The Girl on Prytania Street: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Kira Saito

  Chapter Twelve

  Kate

  A soft knock on the door pulled me out of my slumber. “Shit,” I muttered wiping away the pool of drool and sweat that clung to my body. I glanced out the window and was relieved to see that the sun was still out, and I hadn’t slept away the entire day. Once I had fallen asleep on Tuesday and woken up on Thursday with no recollection of what had taken place in between those two points in time. When I had regained consciousness, my apartment had been a mess with tomato sauce stuck to the ceiling, rotting vegetables on the counter, and the stench of sour milk that had been left festering out in the summer sun. I must’ve fed myself somewhere in that lost slice of time, hadn’t the faintest idea as to what else I had done. My phone had hundreds of missed calls from Sylvia asking where I was and if I was alive.

  “Kate, are you in there?” Madame Queenie asked.

  I sat up straight and cleared my throat which was parched and desperate for a drop of water. “Yes, I’m preparing some notes for the interview.”

  “That’s great. Mrs. Dubois will be ready to meet you in thirty minutes. I’ll see you downstairs in the main lobby.”

  “Great, thanks.” I got out of bed and glanced out the window. The mob of reporters was still camped outside of Mr. Dubois’s house. Flashes went off and they continued to shout their questions out in the air as if Mr. Dubois would magically appear and give them the time of day. One of the reporters turned around and stared directly into my window. I rubbed my eyes thinking that it was only a figment of my imagination. The pills had that effect sometimes, they made me see things that weren’t really there. “Your mind is playing tricks on you,” I mumbled. I looked out the window again. The reporter was still staring at me. He gave me a smile and then pointed his camera at me and proceeded to take pictures. “What the hell!” I gave him the finger, but that didn’t deter him. He continued to click away while giving me a small wave. He was enjoying the game. I would refuse to play.

  I retreated and drew the lace curtains over the window. My heart beat so fast that the drum-like rhythm filled my ears. In the early days after Zoe’s disappearance, a few reporters, mostly friends, had gotten our story on the front page of newspapers and it had gotten picked up by some national television stations; however, the fanfare had lasted only a month or so. Quickly, her name and memory had managed to vanish from the imagination of the American public. I suppose our lives hadn’t been fascinating or glamorous enough to hold their attention. There was no reason for a reporter to be stalking me. I peeked through the curtains. The reporter was still standing there. He was now smiling as if waiting for my reaction. “I don’t have time for this,” I muttered assuming that he was only teasing me while waiting for Mr. Dubois to make another appearance.

  I walked into the spacious bathroom and turned on the shower. I didn’t bother to take off my clothes. The cool water soaked my clothes, body, and bones. I wasn’t sure exactly how long I stood there talking myself into being motivated enough to pretend that I cared about Mrs. Dubois’ plight. I rehearsed the questions I would ask her. What was it like the last time you saw Charlene? What was your relationship with her like? Do you have any theories as to what happened? How has this impacted your relationship with your husband? Of course, the questions took a personal turn. Were you a terrible mother? Did she despise you? Have you scrubbed through her social media profiles? You know, she probably had illicit relationships that you were not aware of … The questions were endless.

  I managed to take half a shower and then rummaged through the closet that Madame Queenie had proudly shown me. “Choose an outfit that makes you look like you are a professional who is serious about this story,” I said flipping through the happy dresses. I finally settled on a button up floral print dress with three quarter length sleeves. I couldn’t remember the last time I wore a dress. Sylvia must have sent Madame Queenie a rough estimate of my measurements because the outfit fit perfectly and managed to cover up the bones that protruded from my underfed shoulders.

  After running a brush through my wet hair, I took out the emergency kit Sylvia had given me. According to her, she didn’t want to be embarrassed, so I had to “put on a face that looked like it gave a damn.” A few confusing minutes of sifting through the various tubes and pots, I managed to paint on a face that seemed as if I were alive and ready to take on the world thanks to a bit of gloss here, a swipe of mascara there plus enough concealer to hide the nasty blue under eye circles that seemed as if they were sketched on by a third grader. I grabbed my notepad and pen before heading out the door.

