The Hanging Girl

by Eileen Cook

“Um, yeah.”

  “Weird, huh?” Drew shuddered. “You don’t think stuff like that will happen around here.”

  That was an understatement. Our town was the very definition of boring. Big excitement around here was the opening of deer season. Anyone who was a criminal mastermind had moved on to more exciting pastures. Before this, the only crime in our town was people selling weed or breaking into someone’s garage to steal power tools.

  I jerked my head at the retreating group of Paige’s friends. “Yeah, I overheard those guys saying that it’s most likely related to her dad. It’s not some random thing.” I nudged her with my elbow. “I don’t think you have to worry. They’ll find her.” The last thing I needed was Drew getting sucked into this story. She’d always been fascinated by Paige.

  She smiled. “I know. I hope she comes home soon.”

  I threw my bag back over my shoulder. “She will.”

  “You sound so certain,” she said.

  I crossed my fingers. “Call it a hunch.”

  Nine

  Paige

  I’ve been here five whole days. At least I think it’s been five days. The first day was really fuzzy. Since then I’ve been making a mark each morning so I don’t lose track. Not knowing how much time has passed makes it worse. Like my real life is less and less real. I keep pinching the skin just inside my elbow so I feel the pain.

  They took my phone. They left me my backpack. I decided I should start writing things down. It’s something I can do. And I need to do something, because if I don’t, I know I’ll completely unravel.

  First off—I don’t know where “here” is. I’m pretty sure they drugged me at the airport. I remember struggling with one guy as he pulled me out of the car, then nothing. I woke up here. My head hurt so bad, and I was really nauseated. I vomited into the sink, and when I saw the blood, I was afraid something inside me was broken, but when I calmed down, I realized I must have bit my tongue when he hit me.

  This place is a cabin. It’s like the bunkhouse I stayed in when I went to camp. They only left one blanket on the saggy double bed. A polyester bedspread, like the kind you find at cheap motels. It smells. At first I refused to use it. I got over that pretty quick. It gets cold at night.

  All the windows are boarded up, except for a really narrow one near the ceiling. It’s way too small to crawl out. I tried for an entire afternoon to pry the boards off the other windows, but they didn’t budge. All I managed was to rip a fingernail and bury a bunch of splinters in my hands.

  There’s what used to be a kitchen, but no fridge, although there’s a space where one might have been before. There’s a kettle and a hot plate. The cupboards have drifts of dried-out mouse turds in the corners. There’s a small bathroom—just a toilet and sink. At least I have electricity. I’d rather have that than heat. I don’t think I could handle it if I had to sit in the dark. I leave the light on at night. If the bulb burns out, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  The strangest thing is how silent it is. It’s almost like what it must be to be deaf, except I can hear my own heart beating. I started singing out loud just to have some noise. The second day I tried screaming for help. Nothing happened. Not that I expected it to. If they didn’t care if I yelled, it meant there was no one to hear me, but at the same time I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d disappeared into some kind of alternate reality. Someplace where I’m the only person left in the world.

  They left me a case of bottled water, along with a loaf of Wonder Bread and a jar of Jif peanut butter. They didn’t leave me a knife; they weren’t that careless. All I have is a couple plastic spoons.

  The first day I tried to figure out what I’d do when the kidnappers came back. I want to be the kind of person who comes up with some kind of plan for when they come in, a way to save myself. But, the truth is I don’t know what to do. I tried to fight back at the car, and all it got me was a hard slap across the face.

  I always thought I was brave, but now I realize it was only because there was never anything I really needed to be scared of.

  If I’m honest I’m less afraid of what they’ll do when they come back and more terrified that they won’t come back at all. The first couple of days I ate two or three sandwiches, but then I moved to one, and today I had just a half. I started doing the math to figure out how long I can make the food last, but I’m not even sure how much I need to eat to stay alive. Maybe they left just enough food to give me hope, but not enough to survive. I think that’s the most horrible part of all of this—not knowing if I should hope or just give up.

