Girl Last Seen

by Nina Laurin

  I was spared so I could do something, help the next one. And a darker thought: I was spared so that I could watch it all happen again, unable to do anything about it.

  I focus on the burning in my lungs, the steady fire kindling in my leg muscles, but it’s not enough to keep my thoughts from drifting to the thing burning in my pocket, folded up next to my phone in half, then fourths, then eighths, until the layers of paper refused to bend. Charlene gave me four posters to put up, but only three are still there, next to the flashy yellow flyers advertising a discount on whole chickens. Charlene is of an exacting nature, just like everything about her suggests, and she will probably notice, but hopefully, she won’t think it’s me. She’ll think one of the shoppers decided to snatch it off the wall and keep it for some unknown reason.

  I catch myself with my hand in my pocket like a thief, when it’s too late. The thick folded edge of the poster brushes the back of my hand, and to distract myself, I take out my phone instead and check the screen. Nobody ever calls me, and I’m not on any social media, unlike pretty much everyone my age. No one expressly told me to stay off it—it’s just an ingrained instinct too strong to go against: the instinct to hide.

  The first thing I see is the missed call, followed by the new voice mail alert. How did I not hear it? My heart lurches, and it has nothing to do with the exertion wringing my smoker’s lungs. Another bit of ingrained knowledge: missed calls, and especially voice mails, are never good news. Fighting the tremor in my hands, I dial my voice mail and groan inwardly as the phone recites the date and time with agonizing slowness. A hiss, a snap of static, and then a familiar voice floods into my ear, heavy with its nasal accent, and a sweet balm of relief spills in my chest even though my heart hasn’t gotten the memo yet and keeps hammering. It’s my coworker from my second job. I didn’t recognize the number because she’s calling from the one ancient pay phone at work, the one they keep there for God only knows what reason. I’m so overcome with that feeling of having gotten away with something that I forget to even get mad about what she’s asking. They need me to come in early, because so-and-so didn’t show up. I hang up without waiting for the message to play to the end.

  It means no time to take a nap beforehand, which is just as well because it’s not like I’ll be able to sleep now. But I had other plans for these two hours, plans that will have to wait until the end of the night—which, right now, might as well be in a hundred years. Ever since I saw Olivia Shaw looking at me from that poster, time shifted. It’s no longer an ephemeral thing that trickles away while I look on with indifference. It feels voluntary, as if I forgot how to breathe and have to consciously pull and push every gulp of oxygen into my lungs if I don’t want to suffocate.

  Up in my apartment, I lock the door behind me and slide on the chain even though I’ll be out again in under an hour, which leaves me just enough time to get ready. This is why I need the second job, sacrificing sleep and sanity, because I need this place. Living with roommates didn’t work out so great—surprise, surprise—and it’s impossible to get an apartment in this city on a single cashier’s pay. Even a shitty apartment like this one, on the worst street in the worst neighborhood. And I don’t just have to pay rent. I’m a twenty-three-year-old female who needs makeup and clothes and sometimes even jewelry, though my options are somewhat restricted here.

  And other things.

  I didn’t do such a bad job making this place homey. It may be three hundred square feet, but every inch is mine. I have furniture from Goodwill and the great free market that is the curb on moving day: a narrow desk so old it verges on antique and a chair that almost matches it. The apartment has a built-in counter too small to eat on, so the desk doubles as a dining table. I have a cute little nightstand from IKEA. Well, not from IKEA but I think it’s IKEA. Someone tossed it out because a corner is chipped, exposing the cheap plywood underneath. I don’t have a bed frame but I have a decent mattress on the floor—the bed frame is going to be my next big splurge. Depending on how I’ll make it through the next hours-days-weeks. Whether or not I can keep reminding myself to breathe at reliable intervals.

  I’m sweaty and consider jumping in the shower but reject the idea. I don’t feel like being naked right now. So I run a towel under the tap and rub it in my armpits and across my chest, under my grocery-store sweatshirt. The water hardly makes the cloth less scratchy, and I feel like someone scrubbed me down with steel wool. When I pull the sweatshirt over my head, I realize my chest is covered with little splotches that will hopefully fade by the time I get to work.

