by Julia Dahl
Well, thought Claudia as she picked up her phone and looked once more at Chad’s Instagram, I may never be a real artist, but I definitely have something to say.
She walked to her desk and awoke the sleeping computer with a wag of the mouse. In the bag she’d taken to Poughkeepsie was her old cell phone, the one Chad sent the video to. She connected the phone to the computer and uploaded the video. The opening image was the close-up of her mouth. When she’d first seen it, the sensation that shot through her cells was rooted in shame. What did I do? She remembered squeezing her eyes shut, banging and banging on that black door in her mind. Did I agree to that? But watching it now, it was so clear: She might as well have been a dead body. Her slack and sloppy face was embarrassing; it was going to haunt her forever. But what stood out to her this time was not her expression, it was Chad’s. His smile was one of triumph. The smile of a man who couldn’t contain his glee. A man utterly unburdened by the experience of anyone else in the room, in the world.
She froze the video on that smile and cropped herself out. The image now was just Chad, naked from the waist up, his grinning face in the foreground, the dorm room blurry behind him. She connected her Bluetooth pen and drew the word across his chest in red. Too obvious? Now her mind was going. There was an artist in Brooklyn who drew the same outline of herself as a stick figure on walls and windows and discarded furniture all over the city. Beneath each she’d write a short phrase; usually something that referenced the object she was drawing on. Let me comfort you on a mattress; I need time for reflection on a mirror. Claudia’s professor had assigned an article about her as part of a discussion of the “meme-ification” of street art. The class was of varying opinions on whether the messages were sufficiently thoughtful to be considered “art” but the one thing you couldn’t question was her reach: Millions of people had seen her work. Reach was what Claudia wanted now. Chad Drake was about to become a meme.
She saved the image as ChadRape.jpeg, then erased the word and started over, this time drawing a dialogue bubble beside his face:
Hey bro! Is it rape if she can’t walk?
She saved it as Bro1.jpeg, then clicked back to the original and did it again.
Hey bro! Is it rape if she can’t talk?
Hey bro! Is it rape if she can’t remember?
Hey bro! Is it rape if she’s a slut?
Hey bro! Is it rape if I don’t get caught?
In ten minutes she had seven images; one with words in an old-fashioned typewriter font; one with letters that mimicked the newspaper cut-outs of a ransom note; one scrawled in digital lipstick. She printed out a copy of each and set up a new Instagram account: BroChadAsks. She uploaded the first image with the hashtag #isitrape. For now, BroChad asked about rape. But who knew? Maybe that would change.
She sent copies of each image to her email; there was a twenty-four-hour copy center off Union Square. She could have them printed there—large-format, on canvas or vinyl; the perfect size for posting on subway walls and building sides. She’d make a thousand 8.5 × 11 copies. She would stand in the middle of Times Square and throw them into the air. She would hand them out to people eating dinner at outdoor cafes, go to the dorm and put one in every student mailbox. Chad Drake would be tagged and vandalized; people would spill on him, piss on him, vomit on him. Laugh at him.
Claudia put on jeans and a black sweater and laced up her high-tops. She brushed her teeth and brushed her hair and saw in the mirror that the last trace of the eye injury was gone. No one would ever know, she thought. And that, of course, was the problem.
She knocked on Edie’s door before she left.
“Come in,” said her sister.
The room was dark—Edie had been sleeping. “I’m sorry,” said Claudia.
“No, it’s cool.” Edie sat up and smiled. The family had let Claudia ghost around since they brought her back from Poughkeepsie. Nobody asked her to do anything except meet with the lawyer. Her mom suggested therapy but didn’t insist. It was probably a good idea “Are you going somewhere?”
“Where’s Lydia?”
“Nathan’s got her. We’re doing six-hour shifts.”
“How are you?”
Edie rolled her eyes, yawned. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“I’m sorry you guys were so worried.”
“I wish you’d told me. I would have done anything you needed.”
“I needed you to give me a break,” said Claudia. “I needed the benefit of the doubt.”
Edie nodded, her eyes teared up. “Right.”
Claudia sat down and put her hand on her sister’s leg. She was not going to apologize, at least not now. But she also wasn’t going to stay mad. Edie hadn’t done anything wrong, either.
“I forgive you if you forgive me,” Claudia said.
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
“I missed Lydia.”
“You didn’t miss her,” said Edie. “She’s here, you’re here.”
Claudia pulled out her phone and showed Edie the Instagram. BroChadAsks had 18 followers, 63 likes, and one comment: Yes!
“I wish you could come with me,” said Claudia after she told Edie what she was planning. “But I think it might be illegal and you probably shouldn’t get arrested now that you’re a mom.”