  If this note is found after I’m gone, I want someone to tell my parents that I loved them. Let them know I’m doing everything to keep hoping this will work out. Tell them that I stayed strong. My dad is always saying that—stay strong—it’s a Bonnet family motto. I don’t know what I can do to get away, but I’m not going to stop trying. Maybe being brave is what happens when you don’t have a choice.

  Paige

  Ten

  “Don’t be nervous,” Mr. Lester said.

  Easier said than done. The windowless interrogation room in the police department wasn’t exactly set up to make a person feel comfortable. Not that they called it an interrogation room; the tiny plastic plaque outside the door labeled it INTERVIEW ROOM #2. The table and chairs weren’t bolted to the floor, but there wasn’t a single thing in the room to give it personality or comfort. Nothing on the walls, not even a pro–seat belt or antidrugs poster. It was painted a flat, industrial, oatmeal beige that looked washed out. There was a long mirror on the side wall that years of watching crime TV had taught me was a two-way mirror. The space felt oppressive, which I guessed was the point.

  The door opened, and the detective poked his head in. “Sorry to keep you folks waiting. Skye, we’re still trying to reach your mom. You have any other ideas of how we might find her? We’ve left messages at the places you suggested, but so far we haven’t heard anything.”

  My mom never remembered to charge her phone. She might as well carry around a plastic brick. “Maybe we should just talk without her,” I said.

  The detective frowned. “We’d prefer to have a parent present. I know you’re eighteen, but you’re still in high school. What about calling your dad?”

  Mr. Lester squirmed in his seat. “Skye’s dad isn’t involved in her life at this time.”

  That was an understatement. The last time my dad was involved in my life, I was a fetus. Unless you counted my imaginary father, and I was hoping the police wouldn’t connect that ancient story with me.

  “It could be a long time until my mom shows up. Mr. Lester’s here. I’m okay talking to you as long as he stays.” In a perfect world, my mom would keep out of the whole thing. Besides, I wanted this conversation to be over. The longer I sat, the more it seemed as if they would somehow be able to tell I was guilty. Like the stink of what I’d done would leak out of my pores.

  Mr. Lester sat a bit straighter, taking on the mantle of parental responsibility. He raised his chin in the air. “I could step in, assuming this isn’t any kind of formal statement?”

  “No, we’re just gathering some information.” The Asian detective wore a suit. There was a tiny brown spot on his white shirt collar. A burn mark from an iron. I focused on that to keep my nerves in line. What did that tell me? I was willing to bet he was single, and while it wasn’t important for him to look stylish, he wanted to look professional and in charge. He didn’t have the money for dry cleaning, or at least he didn’t spend his cash that way. He waved to someone in the hall to join us.

  Once the other detective came in, it was snug. If my mom showed up, I’d have to sit on her lap. The first detective opened a notebook. “I’m Detective Chan, and this is Detective Jay. We’re overseeing the Paige Bonnet case. The things you told Mr. Lester yesterday were helpful. We wanted to talk to you further to see if we might be able to learn more.”

  “Sure.” I cleared my throat.

  “Can I ge
t either of you anything to drink? We got one of those fancy pod machines that pretty much makes up anything—latte, cappuccino, tea?” Detective Jay had a tiny divot in his earlobe. At one point, most likely long before he was a cop, it had been pierced. He was a few years older than Chan, but I was willing to bet light years more fun.

  “No, thanks,” I said. Mr. Lester also declined.

  Detective Chan opened a file and spilled some photos onto the table. There was a shot of a Dairy Queen, the sign out front reading DILLY BARS 2—4—1! Then a shot of a barn, a couple of cows posing by the fence, and the picture I’d been waiting for.

  A large billboard with the giant face of a woman smiling out, her blond hair tossed over a shoulder. She looked like she was about to rupture with joy. welcome to county regional airport! your gateway to the world!! Clearly, whoever designed the airport’s marketing materials believed if one exclamation point was good, two was better.