  The dress code at my second job is fairly simple, no uniforms—they either can’t afford them or just don’t care. You can wear what you want, but whatever it is it has to be white. The girls complain about the color, so unforgiving of spills and nearly transparent under black lights, but I think it adds an illusion of curves to my streamlined body, which helps with the tips. My two identical work dresses are cheap polyester, twenty dollars after the discount at one of the fast-fashion chains, but they have an appealing plunging neckline and the skirt hits midthigh.

  Next, boots, knee-high with thick heels and blunt toes that boost my height by a couple of inches but are still comfortable enough, considering I have to be on my feet all night. I own lots of boots of all shapes, forms, and colors—boots are kind of my thing, although not entirely by choice. The other alternative is high-top sneakers, and I hate those. I never wear stiletto heels, and no sandals either, even in summer. Or ballet flats or those trendy platform Mary Janes with the delicate ankle strap.

  Girls with scar rings around their ankles don’t have many options. Some asshole I made the mistake of hooking up with still tells everyone I fuck with my boots on.

  On my arms, fingerless gloves that go up to the elbow, and on top of that, three bracelets on each arm. Foundation, concealer under my eyes, eyebrow pencil, a touch of highlighter on my brow bones and in the Cupid’s bow of my top lip, a beauty routine out of a women’s magazine. I have a plain face without makeup, except for my big, brown eyes that some love-struck fool in another life might have called soulful, and I know how to play them up. I line my eyes with heavy strokes of dark-blue kohl, a little silver in the inner corners. Gobs of gloss on my lips, darkening their natural color to that of dried blood. Lastly, I pump the mascara brush in the scuffed tube that I really need to replace, if I can spare the ten bucks. The effect is clumpy, but I doubt anyone will notice in the dark.

  Almost ready. I check my phone; I have just enough time, and the traffic usually goes the other way at this hour. The grocery-store sweatshirt is still where I left it on the bathroom floor, a puddle of cheery purple-pink, and I dive after it to get my keys and wallet out of the pocket only for the poster to fall out, landing at my feet.

  My heartbeat thuds dully in the back of my throat as I retrieve it, unfold it, and smooth it out on the kitchen counter. With my fingertip, I trace the smooth, round outline of her face, the one ringlet of curls that springs off to the side, escaping from the elastic of her ponytail.

  If you have any knowledge of Olivia Shaw’s whereabouts, or any relevant information, please contact…

  I should call the number, the thought crosses my mind. I even begin to reach for my phone. Call the number and say what? Everything’s been said many years ago, and much good it did to anyone.

  Before the temptation can become too strong, I grab the poster off the counter and race across the room to my bed by the window. Careful not to look at it, I lift up the mattress and slide the poster underneath, on top of the pile of printouts, folded yellowed newspaper pages, and other posters, weathered by time and faded by rain, that I collected all over the city over the years. Olivia Shaw is part of my collection now. As long as I can keep her there, maybe she’ll stay out of my thoughts. Maybe her face won’t flash in front of my eyes every time I blink, like it’s been tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.

  Enough. I’m running late. I put my wallet and my phone into the pock
et of my pleather jacket then remember something and open the drawer of my nightstand. Grab the folding knife that sits there, under a pile of year-old tabloid magazines with frayed covers. Put it in my pocket, next to the phone and wallet.

  Every single night I leave my apartment, I secretly hope I’ll need it. But I never do.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The night shift is already starting by the time I get to the Silver Bullet Gentlemen’s Club. A few of the day girls shuffle past me, sweatpants tucked into UGG knockoffs, duffels slung over shoulders. The other barmaid, an Eastern European former stripper who goes by Chloe but whose real name is Natalia-something, is already behind the bar, waving to me, and by the somewhat desperate smile that flashes yellow under black lights, I know I’m in trouble with the boss.

