greaves
?” I peer past him but can’t see his car. Can’t see if he has backup, waiting to arrest me for not reporting that Becca has, after all, been found. And myriad other awful things I’ve done.
“No update,” he says. “We’re still looking into it. I wanted to check in with you, see how you’re doing.”
Unlike Greaves, Schroeder doesn’t look like he’s waiting for me to mess up, to say the wrong thing, to implicate myself. Maybe it’s just the glasses, but he looks naive and young, like he’ll try his very best to get justice for Becca, even if there’s none to be found. He looks like he cares.
“Fine,” I say when the cold gets to be too much. “Come in. But I don’t have anything to add. I told you everything I could, and I don’t have much time.”
He steps inside. “Why’s that?”
“I’m going to Arizona. My parents are there.”
“Ah. Hopefully a change of scenery will be nice for you. The weather will be better, definitely.”
“I think so.”
He takes a notepad and pen from his pocket and shoots me an apologetic smile. “I’ll make this quick. We’re still searching for Becca’s car. You’re certain it didn’t have GPS?”
It takes everything I have not to laugh. “No GPS.”
“And there’s nowhere else she might have left it? No boyfriend? No places she likes to party?”
“No. She always parks in front of her apartment. She would have told me if she had a boyfriend. She’d have called by now.”
“Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to hurt your sister?”
I freeze. “What?”
“Is there anyone—”
“Why would you ask that?”
“We need to investigate all angles.”
I shake my head. “No. There’s no one. She didn’t—She wasn’t—” I’m lying, obviously. But the truth is, I don’t know. I don’t know what her co-workers might tell the police. That she was one of their top salespeople for ten years running? That a woman who complained about Becca to management later mysteriously disappeared? I don’t want to say she had no enemies if everyone else is saying the opposite.
“What about Footloose?” I blurt out.
Schroeder, spinning his pen in his hand, stops. “There’s no reason to believe your sister is dead.”
I fight to keep my expression neutral. “But what if…What if she is?”
He clicks open his pen but doesn’t make a note, glancing at the baseball bat propped against the closet beside me. “Everyone is on high alert right now. It’s natural to assume the worst. But that’s premature.”
“Are you considering it?”
“We’ll consider all options. Do you have a particular reason to believe your sister might have encountered Footloose?”
Yes! I want to scream. Because she was searching for him!
But even if I did somehow manage to convince them Footloose was responsible, and even if they did investigate and find him, what would he say? That he first met us at Kilduff, burying Angelica?
“I mean, you heard the voice message,” I say finally. “She thought she’d found him. But I don’t really think she did. I guess I’m just…scared.”
Schroeder gives me a small, reassuring smile. “That’s understandable. I’m sure the time away will help.” He tucks his notepad back into his pocket and gives a decisive nod, like that’s it. There’s nothing to investigate. They’ll keep the file open for a while, and eventually it will go cold. The posters I hung will disintegrate in the rain and snow, and in the spring the world will come back to life, fresh and new, with one less serial killer.
“I won’t keep you,” he says, reaching for the door. “If we have any questions, we’ll be in touch.”
“Keep me posted,” I say. “If you find anything.”
“Absolutely.” He glances around, wringing his hands, like he needs to do something to help since the Brampton PD has been fucking useless so far. “Do you—do you have a suitcase? For your trip?”
“It’s upstairs. I—”
“Let me help you with it,” he says. “It’s the least I can do.” Since I probably won’t do anything else goes unsaid.
“You don’t have to,” I try, but he’s already heading toward the stairs, brushing past me.
“Which room?” he asks over his shoulder.
I follow awkwardly. “To the left. With the light on.”
“Got it.” He steps deftly over the noisy third stair from the top and reaches the landing, turning toward my room. Half of my brain appreciates the lack of the mournful yowl of the stair, while the other half most definitely does not. I go cold, my hand stuck on the banister.
Schroeder realizes his mistake at the same moment and turns, his pen still in his hand. This time when he clicks it, I see that it’s not a pen, it’s a syringe. I scramble back, my socked feet sliding on the wood, throwing myself down the stairs, toward the baseball bat, the front door, safety.
Something pierces my hip, hot and agonizing, and I stumble down the steps as my limbs go weak. The world narrows to a pinprick, and I try to scream, to say something, to do something. But as ever, I do nothing at all.
Chapter 9
I’m moving.
The lingering effects of whatever drug Footloose injected me with have left me groggy and disoriented, and all I can tell for certain is that I’m lying on my side, wrapped in something that smells incredibly bad, and I’m moving. Rough fabric scratches my cheek, and each panicked breath makes me gag on the thick odor of must and decay.