  “Detective Jay is the one who put your clues together,” Detective Chan said.

  Jay shrugged. “I’m addicted to the fish and chips at that tiny restaurant right by the airport. The Flying Moose. You ever been there?”

  Mr. Lester and I shook our heads.

  “You should try it. Friday nights you get the second dinner half off. Anyhoo—yesterday afternoon I was headed out there. I passed the Dairy Queen, then the farm, and when I saw the billboard as I rounded the curve, I thought—” Bam! We all jumped in our seats as his hand smacked down on the table. “It just fell into place. It had to be the airport.”

  “And then you found her car,” Mr. Lester said.

  Detective Jay nodded. “Here’s the interesting thing. They number the spaces there, and when you pay for parking, you have to put in your stall number. Care to guess which stall we found Paige’s car in?”

  “Something with a six in it,” I said. Giving them an idea of the number had been risky. It was a specific detail, but because it was so clear, it would have been hard to ignore. Almost impossible to chalk it up to being lucky. In general, it was better to give vague information, but once in a while you needed a home run. Something that stretched the concept of coincidence. Something that made people believe you.

  Detective Jay made a finger gun and shot me to indicate I’d nailed the number with one guess, which struck me as completely inappropriate, given the situation. “Six twenty-four, to be exact.”

  Mr. Lester gave a low whistle.

  “We looked into where you were the night she went missing,” Detective Chan said.

  “What?” Mr. Lester’s mouth dropped open. He looked back and forth between the two detectives as if he expected them to declare they were joking. I kept my face blank. I’d always known they’d check out my story. They’d have been stupid not to. It was far more likely that I was involved in some way than that I was a real psychic. At Pluto’s direction, I made sure I worked Thursday night. I dropped a full tray of burgers and milkshakes on purpose. People would remember that. A long list of witnesses who could verify my alibi. Even on the way home, when it was late enough to not matter, I stopped into the 7-Eleven for some gum and collected a receipt, smiling directly into every security camera I saw.

  “I thought I’d been clear when we spoke that I was confident Skye wasn’t involved in anything,” Mr. Lester protested.

  “Just standard procedure,” Detective Chan assured us, his look telling me he didn’t trust me an inch. “Everything checked out. You were working that night. Your boss confirmed it.”

  My boss, Gerry, must have been thrilled to have the cops visit. He and the dishwasher Ben had a thriving weed distribution business running out of the kitchen of the Burger Barn. In the cooler behind the giant tub of mayo, there was a Doc Martens shoebox full of marijuana measured out in Baggies and rolls of cash. I hoped the sight of the two detectives made him shit his pants. It would have been sweet revenge for all the times he “accidentally” brushed past me behind the counter, his hand lingering on my ass.

  Mr. Lester tapped the table with his finger. “I want it to go on the record that while Skye may be forgiving, I find your reaction offensive. Skye didn’t have to come forward. If she was involved, what possible reason would she have to share this information?”

  Detective Chan shrugged and turned back to me. “It’s our understanding that you don’t know Paige Bonnet. Is that correct?”

  “I guess.” I bit my lip, trying to look frightened, which wasn’t exactly requiring too much effort. I’d read somewhere that most innocent people are nervous around the police. If you act too calm, it makes them suspect you. I shifted in my seat and looked up at the detective through my bangs. “We go to the same school, and I see her in the halls and around town. Everyone kinda knows Paige, you know?”

  “But you two didn’t socialize or have any classes together?” Detective Chan pressed.

  “Nope. I doubt she knows who I am.” I made a self-deprecating smile. “I’m not exactly in her league.”

  “Remember, no person is better than another,” Mr. Lester said, interrupting. “You’re as good as anyone else in that school.” The rest of us glanced at him and then ignored what he said.

  Chan didn’t break eye contact. “I’ll be checking with people at your school. If you two ever had a fight, or if she bullied you, you’d be better off telling me now.”

  I shook my head.