  Natalia is as close as I have to a friend. We’ve gone out after work a couple of times, and I’ve been to her place once or twice—it’s nicer than you’d expect, a two-bedroom house she’s renting on the outskirts of town. Or maybe she owns it, something to show for her time in the Lucite heels—and it must be a long time, even though I never asked her outright. Her face is smooth as an egg, helped by makeup plus injectables in her lips and already prominent cheekbones, her hair bleached till it glows and stuffed full of keratin extensions, so it’s thicker than mine. But that difference of a decade or two is there between us, intangible but present, like the heavy scent of her department-store perfume. She always tells me I’d do much better as a stripper, that I’m wasting my good years breaking my back at a cash register and behind a bar when I should be on the other side of it, making hundreds. I considered it. Flexible schedule, good money, and I could just wear those dominatrix boots to cover my ankle scars, plus some arm bands—like the girls with the drug problems, the kind that require needles. And the belly scar, well, there’s much worse here, and I could cover it with makeup if I wanted to. Natalia’s own C-section scar is almost as bad, and it’s another thing I never brought up—don’t ask, don’t tell.

  I’m not exactly a prude, but I’ve always told her the job just wasn’t for me. It’s a line I don’t want to cross, for the time being.

  Speaking of which, I should probably go kiss up to the boss while I still have a job. But I can’t bring myself to care; it seems unreal, like I’m thinking about some show I watch on TV every night, not my own life. What is real, however, is the ghostly face from the photo on that poster. Olivia Shaw. Age ten. Last seen…

  A part of me wonders if I’m just imagining things. Latching on to random details and weaving them together with nothing more than desperation. But something about the way she stared at me from that poster sent a shiver through me, like a drop of ice beneath the skin. Like she was the one searching for me, not the other way around.

  Great. Maybe I’m coming unglued, finally, like everyone seems to think I will someday. I’m starting to think exactly like those psychos. It’s the way she was looking at me, Mr. Judge, sir. I read it in her eyes and couldn’t help myself.

  I’m sure someone, somewhere, has all my Internet searches on file, but I learned all about these things. Deviations, delusions, dehumanization. Whenever a girl goes missing, any age, they always have the relatives on TV, imploring the nameless audience to please help them bring their loved one back. Hoping against hope it’ll work.

  Search as I might, I couldn’t find a single instance when it actually had worked. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel so bad that no one cried on TV when I went missing, because it’s not like it ever helped anyone.

  No one knows the exact date I disappeared, least of all me. They’ve established a weeklong window, and even that is approximate.

  Just like one of those psychos, my mind won’t let it go. Like a child who stubbornly peels away a half-healed scab, I insist on prodding myself in all my tender spots, deliberately pulling every trigger—and I never had any shortage of those. Not for the last ten years anyway. Almost half my life. I roll the details around in my achy brain until it’s raw, until my hands are shaky and the beer I’m about to slide across the counter nearly slips from my grip, slick with condensation.

  Two more people settle at the bar just as I turn around. They look at me like I’ve been muttering something out loud without realizing it, and a new rush of paranoia overtakes me. I lean in and ask them what they’re drinking.

  One looks young and kind of shifty; the other must be in his late thirties, and his weathered skin has a darker cast to it. Not unlike mine. Puerto Rican? I wonder. Cuban? I can’t see his face clearly because he’s half-hidden in shadow, but something about it, about the angle of his jaw, looks familiar. The two of them seem to be together, except he’s dressed a lot nicer than his buddy, who’s in a weathered hockey jersey that hangs off his skinny shoulders like a rag. No, this one has a jacket. A nice jacket. Where would I know someone who has a jacket this nice? Must be wool or something, so black that it seems to draw the light in. And his scarf is embarrassingly fashionable. Either he has a wife who picks these things out for him or he swings the other way. Which, since he’s sitting in a titty bar, is unlikely, but you never know.

  The shifty one orders an alcohol-free beer. Heh, maybe Nice-Jacket-guy does swing the other way, and he’s here with his DL lover—either as cover for an illicit meeting or for some kind of twisted thrill. I bare my teeth in a smirk before I realize I’m doing it and tell him we don’t have any of that.