  Downstairs, the lobby was empty and silent aside from the low hum of the ceiling fan and incessant buzz of mosquitoes that lingered in the air. I made my way through the maze of oriental rugs and plants until I reached a large salon. For a second, I imagined that I was like any other person and my life didn’t revolve around a plastic bottle. I took a seat on a plush couch and stared at the opulent paintings that decorated the walls. I studied the serious expressions of the people in the drawings and wondered what type of lives they had lived. Had they been happy, what sort of traumas existed beneath their dignified exteriors? What secrets had they taken to their graves? What loves had they won and inevitably lost? I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the wall. Sometimes, the drugs had that impact where the slightest thing could hold my attention for hours.

  Once, I had passed an entire Saturday afternoon seated on my living room couch watching the telephone pole outside of my balcony window. Realizing that I was literally sitting my life away wasn’t enough to make me change my habits. I guess I was waiting for something big to happen, anything that would give me a sign as to how I should proceed with my life. Should I cling to the hope that Zoe was still alive or should I take Richard’s advice and move on? Of course, the answer was obvious, I would never let go.

  “Looking much better, sugar.” A voice pulled me out of my daze.

  “Not you again.” Chris the cowboy hat wearing, laptop carrying annoyance took a seat beside me.

  “What in the world has gotten your attention? Is there some kind of treasure map hidden in those paintings?” He stared at the painting of the noble women wearing an extravagant cameo and thick pearl necklace. “Now that one looks deadly serious, what do you think she’s thinking about?”

  “She’s lost someone,” I whispered. “She’s lost someone very dear to her and she’s wondering how life will go on now that it’s all over. She’s wondering how in the world she’ll get out of bed in the morning and pretend that everything is normal.”

  Chris raised an eyebrow and gave me a toothy grin. “Now that is deep, how long have you been sitting here thinking that up? I was thinking more along the lines that she’s wondering what in the world she’s going to have for dinner. Hmmm, shall I go for the pasta or the chicken? No, wait, I’m feeling lazy, so I’ll order a pizza.” I let out a laugh. “Such a pretty smile, sugar, you should do that more often,” he said. “You look real nice when you smile almost as if you mean it. Man, most people don’t smile from their souls anymore. The light doesn’t quite reach their eyes, does it?”

  “What’s your deal?” I asked cutting off his friendly small talk. Clearly, he wanted something. He saw a soul where one no longer existed.

  “My deal?”

  “Yeah. If you’re here on vacation, you’re wasting precious time hanging out with me. You should be out in the sun doing touristy stuff.”

  “Well, actually, I’m here on business,” he said opening his laptop. He stared into the webcam and gave it a bleached grin. I stared at him closely hoping to finally place where I had seen him from.

  “What type of business?” I asked as I watched him continue to smile into the camera.

  “Reporter,” he said.

  “For what newspaper?” I mentally recalled the faces and names of the country’s most well-known reporters. I couldn’t place him which didn’t make sense because if he was here that meant he had to be a big fish with connections. �
��I don’t recall seeing you at any events or conferences. There isn’t a Chris working for any of the well-known papers. Well, not that I can remember.”

  “Oh, sugar, aren’t you behind on the times?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You still believe that you have to have a fancy title and sit in a cubicle to make a difference, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but that’s not what I meant.”

  “Oh, I know what you meant. You’re assuming that just because you don’t know me from one of your fancy lunches or meet and greet parties that I’m not relevant.”

  “Well if you were someone important then I would know you. There I said it. I pretty much know everyone in the industry.”

  “What if I told you that I am pretty well-known in the reporting world, but we run in different circles.”

  “Different circles?”

