Girl Missing, #1

by Kate Gable

  "You sure did like pink," Mom says with a smirk, looking me up and down and undoubtably examining my black wardrobe with a scorn.

  Mom always thought I’d be a teacher or maybe a librarian like her since I loved to read so much, but a detective? Never.

  She did not have much to say when I told her that I was going to go to the police academy after college. I just sort of came home and announced it to her one Thanksgiving, as if it was something that I had been thinking about for a long time.

  My mom and I have always had a complicated relationship. Our personalities are rather mismatched.

  Her nervous energy has always put me on edge. I grew up entrenched in a perpetual state of panic. But I didn't want to be seen as someone who worried a lot, so I hid that part of me.

  When it came to big decisions, I had to make them on my own. I couldn't bring myself to tell my mom what I was thinking while I was thinking it. I had to reach a decision and then tell her what I’d decided to do.

  On TV, parents are often portrayed as sounding boards, someone who gives advice and someone you can come to for those things, but that wasn't what I ever had with my mom, or my dad, for that matter. They were people who always got only the final decisions.

  Violet was only four when I came home and announced that I had enrolled and would be starting my training in a few weeks. Mom asked me all about the logistics, the when and how, but she never really asked why.

  I mean, she did in a way, but she never got down to the truth. I remember telling her that the pay would be good and with overtime, I could make decent money. I was single. I wasn't planning on having kids anytime soon, so why not? Who knew, I might even become a detective one day.

  It finally happened, many years later, and yet we still haven't talked about the why.

  "Okay, here it is," Mom says, picking up an old bathrobe and a few old costumes from Halloween from years ago. There are more Sweet Valley High books underneath.

  "How did they end up all the way in here?" I ask. "Didn't you just say that she just had them in her room?"

  "Yeah, but she wanted to clear out some stuff and donate. You know how she was. You know how she is," Mom corrects herself, but we both hang on that word was for a while.

  Up until this point, I haven’t allowed myself to think of Violet in the past tense.

  "Mom, are you trying to tell me something?”

  "No. Of course not.”

  “Do you know where Violet is?”

  "What are you talking about?” she snaps.

  I shake my head and say, "Just that you used was."

  "Well, I misspoke."

  I nod even though I don't believe her. My mom has been a librarian for many years and she rarely misspeaks.

  I decide not to press her on it, for now.

  Instead, I focus on the box. Something about the box doesn’t make sense. First of all, it’s all the way in the back of the shed. The Halloween costumes are old from years ago, along with the bathrobe that I haven't seen since at least 2012. If Violet had put the books into the shed, she would have stuck them into some other box out front in order to get in and out of this place as soon as she could.

  Why put them all the way in the back?

  She wasn't someone who liked being in crowded spaces any more than I did, even if it was crammed with all of our old things.

  "Violet said that she read through them and she was done,” Mom says, reading my mind.

  "Why do you need them now?" I ask.

  "I was just wondering where it was. She packed up this box and I don't know, I'm at a loss."

  I follow Mom back out to the house over the wet, soggy ground, the mud clinging to my boots. I take them off right inside the doorway and Mom plops the box on the kitchen table and takes out all of the contents. On the bottom, she finds a smaller box, the size of a jewelry box, with a few bracelets, two rings, and a necklace. All costume jewelry with no precious stones or metals.

  "What is this?" I ask.

  "I'm not sure," Mom says, shaking her head. "She usually keeps all of her jewelry in that wooden chest that you gave her last Christmas."

  I bought that handmade chest from Etsy, knowing that Violet would love it. It had a beautiful design of an elephant on the front, along with all sorts of carvings that you see in Eastern-religion-inspired designs. I look for the chest in her room, but it's not there.

  "Did you move it somewhere?" I yell, looking under her bed. “Where do you think it is?”

  "I don't know,” Mom says, walking through the door.

  "Well, it's not here. How can that be?"

  Mom walks over to the desk that Violet uses as her nightstand as well. This is where she sits to do her homework.

  There's a little red lamp in the corner that she uses to read Twilight and Harry Potter and an assortment of other titles.

  I look around the room. The bed is a mattress sitting on top of storage containers with drawers where she keeps additional blankets and summer clothes, whatever doesn't fit into her closet.

  The closet across from the bed is small with one of those sliding mirror doors that makes you look like you're double the size that you are.

  Violet hates that thing as much as I did when this was my room so there’s a slender stand-up mirror next to the window to compensate. Another one of my Christmas presents.

  Unlike Mom, who gets Violet’s clothes from Talbots and other age-inappropriate stores, I have always prided myself in getting her exactly what she wants.

  I open the closet door and look through her shoes and clothing. Mom told me that she was wearing jeans and her forest green puffy jacket when she left, along with a beanie.

  "What about her combat boots? You know, the Doc Martens?"

  "You mean those awful, black, ugly boots that you got her for her eleventh birthday? God, I have no idea where they are," Mom says, rolling her eyes.

  "Okay, but they're not here."

