The Girl in the Headlines

by Hannah Jayne

  My Chuck Taylors were lying on the floor like I had kicked them off in haste, and I turned away, unable to stomach the still-wet-looking blood they were drenched in. The only thing I could look at was my field hockey bag on the floor of the back seat. Since I wasn’t eighteen during the season, and field hockey was a school-sponsored activity, I had to have a guardian drive me to away games, and Mom was always the one. My mom.

  Mom. My real mom, even if she didn’t give birth to me. She was at every game. Head thrown back, cheering. Black-brown hair falling over her shoulders. A voice that carried so that no matter how loudly the crowd roared, I could always hear her, like she was talking just to me.

  I was terrified that I’d never hear that voice again.

  * * *

  I cried while the lukewarm shower water pounded my forehead and shoulders. I cried while the blood on my hands dripped off in long, pink rivers, lazing down the drain. I cried using the stupid, itchy motel towels and while I pawed through my field hockey bag, looking for something to wear. I stopped when my fingers hit a square of paper half-crumpled and shoved into my hoodie pocket. I recognized Cal’s writing immediately: I hope you’re happy now. A stupid note, probably attached to the rose he thrust at me as a half apology, half birthday gift. I tossed it back into the bag.

  Finally, I curled the motel key with the big, numbered tag into my palm and walked down the asphalt hallway to the glass-enclosed office with the neon sign buzzing VACANCY.

  I didn’t have a plan. I think I was half hoping my parents would be in the motel lobby, Joshy with them, doing something annoying like touching all the Danish with his grubby little hands. I expected them around every corner. I expected something familiar, something real, something to counteract the enormous hollow in my gut, the constant sense of confusion and terror.

  I took a final glance around because this was the part in the movie where the heroine is kidnapped or saved or learns something that she can use. My stomach lurched and my throat burned. I could still feel the blood on my hands, spattered across my throat.

  Maybe I wasn’t meant to be the heroine. Maybe I was the villain.

  Four

  Little bells tinkled as I pushed the door to the lobby open. I tried to keep my head down, my hair half covering my face, but there was no one there to recognize me. There was a TV bolted in one corner, the volume muted. I turned, looking around, my eyes settling on a long, low table—some piece of junk office furniture that had been repurposed as a buffet: old-school coffee maker, Styrofoam cups full off stirrers, sugar packets, and powdered creamers; toaster, loaf of supermarket bread still in its plastic bag, single-serve jelly packets; a fruit basket with a lone apple; and a handful of smashed Danish in cellophane bags.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I ate, but my stomach growled.

  “And she goes for the apple.”

  I whirled at the voice, my eyes narrowing on the kid behind the counter as he was settling himself on a stool. He couldn’t have been any older than I was, but he was lanky, and even sitting down, I could tell he wasn’t tall. His dark hair was officially unkempt and disheveled—not one of those hundred-dollar haircuts guys get to look that way—and he looked like he had slept in his button-down shirt too. His eyes were a hot chocolate brown, and the way he looked at me made me stiffen, made me want to shrink into my soiled clothes. I dropped the apple back into the basket.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know. Um, did a little boy come in here? Nine years old, about this tall.” I held my hand at rib level. “Probably wearing a…” I couldn’t even remember what Josh was wearing yesterday. The tears were coming again, and I blinked them away furiously.

  “No, no, the apple’s fine. It’s yours. As for little boys, no, haven’t seen any.” He shrugged, then took a huge bite of his Danish. “Can I help you?”

  I looked at the room key in my hand, and my heartbeat sped up. I kept my distance from the kid, from the counter he sat behind.

  “I was—am—in room six. But, uh, I’m trying to remember what name I put the room under. Can you check?”

  The kid shoved the last of his breakfast into his mouth, and his fingers flew across an ancient-looking keyboard. My heart thudded, and I half wanted to jump over the counter and stare at his computer screen and half wanted to run out the front door with its stupid tinkling bells and—and do what?