  “Maybe this will refresh your memory.” He gave me another grin. “This is Christopher Reel and you’re watching RMTV, Real Media Television, eye-opening, 100% unfiltered truth coming to you live.”

  My mouth unwilling opened as I remembered where I had seen his face before. The New York Watcher had done a special piece on the rise of fake news thanks to self-proclaimed YouTube investigative journalists. This Christopher Reel character was one of the channels with hundreds and thousands of followers who all claimed that mainstream media was becoming increasingly unreliable. He had been the star of the piece written by my coworker. “You’re that fake news guy,” I said unwilling to believe that someone as famous as Mrs. Dubois would ever let someone like him cover her story.

  “Fake news?” He raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “Now, I’m willing to bet that you didn’t come up with that term on your own.”

  “No, that’s what us journalists call you people.”

  “Us people?”

  “Yeah, you people who happen to be on a camera, have an internet connection, and believe that somehow makes you a journalist. Do you know how many lives are ruined because of your preposterous lies and conspiracy theories? You give us real journalists a bad name.” Once, I had been serious about my career as a journalist and knowing what these guys were doing to the industry was enough to make me give half a damn again.

  He laughed and the couch shook. “That is the funniest thing I’ve heard in a while. Pretty and entertaining, I have a feeling that this trip is going to be a lot more fun than I had initially bargained for.”

  “Why in the world would Mrs. Dubois allow you to interview her?”

  “Because I’m good at what I do. I have connections and people who trust me to get their story out. Their true story.”

  “Good at what you do? Do you have any idea how many lives you destroy with your lies, trickery, and deceit? You and Jones Lex are the worst con men in modern history and you have the nerve to describe yourself as good at what you do? You should be ashamed of yourselves.” Zoe had been addicted to various YouTube channels. She had constantly watched documentaries and had become increasingly convinced that the world was not as it seemed. During the last few weeks before her disappearance, she had been on a Tower of Babel binge and was certain that there were men and women in powerful positions who were trying to break into heaven. She also believed that NASA was controlled by fallen angels and their technology. At that time, I had freaked out over her claims, but now I was wildly grateful that she had her own mind. Even if her theories weren’t one hundred percent correct, her imagination was more than enough to seal her fate as a writer. I was proud of her.

  “I’ll be the first to admit that Jones Lex is a shill, but then again, he’s controlled opposition,” Chris said.

  “What?”

  “You know, the guy that is put in a powerful position by the big guys to discredit the little guys.”

  “What?” That was the only word that seemed to want to come out of my mouth.

  “Big media companies pay Jones Lex to spin stories that are half-true and half-fake. Once in a while they’ll have him on their news channels and pretend that they are enemies. Then they’ll expose one of his fake news stories and give it big media coverage. This clever Machiavellian technique allows them to manipulate the public into thinking that everything other independent reporters have to say is fake and that is how you and I are where we are. Even if one of us fake news reporters uncovers the truth, the mainstream media will never openly accept it.”

  My head hurt. It too was much information and I didn’t really care if it was true or fake or whatever. In the end, did the facts even make a difference? Thankfully, Madame Queenie walked into the room and interrupted the increasingly bizarre conversation.

  “Children, play nice. I can hear you two arguing all the way down the hall.” Her eyes gleamed in amusement as they rested on us. She was so cool and collected as if harboring the most sought-after woman in America was everyday business.

  Chris got up from the couch and gave her a small peck on the cheek. “Guilty as charged, Madame, but in my defense, this one is quite the firecracker,” he said nodding in my direction.

  Determined not to let him undermine me, I got up and shook her hand. “Sorry about what happened earlier. I feel much better now. Can we get on with the interview?”

  “You look much better.” She gave me an approving nod taking in my attempt to look like a normal human. “Mrs. Dubois is ready to see you both, but I must warn you there are certain rules that need to be followed during these exclusive sessions. There are so many reporters who would sell their own mother to get a shot at what you’re about to see, given that, I cannot have you two break any of the guidelines.”