  "Ugh, good riddance," Mom mutters.

  I walk over to rummage through the storage under her bed before checking underneath the bookshelves where she keeps additional shoes and a few more boxes of things.

  "Mom, they're not here."

  "So what?"

  "Well, the chest is missing and so are the combat boots. Was she wearing them when she left?"

  "No. I don't think so."

  "How can you be sure?"

  Mom tilts her head to the side and looks up, thinking, and then finally says, "No, she wasn't wearing them that night. I know because they're awful and I always remember when she has them on.”

  "What was she wearing?"

  "I don't know. Her Uggs, I think."

  "Okay, that's something. So, what happened to the Doc Martens? Do you think that she put them in storage?"

  "No, absolutely not," Mom says categorically.

  There's an exasperation to her voice, like she's resigned to something terrible. "Where are you going with all of this? What's with all these questions?"

  "I just don't understand all of these strange inconsistencies,” I say.

  "What inconsistencies?"

  I’d pace back and forth, but it takes me barely a step and a half to get from one side of the room to the other. It's not exactly a bedroom, but it's not exactly a broom closet either. It's something in between.

  I walk over to the small window and look at the tree outside covered in snow. The branches lay heavy under all of that white snow. There's a small bird prancing along on one of the dry spots and then she picks up her wings and takes off.

  "If Violet wasn't wearing the boots and you know that they are one of her favorites, then where are they? Also, where's the chest with her jewelry? Why did she put some of the jewelry with the books into the shed?"

  I'm speaking out loud now, sort of asking my mom the questions, but really just trying to process everything that I have just discovered.

  It's normal procedure to go through the room and try to find clues as to where the person might have gone, o
r would have gone, if those clues can be found in the room. But Mom hadn’t figured out any of these things when the cops asked her about it and frankly, she hadn’t noticed these things either, until I did.

  "Why don't you look around here and see what else might be missing?" I say, heading to the kitchen.

  I fill up my water bottle and make myself a sandwich from the bread in the pantry and some peanut butter.

  "Where are you going?” Mom asks, following me out.

  "I have to get back to LA. I have to conduct a few interviews with the parents of a murder victim."

  "You do? Now?"

  "Either that or someone else is going to get the case. It's just... I need to do this, Mom. I'm the one that was there when they found the girl and I hope that I can close this case quickly."

  "What about Violet?"

  "I'll try to come back tonight. I'm going to do the interviews and come back either tonight or tomorrow morning, but in the meantime, you need to look around and catalog what's missing. I don't live with her. I don't really know what she uses all the time, but you do. Can you do this for me?”

  “What about the chest and the boots? What do they mean?”

  "They might mean that she meant to take off, Mom. They might mean that she wanted to go somewhere and she took things that she loved with her."

  Mom shakes her head and denies it, "No. No, no. Absolutely not."

  "Okay, I know that you don’t want to believe this and neither do I, but I really hope that if she is gone, she's gone of her own volition. Don't you?"

  Mom shakes her head.

  She doesn't want to believe anything at this point. I look at the time.

  If I want to get all the way back home and get these interviews done tonight, I have to leave now. Like, as soon as possible.

  I grab my bag, which I haven't really unpacked, and throw the sandwich into my purse. I give my mom a brief peck on the cheek and walk out the door.

  When I get down the hill, without encountering too much traffic, I let out a sigh of relief. Driving up and down the mountain is kind of a crapshoot. You can do it very quickly and without any incidents, but if there’s an accident, it can take hours. Luckily, everything aligns in my favor and I get to the precinct by four in the afternoon, right when the Reynard family arrives.

  When I walk through the front door of the precinct, I notice the distinct smell of Lysol and bleach. Usually, the cleaning people come in the evenings, but everything smells like some sickening conversation of pine, lime, and lemons. I wave hello to some of the other deputies, but I don't have time to chat.

  I know that I'm not dressed completely appropriate so I head into the locker room and pull out the suit that I keep there for this exact occasion. It's something that Captain Medvil had mentioned was a good idea and, at first, I remember scoffing at him.

  I mean, why would I need to have a suit on hand? I can just go home and change, right?

  Well, not always.

  I get out of the clothes that I had slept in last night. I wish that I could take a shower, but I don't have time. Instead, I refresh myself with a wet wipe and apply some more makeup.

  It's important to look professional and well put-together, especially when you interview family members of victims of crimes. I'm a homicide detective and I can't very well show up in a ratty sweatshirt and ripped jeans.

  I take a few moments to collect my thoughts while in the bathroom stall.

  On the whole drive down here, I kept trying to make sense of what I’d found out. I realize I don't know if Kaylee or her mom, Nancy, have anything to do with Violet's disappearance.

  I kind of doubt that Neil does, either.

  But what about my mom?

  Is she telling me everything?

  Is she hiding the fact that they had a big fight and that's why Violet left? I mean, Violet’s a teenage girl and it's not like I haven't seen plenty of that in my line of work.