  I thought of the news, the talking heads, those terrible static pictures of my parents and me and Joshy that were meant to hang on our walls and never meant to be stared at by the world or by strangers in suits who used words like suspect and murderer.

  “Room six, checked in last night, paid through the week.” He pulled away from the screen, looked me up and down. “Tim Esup paid it. I guess that could be you.”

  My ears burned, and the stench that wafted up from the buffet—burnt coffee, the stale smell of white bread—was making me nauseous. I didn’t know anyone named Tim Esup, had never heard the name before. Had this person… Sweat started to bead at my hairline. Had he attacked my parents? Taken Josh? Oh God, my skin started to crawl. Had he done something to me?

  “Do you remember him? Did you see”—I forced the name past my clenched teeth—“Tim when he checked in? I mean, was he young or old or—”

  I thought of Cal, nearly six foot three, and that stupid note. I hope you’re happy now. Was it an “I got you a rose. I hope you’re happy now” stupid teenage boy attempt at making amends, or was it some kind of statement? No, I told myself. The note was on the rose; the note was from yesterday at school before any of this happened…wasn’t it?

  The kid wagged his head. “I wasn’t working last night. That would be Joe, proprietor of this fine establishment and, as of 9:00 a.m. this morning, on vacation in lovely Vacaville.”

  My heart was thundering. Do I return to the room? Wait for Tim to come back? To do what with me? My body started to shake. I glanced at the key in my hand.

  “H—how many keys are there to this room?”

  He gestured to the one I was holding. “There’s that one. My name’s Nate, by the way. Your Midnight Inn chef, cashier, and concierge. But I don’t carry bags.”

  I nodded, feeling like I should introduce myself or acknowledge Nate in some way. Instead I just stood there, mouth half-open, as thoughts hammered in my head. I shifted the hockey bag in my hands. “I don’t really have bags.”

  I could see Nate eye my bag, and I hiked it up on my shoulder.

  “I’m, uh—”

  Nate held up his hand. “You don’t have to introduce yourself. I know your name.”

  My blood thundered in my ears. My heartbeat stopped, and my stomach turned in on itself.

  “It’s been on every newscast from here to Baja.”

  Five

  “By the way, Tim Esup?” he smiled.

  I tried to talk, but my tongue had turned to sand.

  “Tim Esup,” he said again, this time slower. “Good one.”

  “What are you—”

  Nate drew out the words. “Time’s up. Tim Esup. Basic, but clever.”

  My mind was reeling. “No, I didn’t—I don’t know who that is. I didn’t make that up. I mean, time’s up for what?”

  “You tell me, girl from the news.”

  “That—that’s not me.”

  Nate looked me up and down, barely interested. “Sure looks like you.”

  “I didn’t—I don’t—” I felt myself take a few steps backward, my feet feeling heavy as I stumbled over them.

  I could feel the blood rushing to my head, red swirling in front of my eyes. Was this really happening? My stomach was churning and my throat was closing up. I could feel the heat rush to my cheeks, burn the tops of my ears.

  “Hey, what are you—what are you doing?”

  I was hyperventilating.

  An elephant was standing on my chest, and I was breat
hing through a straw. I clawed at my sweatshirt, then at the little pocket on my hockey bag until my fingers clenched over my inhaler. I took two short bursts, my eyes watering until the medication flooded my lungs. Then tears broke through in a torrent.

  “I didn’t kill my parents. I don’t know what happened to me last night, but I didn’t—I would never—I don’t even know how I got here.” I was huffing now, huge, racking sobs. “I don’t know anyone named Tim Esup or what time’s up is supposed to mean. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Nate watched me cry, his cheeks flushing a deep pink.

  “Hey, don’t do that. Don’t cry. I’m not gonna—I’m not going to turn you in or anything.”