“I’ll walk you to Union Square,” said Edie.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s just a walk, right?”
“Right,” said Claudia. But it wasn’t just a walk and they both knew it. It was love.
Claudia waited for her sister on the front stoop. From behind Trevor’s sunglasses she watched the people hurrying along the block with their dogs and their strollers and their shopping bags; talking into unseen earpieces, locked into their phones. Had any of them seen her post yet?
Edie came outside, wrapping an oversized sweater around her stomach. Her belly was still round and Claudia imagined that her sister was a little self-conscious. She thought about what Trevor had said; what if she’d just called her family instead of latching on to him?
“Did you tell them?” Claudia asked.
“Mom and Dad? No. Of course I didn’t.”
“Is this stupid?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, it’s art, right? What’s Ridley going to do—sue you? That’ll just make more people pay attention.”
“I could make a series of him, too,” Claudia said. “What he did to you is almost as bad.”
“No it’s not,” said Edie. “But thanks.”
They stopped at a crosswalk as a fire truck screamed by. Claudia had held her ears against that sound since childhood, but she let it smash into her eardrums today. It was a different pain than the one in her heart and for a moment it made her forget.
“Does this mean you’re going to go to the police?” asked Edie as they approached the copy store.
“Maybe,” said Claudia. She’d looked it up online: In New York State victims had twenty-five years to report their rapists. “Or maybe after all this, they’ll come to me.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the most profound privilege of being a published author is the opportunity to work with talented people who care about your writing. In my case, I have a dream team. Thank you, first and foremost, to my agent, Stephanie Kip Rostan. I don’t think this book would exist without your constant support and guidance, your honest advice, and your bold ideas. Thank you to Courtney Paganelli of Levine Greenberg Rostan for being one of the best brainstorming companions I’ve ever had. And thank you to Kelley Ragland at Minotaur for your patience, your trust, and your brilliant notes.
Thank you to Laura Lippman for providing time and space to write. And thank you to my writing buddies, Katherine Dykstra, Laura McHugh, and Adam Sternbergh, for the countless conversations, emails, texts, and DMs that kept my spirits up and my focus on the final product—no matter how far away it sometimes seemed.
Thank you to my readers: Katie Brown, Ba
rbara Dahl, Erin Donaghue, Laura McHugh, and Susan Dahl Sharer. Thank you to Danielle Citron, Allison Leotta, Andrea Pino- Silva, and Amy Telsey for your expertise.
Thank you to my girlfriends: Melissa Tepe, Liora Brener Fogelman, Emmy Betz, Heidi Altman, and Naomi Walcott. Your friendship has sustained me for more than two decades and your encouragement as I struggled with this book buoyed me when I needed it most.
Thank you to my parents, Barbara and Bill Dahl, for giving me the rare and precious gift of a happy childhood.
Thank you to my husband, Joel Bukiewicz: marrying you was the best decision I’ve ever made. Thank you to my sister-in-law, Lori Bukiewicz, for taking such good care of my son (and me) while I wrote. And thank you to my son, Mick Bukiewicz, for expanding my heart and blowing my mind every single day.
This book is dedicated to my sister, Susan Dahl Sharer, who has had my back for forty-two years. You’ve always known the meaning of sisterhood, puss, even when I couldn’t quite figure it out.
ALSO BY JULIA DAHL
Conviction
Run You Down
Invisible City
About the Author
Julia Dahl is the author of Conviction, Run You Down, and Invisible City, which was a finalist for the Edgar Award for Best First Novel, one of the Boston Globe’s Best Books of 2014, and has been translated into eight languages. A former reporter for CBS News and the New York Post, she now teaches journalism at NYU. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Part 1
Claudia
Edie
Trevor
Claudia
Trevor
Edie
Claudia
Trevor
Trevor
Claudia
Part 2
Edie
Edie
Edie
Edie
Part 3
Claudia
Trevor
Trevor
Claudia
Jeremy
Trevor
Ridley
Chad
Claudia
Lars
Part 4
Edie
Trevor
Trevor
Edie
Claudia
Trevor
Trevor
Claudia
Acknowledgments
Also by Julia Dahl
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by Minotaur Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
THE MISSING HOURS. Copyright © 2021 by Julia Dahl. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover illustrations: silhouette of woman © PHOTO JUNCTION/Shutterstock; texture © mikeledray/Shutterstock
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Dahl, Julia, 1977– author.
Title: The missing hours / Julia Dahl.
Description: First Edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021015667 | ISBN 9781250083722 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250083739 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3604.A339 M57 2021 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021015667
eISBN 9781250083739
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: 2021