  Mr. Lester snorted. “I assure you Paige and Skye don’t have a history of any sort. Negative or positive. If I’d known she was going to be treated this way, I would have brought her concerns forward anonymously.”

  Detective Jay waved off Mr. Lester’s umbrage. “Detective Chan is just being thorough. Let’s focus on Paige and how we can help her. So these images and the number—” Detective Jay pointed to the photographs on the table. His fingernails shone in the light, and I was willing to bet he buffed them. “These details just came to you.”

  I nodded.

  Mr. Lester patted my hand. “As I told you when we spoke yesterday, Skye has always had a gift.”

  “Tell me more about this gift.” Detective Jay leaned forward.

  “I get feelings about things, stuff I have no way of knowing about, but I do. I always have.” I held his gaze just a beat into being uncomfortable and then went back to staring at my hands. There was a tiny scab on the side of my index finger. I really needed to stop chewing on my fingers. Every few months I would make a stab at growing out my nails, but it never lasted.

  “So you know things,” Detective Chan said, making finger quotes around the word know.

  I smiled as if I hadn’t noticed his sarcasm. “It’s not magic or anything. My mom says lots of people have the same skill, but they don’t always realize it. They call them hunches, intuition, or lucky guesses. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a bit of the ability. I bet a lot of police officers do. It could be what made Detective Jay go out to the airport yesterday.” Detective Jay nodded thoughtfully. He was a believer; I could smell it on him.

  Detective Chan chuckled. His thick dark hair looked almost wet in the overhead light. “He does make some pretty good intuitive leaps. We’ll have to start calling him the Psychic Detective.” The two cops shared a glance, like a long-term married couple used to teasing each other.

  “Nothing years of experience won’t teach you too.” Detective Jay pushed his sleeves up.

  “There’s some interesting research being done on psychic phenomena,” Mr. Lester added. “I read an article last night by a fellow out of Cornell University who thinks, neuropsychologically, psychic abilities make sense.”

  “Is that so,” Detective Chan said.

  “Can you get me a copy of that article?” Detective Jay shot Chan a look. “It’s important to keep an open mind. Worst thing for a detective is tunnel vision.” He and Lester exchanged emails. Detective Jay was my best bet. I glanced over and realized that Detective Chan was scrutinizing me.

  “Have you had any other . . . hunches?” Detective Chan tapped his pen
on the pad of paper in front of him. “Anything else you can tell us about Paige?”

  “I’ve been trying. Ever since I heard about her car, I’ve been freaking out.” I wrung my hands. “Do you think she’s okay?”

  “Hard to know. We’ve released to the media that there were signs of a struggle and some blood in the car.”

  I pulled on the hem of my shirt. The room was growing too hot with all four of us crammed inside. The idea of how the blood got there made me cringe.

  “I haven’t had any other visions, but I’m pretty sure there were two people involved,” I offered. I was about to shift again when I caught myself. I couldn’t afford to look too uneasy. Trying to constantly guess how I should come across left me feeling like I was balanced on the tips of my toes every second.

  “Can you tell us anything about those two people? Men? Women? Black, white, Hispanic? Age? Shabby or well dressed, anything?” Detective Chan asked.

  I shook my head sadly. “I’m sorry. No.”

  “But knowing there are two of them might help, right?” Mr. Lester pulled on his beard.

  “Sure,” Detective Chan said. “We’ll put out a BOLO for two people with no other description. That should narrow it down.”

  Detective Jay shot Chan a dirty look. “Of course it helps. At this stage in the investigation, we don’t know what will be useful. What’s important is that we keep this communication channel open. If you think of anything, Skye, anything at all, you can call me. I’m the lead on this case, and it’s my number one priority.” He slid his card across the table. There was a number scribbled on the top. He tapped it with his finger. No wedding band. However his ring finger was dented, like he used to wear a ring all the time. “That’s my cell. You can reach me anytime if you’ve got something. It might seem irrelevant, but we still want to know.”

  As I took the card from his hand, I turned my head to the side. “Your wife recently left you?”