  “I didn’t do anything! I swear, I didn’t—it’s this Tim guy. I don’t know who he is or why he brought me here or if he’s coming back. I don’t remember anything! Are there cameras or anything?” I looked around wildly until I spotted a three-inch lens posted in the corner above the front door. “There! Can you play the tape from last night? What time did I come in? Was I walking? Did I come in on my own?”

  Nate’s voice was soft as he walked over to the camera, rolled up on his toes, and snatched it off the wall.

  I could feel my stomach drop to my feet.

  “It’s fake.”

  There was a patch of dirty-looking tape where the camera had been.

  Nate’s voice was soft. “I’m sorry. It’s just for—” He glanced at the camera and then at me. “Looks.”

  “Please then.” I stood in front of him. “You have to take me to the police.”

  Nate’s eyebrows went up. “The police? No. No.”

  “What? No? Why not?”

  Nate cleared his throat, went palms up after dropping the camera on the buffet table. “The police and me…” He shrugged. “Just no.”

  “Well, they’re not looking for you, are they? They’re looking for me.” I could feel the anger rising in my gut, and it felt good. Something hard and real.

  “Yeah, as a ‘person of interest.’”

  “But I’m not guilty. I didn’t do anything.”

  “Great. Go ahead and tell the police that.” He started to unwrap a second Danish, this one cherry, and I wanted to scream and then laugh at the absurdity of this idiot eating a cherry Danish while my whole world was dead in front of me.

  “I will.”

  Nate’s shoulders rose in an uninterested shrug, and the anger turned into a niggle of annoyance. “Why? What do you think I should do?”

  “Lady, I don’t even know you.”

  I gestured to the TV screen. “Apparently you know all about me.”

  “Look, go turn yourself in to the police. Tell your story about how you don’t know what happened last night or how you ended up here or”—he leaned over, glanced out the big plate glass windows toward my mom’s car—“why you’re driving such a nice car.”

  I licked my lips. “But it’s the truth. I really don’t know.”

  Nate nodded. “Yep. They’ll want to hear it. They’ll probably be really nice to a girl like you.”

  “What does that mean? A girl like me?”

  Another aggravating shrug. “Pretty. Rich. Nice family.”

  I closed my eyes, feeling the tears bubble under my lashes.

  “Oh, dude. I’m sorry. I just meant—I mean, I know your parents are… Is there anyone else you could call? An aunt or uncle? Grandma or something?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  I had never met my parents’ family. They were East Coast transplants. My dad was an only child to parents who died young. My mom’s mom was driven crazy by her alcoholic and abusive husband and was living out her remaining years in a home for people with dementia and Alzheimer’s. I may have had an aunt that my mother never got along with, but I couldn’t really remember Mom ever saying much. My family was all I had, and up until now, I had always been the happy-go-lucky, field hockey–playing, ballet and gymnastic–doing daughter, and that was always enough. But now I wasn’t any of those things. I was a “person of interest.”

  Six

  Nate and I were silent for an awkward beat. Then he held something out to me. “Do you…do you want a Danish?”

  I was eighteen years old in a strange place, my parents were probably dead, my kid brother was missing, and this guy was offering me a Danish.

  “No!” I almost didn’t recognize my own voice as I slapped the stupid pastry out of his hand. “I don’t want a goddamn Danish! I want to know what happened to me last night! How did I get here? What the hell happened to me?”

  Nate’s eyes widened, and if I cared what he thought of me, I would have apologized immediately. I would have said that I never acted that way—because I didn’t—but my life was over.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” I looked around miserably. “But I need to get out of here.”

  “Your room is paid through the week.”

  A tremble went through me. “I can’t go back in there. Not right now. It’s—what if—”

  “You have the only key.”

  “No offense, but after seeing the bang-up job the Midnight Inn does with their security cameras, I’m a little worried about whether or not their locks hold.”

  Nate shrugged. “Fair. You can hang out in here. The pastries are stale, but the coffee is worse.”