It’s dark. It’s so, so dark, sharpening all my other senses to a nauseating edge and making everything that’s already terrible even worse. I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to wake up, the way you do in a nightmare when you get to the point of no return and your brain opts to spare you the horror of whatever’s about to come. But when I open my eyes, I’m still in the nightmare.
There’s a loud smack, and I bounce two inches before thudding back down. Chilly air snakes around my bare feet, and a metallic growling sound cuts through the cocoon of drugs and rough fabric. My senses continue to sharpen until the cold air feels like winter and the growling sounds like an engine and the fabric feels like…
I gag and try to shove it away, the way you’d bat at a spiderweb, but my wrists squeal as something sharp digs into the soft skin, tightening with each frantic attempt. Breathing becomes difficult, my lungs refusing to expand as though my body would rather smother than inhale the horror. I’m not in my bed because I’m not sleeping, and this is not a dream. I’m in a car. The trunk of a car, to be specific. And I’m wrapped in Becca’s murder carpet.
Visions of all the bodies I’ve seen wrapped in this thing flash through my mind like a gory movie trailer. Limp feet poking out the end, clad in sneakers, sandals, heels. Sometimes one foot would be bare where the blow from the car had knocked a shoe free, sometimes the exposed toes would be painted, and sometimes there was too much blood to tell.
“Do you ever wash this thing?” I ask Becca, covering my mouth and nose with my sleeve as the sickening odor of congealed blood seeps from her trunk.
She frowns. “Why would I?”
“Because it stinks.”
“Well, yeah. It’s got a dead body in it. That’s not my fault.”
Another bump and bang and my temple smacks the floor. I moan, nausea roiling through me. I’d always thought the carpet was on the small side, the kind you’d use in an entryway for people to wipe their feet or store their shoes. And now that I’m inside it, it feels even smaller. That dark-red stain where someone’s brains had leaked out, that tiny hole where a broken bone had stabbed through—they could be pressing against my cheek, my chin. The reminder of Becca’s murderous hobby and my guilty conscience, literally rubbed in my face.
Panic sets in, sweat beading on my temples despite the chill. I writhe desperately, trying to ignore the rotten smell, and eventually succeed in flopping onto my back, breathing hard and trying not to throw
up. The carpet gives way a little when I bend my knees a few times, loosening just enough for me to hear the rush of icy November wind outside and the faint roar of a passing car. We hit another pothole, and again my head smacks the floor, my teeth snapping down on the inside of my cheek. The motion jostles the carpet, and it falls open around me, and immediately I realize that the murder carpet, for all its horrible history, was, ironically, keeping me alive. It’s freezing in here.
I shiver and try to focus. The trunk is low and wide, and I’m lying sideways across it with my legs bent relatively comfortably, all things considered. The metal frame rattles above and below, the rumble of the muffler close to my head. I wiggle my feet, moving them apart one inch and then another. They’re unbound, albeit shoeless and freezing.
I feel around with my toes until I find indentations in the car frame for the taillight to slot in, its back ridged with wires and strange protrusions. I roll onto my side, facing away, to give myself leverage, and take a few practice swings. When I’m ready, I kick back with my heel, missing entirely and whacking my foot on something sharp. I curse and curl my fingers in the carpet to brace myself before kicking again. The light doesn’t budge. A tear sneaks out, skating over my nose and stinging my eye.
I think of the day I first saw this carpet. It was the fourth time I’d helped Becca hide a body, and when she opened her trunk, I’d peeked through my fingers like normal, expecting the mangled remains of her latest victim. Instead I’d seen red and yellow swirls on a beige background with fringed edges.
“What’s this?” I ask, reaching out to touch it before realization dawns and I yank back my hand.
“A carpet,” Becca replies. “I bought it so you’d stop gagging all the time.”
“Maybe if you stopped murdering, I’d stop gagging.”
She rolls her eyes. “Doubt it. Now say thank you for the gift and grab his feet.”
I kick again and again, missing as many times as I make contact. On the tenth try, when my sore foot is wailing and my thigh muscles scream, there’s a faint scuffing sound and a whoosh of cold air. I peer over my shoulder. The light is gone, and in its place is a hole about the size of a wine bottle, through which I can see only darkness and the intermittent glow of the moon. I have no idea how far we’ve been driving or how far we have left to go. What I do know is that we’re going fast, like we’re on a highway, and I need an overachieving citizen to spot that missing light and report it before we reach our destination. It takes forever until I see the bright glow of approaching headlights, and my heart gives a hopeful lurch. Then the car shifts lanes to pass.
Look What You Made Me Do Page 19