  “What kind of rules?” I asked as we followed her down the hall and towards the room that held the elusive Mrs. Dubois, the woman who was on the lips of everyone in America.

  “Well, Mrs. Dubois has a rather alternative outlook on life since Charlene’s disappearance, she doesn’t trust any of the men on the police force or the numerous private detectives she’s hired to get this case solved. I suppose she’s tired of waiting, so she’s depending on the supernatural to get things done.”

  “The supernatural? Did I hear that right?” Chris asked. “Oh man, this is getting good.”

  “Yes, you heard that correctly. She wants you two to observe the sessions and take down what you witness and hear. She’s not keen on the question and answer format that most interviews entail. The details of these sessions are to be kept strictly private until she authorizes their official release, they are not to be shared with another soul until she says so—not even with Mr. Dubois. In fact, if you run into Mr. Dubois, you are not to mention that his wife is hiding out here. She doesn’t want you laughing at her while you’re sitting in that room. She wants you two to take these sessions seriously. Her husband already thinks she’s crazy, she doesn’t need anyone else telling her that she’s lost her marbles. Not that she has lost her marbles,” she added. “She’s hoping that the messages you get from the beyond will help her find Charlene.”

  I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t. I had done the same thing. I couldn’t remember the number of so-called psychics, mediums, and what-nots I had seen in the weeks after Zoe had vanished. I went to every den in town and shilled out endless amounts of dough only to get conflicting answers. One had told me that she had run away to Mexico, another that she had decided to get a sex change and had been too afraid to tell me about her decision. None of them had the courage to tell me that maybe she was dead or worse probably because they wanted me to keep coming back for more information. My hands started to unwilling shake and the awful chills that I hated crept up on me. “Who is going to be conducting these sessions?” I asked struggling to remember the endless details Sylvia had flooded me with.

  “You’re looking at her,” she said. We stopped outside of a room. “And here we are.”

  “The Bridal Suite?” I asked re-reading the sign posted on the door.

  �
��She’s married to her grief,” Madame Queenie said. Chris and I exchanged puzzled glances. She turned the handle and I inhaled sharply and got ready to force a warm, inviting smile that would make me seem approachable.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kate

  “Mrs. Dubois, the reporters are ready for your session,” Madame Queenie said leading us into the room.

  My eyes adjusted to the darkness. The large room was completely black aside from the low blaze of a few carefully placed candles. The outline of plush, gold-rimmed furniture, a King-sized bed, tightly shut blue French doors, and vases of black roses came into view, but Mrs. Dubois was nowhere in sight.

  I took a closer look at the walls and realized that they were covered in photographs of Charlene. Charlene smiling, laughing, dancing, swimming. I had to look away, the resemblance between Zoe and Charlene was striking. They shared the same golden coloring, ethereal blue eyes, and shock of raven hair. “Concentrate,” I muttered under my breath. “This isn’t about you.” I couldn’t help making it about me. It was another side-effect of the pills, they made it difficult to see beyond my own grief and show empathy for those around me. The plight of others became minuscule compared to my own hole of despair.

  “Have a seat.” Madame Queenie motioned towards some wooden chairs which sat behind a glass table. On the table sat a thick white candle and a deck of tarot cards.

  “Well, I haven’t seen this before,” Chris whispered closing his laptop and pulling out a notepad.

  “You’ve never had your palm read or gone to a card reader?” I asked.

  “Nah, I don’t buy into that mumbo jumbo. If you can’t see it, touch it, or eat it, it doesn’t exist. Oops, did I say that out loud?”

  “Mrs. Dubois, are you in there?” Madame Queenie knocked on the bathroom door.

  A high-pitched wail responded to her question. There was a moment of silence until a tiny woman wearing a gothic black wedding dress and full lace veil which obscured her face emerged from the shadows. She took a seat across from me. I tried to peer through the veil to get a glimpse of her face, but the darkness was too thick.