  I stiffened. “I’m not staying here. I don’t even know you.”

  “You have other options? Go to it.”

  I wanted to snap back that of course I did. But I couldn’t think of anything. I had that vague memory of fighting with Lynelle, of Cal handing over that flower. Could I call Lynelle? Would she come pick me up? I glanced over my shoulder through the glass doors. The Midnight Inn parking lot was sparsely populated, but beyond that…the highway was bumper to bumper as it usually was, and before I could breathe, the terror was all over me, cinching me in and making it hard to focus. Any of those people out there could be “Tim Esup.” Anyone out there could be the person who attacked my parents, who snatched my little brother, who was waiting to come back and finish the job with me.

  Ice water shot through my veins.

  After school, my memory went blank. Even I didn’t know if I was truly innocent.

  Nate passed by me, pointed to my mom’s car in the parking lot. “First of all, is that your car?”

  It was the only one out in the lot, except for a blue Buick and an RV stretched across three spots. The Lexus was half-hidden by the chain link fence encircling a plastered hole in the ground that was supposed to be a pool. Two dead potted palms fluttered in the breeze around it.

  I sniffed. “It’s my mom’s.”

  “You need to move it. Every cop and fed in town is going to be looking for it.”

  “But I’m not trying to hide out. I mean, if they find it—”

  “Then they find you.”

  “Where am I supposed to move it? How do you hide a car? Oh God, how am I in a bad cop movie?”

  Nate kind of smiled and held out his hands. “Keys?”

  “You’re not driving my mom’s car.”

  “Fine, good, whatever. You drive.”

  I stared at Nate. He stared at me. “Why do you want to help me?”

  “I don’t. But having the car of a potential murderer”—I opened my mouth, but Nate held up a hand and continued—“isn’t great for business.”

  Fury bubbled up under my skin. “Yeah. Right. You should do all you can to protect this little gold mine here.”

  A muscle flicked along Nate’s jawline, and he seemed to soften. “You look like you got a raw deal, okay? I might know something about that.”

  “You know something about Tim? About my parents?”

  “About being dumped in a motel. Do you want me to help with the car or not?”

  We walked out of
the lobby, the bell tinkling as we went. I thought of all the times my mom and I had flung ourselves into that car for Starbucks runs, to pick up Josh, that one time we drove slowly behind my dad as he trained for a race. We spent half our life in that car. That was where I cried when I didn’t get the lead in Swan Lake, where my mom and I squealed like animals when I made the field hockey team. And my mother might not ever be in that car again.

  “I don’t think I can go in there.”

  Nate took the keys out of my hand, and I let him. He clicked the locks, pulled his hands into his wrinkled shirt, and grabbed the door handle. “No need to get fingerprints everywhere.”

  Fingerprints.

  Nate gingerly slid into the front seat. He didn’t touch anything or put on his seat belt, just sunk the key into the ignition and turned the engine over. “I don’t want to disturb anything too much. You know, in case whoever took you left evidence.”

  Evidence.

  Fingerprints. Evidence. Everything was swirling in front of my eyes. What was happening? How did I get here?

  “You coming? I’m just going to move this behind the building. It’s not a great spot, but it’ll be impossible to spot from the road at least.”

  I nodded and mechanically climbed into the passenger side, doing exactly as Nate did: slipping my hands into my sweatshirt, trying not to touch or disturb anything too much.

  How can I not remember anything?

  I had been in this car a thousand times. A million even. I learned to drive in this car. I was seized by another memory, my dad and I. He slid over, and I got into the driver’s seat. I remember his voice telling me to put on my seat belt, how to adjust the mirrors. I put my foot on the gas, and the car lurched forward and we both laughed.

  He told me I drove just like my mom.

  The car moved, and I snapped back to reality. “Do you think the police are looking for Josh? Even if I’m…” I didn’t want to say it.

  “Sure,” Nate bobbed his head, but there wasn’t much certainty in his “sure.”