  Could be just me, but the one in the nice jacket chuckles. Without batting an eyelash, Shifty asks for a Coke. I want to cheekily specify if it’s diet—we don’t have that either, it’s unmanly or something, but Nice Jacket measures me with a glance, and the words die somewhere halfway up my throat. As I turn to get the Coke from the fridge, I can feel him looking.

  Enough people stare at me every night, even when I can’t motivate myself to doll up. Monday-night patrons aren’t picky—they’ll ogle anything—but this one skipped right over the part where he undresses me with his eyes, and instead, he seems to be x-raying my skull. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I can’t spin around fast enough. I scoop cloudy half-melted ice cubes with a glass and slide it across, along with the damn Coke.

  It’s Nice Jacket who puts the ten-dollar bill on the counter, holding it down with his fingertips as I reach for it. And I don’t want to touch his hand. Creep. Damn creep.

  Well, he’s about to find out that it takes more than a wool jacket to intimidate me. I make myself meet his gaze and let my professional smile drop from my face. I learned this one from the dancers, and it works miracles. In no uncertain terms, it says pay up, buddy, and stop fucking around.

  He takes his hand off the tenner. I’m about to slam my palm down on the crumpled piece of paper when he says, curtly and simply, “Lainey. Lainey Moreno?”

  His voice.

  My hand hovers. I look up and meet his electric glare. Already, something within my mind is curling like black smoke, solidifying, taking shape. But before I can put the picture together, he leans in and speaks.

  “Lainey, I’m Detective Ortiz with the Seattle PD. I…”

  Whatever doubt I might still have had evaporates. It’s not a lightbulb going off in my mind—unless the lightbulb explodes with a zap and crackle and a burst of tiny, deadly shards. Something alien takes control of my limbs, an animal instinct that’s only kicked in once or twice before. I don’t think. I just turn around and flee through the narrow staff door at the other end of the bar.

  The shifty guy yells holy shit. A girl shrieks. Without glancing over my shoulder, I hear the clatter of a barstool and know that Nice Jacket is leaping right over the bar, going after me.

  The door swings shut behind me. I wish there were a latch, but even if there had been, my hands are shaking too much. The storage room is blindingly dark, boxes and crates tower on all sides, and for a moment, I think I might be able to hide—to curl up in some corner and be still and quiet until it’s over.

  Then the door clangs open and the dim reddish
light from the club pours in. I spin around and keep going, maneuvering through the maze of boxes. I hear him on my trail, surprisingly light footfalls that drown in the sound of my blood rushing in my ears. He trips over something, curses under his breath. Seizing the moment’s chance, I dive for the door, for the delivery entrance that leads outside into the alley behind the club.

  Cool air envelops me, coating my overheated skin with a mucky, polluted dew. My breath rises up in billows of steam so thick they obscure my vision. Overhead lights blur and pixelate as I draw humidity into my lungs and run, splashing through the puddles.

  My boots are dead weights at my ankles. Within seconds, I’m out of breath, and at the same time, I feel as much as hear him behind me, getting closer.

  All the while, even as he inevitably catches up to me, as he grabs the back of my dress, I wonder why the hell I ran.

  I have nothing to hide. I didn’t do anything wrong.

  A cry bursts from my lips as he pulls me backward. My feet slip on the wet pavement, and I topple, twist, and land on my side. Mud splashes the side of my face and the impact knocks the breath out of me.

  He twists my arm behind me until I howl.

  “Lainey,” he says. I can’t see his face. At this angle, all I can see is an expanse of cracked, shiny-wet asphalt level with my eyes and looming brick walls above. But his voice. His voice cuts deep. I remember it, and right now it’s brimming with reproach.

  He loosens his grip but doesn’t let go—at least my shoulder is no longer screaming in pain—and the weight lifts off me so I can raise my head and breathe.

  “Let go of me,” I choke out. I’ve daydreamed of this moment so many times, back in the hospital, then in the psych ward, in the lonely, dark, scary moments, alone late at night. It was like a warm blanket over my shoulders: his face, his eyes, his voice. What I remembered of it anyway.

  Not how I pictured our first—second—meeting. Not what I hoped my first words would be.