  On one hand, finding the fact that her favorite pair of Doc Martens and a box of her jewelry is missing along with her has given me a glimmer of hope.

  It could mean that she didn't get kidnapped by a stranger or at least the likelihood of her getting kidnapped by a stranger is a lot less. Perhaps this could even mean that she just took off.

  I flush the toilet and walk out of the stall to wash my hands.

  Then it hits me. It's not an either/or situation. Both things could be true at the same time.

  Cold sweat runs down my armpit and makes a stain on my pressed blouse. Luckily, I'm wearing a matching suit jacket to go with my skirt, so it’s not obvious.

  Of course, one thing does not mean that the other one didn't happen. Just because Violet took off by herself doesn't mean that she didn't also get taken.

  9

  I leave the locker room with my head held high. The suit, the heels, and the bag that I carry are my armor.

  My makeup is flawless. My lips are shining red.

  On the outside, I look put together and in control.

  That's the point.

  On the inside, my stomach is in knots.

  I check the moisture on my palms. It's not just a saying, you can't let them see you sweat.

  I grab a tissue from my purse and wipe them because I'm going to shake hands and I need Courtney Reynard's parents to know that they are in good hands.

  This is all a show, a little dance that I put on and that detectives have put on for years and years. The people we meet have to see us as solid, unmoving mountains so that that they can let their emotions collide with ours.

  It's typically procedure for the homicide detective to notify the next of kin about the deaths, but I was three hours away and Captain Medvil sent someone else in my place.

  The victim's parents are now waiting in the back, in one of the nicer interview rooms with plush velvet chairs and clip-art wall decor. This is typically where we meet with the friends and family.

  I turn the corner at the water fountain. My heels make a loud clicking sound with each step and I'm keenly aware of how tight my skirt is. It’s digging into my waist, making it difficult to breathe, but it sure does make my butt look good.

  The fluorescent lights above my head flicker for a moment just as I turn the corner. That's when I run into him, straight on, just like in the fucking movies.

  My purse and all of its contents go everywhere just as his folder does.

  It takes me a moment to look up at the person I’ve run into before I reach for my purse and I recognize him immediately.

  Perfect. I say silently to myself; I'm definitely not apologizing to him.

  "How are you?" Thomas asks.

  His hair looks freshly cut in that familiar, short style, popular with police officers. His chest looks puffy and inflated, not so much from exercise, but from an oversized opinion of himself.

  He leans over and hands me my purse. A few more things fall out, a lipstick and mascara along with my phone.

  "Hey," I say and bite my tongue just as I am about to say, Come on now. Say you're sorry, Thomas.

  He doesn't. Instead, he just stares deep into my eyes like he used to when we were first together.

  "How are you doing?" he asks, after collecting all of the papers from his manila folder.

  "I'm good. How are you?" I toss the floss, the powder, and the little foldable comb all back into my purse into no compartment in particular. I want this interaction to be done with as soon as possible.

  "Hey, listen, I'm sorry about that," he says, grabbing my hand. Just as I put the purse over my shoulder, I pull away from him and our eyes meet again. "Sorry for bumping into you."

  "Yes, me, too,” I add with a nod, satisfied but not fully. "Listen, I have to go."

  "Yeah, me, too. Of course,” he says, hesitating.

  He turns slowly on his heel and continues to stare at the back of my head all the way down the hallway. I can feel his gaze. It sends shivers up my spine. It makes me want to turn around, but I tell myself to stay strong.
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  No, do not give him the satisfaction. I don't.

  It would be a lie to say that running into Thomas Abrams, my ex-boyfriend, doesn't throw me a little bit off course as I walk over to speak with the Reynards. They sit huddled together like two doves, leaning on each other for support, waiting for me to bring them some answers. The problem is that I don't have any. I take a deep breath and then another and another.

  There are a few uniformed officers standing around the water cooler, not too far away from me and I break through their huddle to get some water. Of course, I've heard that it's not a good idea to date people you work with, but I didn't realize that it would be this difficult. Every time I interact with him, or even just see him out of the corner of my eye, I regret the fact that I didn't press charges that night.

  What would this be like if I had?

  How many of these cops would take his side and how many would take mine?

  Thomas is popular. Thomas has many friends. He's the kind of guy that everyone likes.

  He can bullshit about just about anything; sports, girls, chicken wings. He's inoffensive in that way that fresh pizza from a chain restaurant is inoffensive. Always good, but not particularly exciting to the pallet.

  It's something that you can depend on, of course, unless you're his girlfriend, then he's not particularly dependable or safe. In fact, he might even give you food poisoning.

  I finish one cup of water and toss the little cone into the trash. Then, I head straight inside.

  Swinging the door open, I introduce myself to the Reynards.

  When I come into the room, they break out of their huddle and look up at me at the same time. Mr. Reynard puts his arm on his wife's back, as if to prop her up for the news to come.

  They already know what happened. Well, a little bit about it, anyway. They had been notified that their daughter's body had been found hanging from a tree in Runyon Canyon and they have identified her with the medical examiner.