I eyed a flower, tempted to pluck it from the ground. Its stem reminded me of a dart. How would it feel, punctured through my heart?
Still in the car, I take a deep breath, able to smell the fireplace at the yacht club; the scent has melted over my skin and combed through my hair. I look out at the park. The swing set reminds me of the one back in elementary school. My mom and I had a game where I called out degrees of salsa spice for how high I wanted her to push me (mild, medium, jalapeño, hot…). Sometimes she’d swing with me too. We’d sit side by side, pumping our legs, trying to go at the same rate.
Time to turn back? Logic asks.
I venture outside. The cool fall air chills the back of my neck. The overgrown grass, wet from the drizzle, brushes against my ankles, makes my skin itch. The closer I get to the phone booth, the more lit up the area becomes. Overhead lights shine over the harbor, where there’s a smattering of boats. I have an extra flashlight, clipped to my key ring (industrial-strength despite its mini size). But I keep it off, hoping to remain invisible.
The wind rustles a loose chain on the swing set. The seats have all been damaged: knifelike slits through the rubbery texture. I continue past them, keeping focused on the phone booth. It’s steel gray, with a foldable door and a bashed-in base, where the safety glass was broken.
I unfold the door and go inside, unable to spot any broken glass on the floor. Could Peyton have been trapped in here? Did she kick the booth open? I peer outside, toward the cement platform, but I don’t see any broken glass there either.
The phone receiver hangs slightly crooked on the hook. I pick it up and hold it to my ear, wondering if Peyton might’ve used it to call someone. She had a cell phone—it’s what she must’ve used to log on to Jane—but she also had bad cell reception, at least according to Darwin.
I fish inside my pocket for a quarter and drop it into the slot, checking to see if the phone actually works.
An automated voice (an operator’s recording) comes on right away: To complete your call, please deposit fifty-five cents. Please deposit fifty-five cents for your local three-minute call. To complete your ca—
I hang up and continue to look around, searching for some sign or clue. I poke my finger into the change return and take out a handful of coins: ninety-five cents. I leave them on the counter just as the phone starts ringing: a blaring tone that makes my insides jump.
I let it ring, unsure what to do. Pick it up? Or continue to look around?
Nine rings.
Ten …
It doesn’t seem to stop. At sixteen rings, I grab the phone receiver and place it up to my ear.
“Hello?” says a tiny female voice.
I peer outside, into the darkness.
“Can you hear me?” the girl asks.
A clamoring noise sounds—like metal on metal—somewhere in the park. Is someone else here? Does the person see me? Or was it just the wind?
“Hello?” the voice continues. “Are you there? Can you help me?”
A question strikes me like a match. Could it seriously be Peyton?
“Who’s this?” she asks.
“Is this Peyton?”
“Is this…? Terra?”
“Where are you?” I search the pay phone for a number, but it’s been peeled off; there’s sticker residue above the keypad.
“I can’t believe you came.” Her voice is riddled with tears. “I’m so sorry, and I’m so grateful.”
“Don’t apologize. Just tell me where you are.”
“How did you even find me? Is Darwin with you? Did you talk to him?”
“Wait, do you have access to a phone?” Obviously, she must. “Are you calling from your cell phone? Did you also call for help?”
“Hold on, is Darwin there? Can I talk to him?”
“No. I’m alone.”
“So, he didn’t come? There’s a pay phone where I am, but it only dials one number.”
“Wait, what? How is that possible?”
“He took me, Terra. Just like I said he would, just like I always feared.”
“Where are you now?”
“A junkyard, like the book page he left in my mailbox.”
“In Pineport?”
“Yes.” Her voice quivers. “It’s not far from the phone booth.”
I look back toward the street, unable to see much. The street-lamps seemed dimmed. One of them is broken. Still, I continue to search—by the slide, the swings, the bouncy toys, the parking lot, but I don’t see anything. “Is the guy there with you?”
“No. He’s been gone for a while.”
“Tell me where you are, exactly—where in the junkyard.”
“I don’t think I’m going to get out this time.”
“You will,” I insist. “Just tell me how to get to you.”
“Are you facing the pay phone? Look to the left of the harbor. Do you see a sign in the distance that says Smitherton’s Salvage?”
It takes me a second to spot it. The sign stands tall, lit up with a spotlight. “Yes. I see it.”
“If you drive to the salvage yard, park on the street—somewhere he won’t spot your car. Then come on foot. You’ll see a brick wall that’s painted white. Go to the right of it—to the seventh or eighth section of chain-link fencing. One of those sections is curled up at the bottom. He made me crawl through it.”
“And then?”
“Look for a bus.”
“A what?”
“Hurry. I’m inside the bus. The junkyard is closed. I’m pretty sure it’s been closed for days now, but still there’s tons of stuff here—old cars, piles of building supplies … The bus is somewhere, but it’s not exactly visible.”
I grab my cell and turn it on. Twenty-five percent charged.
“Please, Terra,” she says, her voice breaking over the words.
I close my eyes, trying to get a grip, my mind flashing back to the night of the fire, my bedroom on Bailey Road.
“I have to go,” she says.
“Peyton, wait.”
The phone clicks off.
I hang up and press Detective Marshall’s number. It goes straight to voice mail. I leave her a message, choking out the words: “The girl I told you about … Peyton, from the chat site … She’s been taken again. Please, can you call me back? I’m at Harborview Park in Pineport, Maine. This is Terra.”
I end the call and dial 9-1-1, stepping out of the booth, desperate for some air. At the same moment, a rustling noise comes from somewhere in the darkness.
I grab the wasp spray in my pocket. Did the sound come from behind the slide? Or over by the fence?
Was it the snapping of twigs?
Or the swishing of a jacket?
Maybe it was a swirl of wind through the fallen leaves.
It’s stopped now. My heart has too. I look back down at my phone screen. It’s turned black again. How far is my car? Thirty yards at most. I hurry in that direction, one step at a time, through the park, propelled by Peyton’s cries.
NOW
48
Back in the car, I lock my door, start the engine, and set my nav for the salvage yard. As I pull out of the parking lot, I try dialing 9-1-1 again, my pulse racing, my fingers trembling. The call connects as I turn onto the main road.
The operator picks up: “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”
“A friend,” I blurt. “She’s been taken. She’s being held against her will.”
“Can you tell me your name?”
“It’s Terra,” I say, avoiding my last name in case she’s already heard it, in case she wouldn’t take me seriously.
“Okay, Terra, can you tell me who your friend is?”
“It’s Peyton,” I say, but I’m not sure she hears it.
The navigation voice speaks over mine, tells me to turn left, onto a dark, narrow road.
“Her name is Peyton,” I repeat, louder this time. “I’m not sure of her last name, but it might be Bright. Or it could be McNally. She says she�
��s trapped inside a bus, in a salvage yard.”
The navigation directs me down a dead-end road. The streetlights are even sparser here. It’s started drizzling again. I click on my windshield wipers; they swoosh back and forth, making streaks across the glass and producing a scratching-scraping sound that grates inside my ear.
“Hello?” I ask.
Why isn’t she talking?
I check the screen. It’s gone black. The call got dropped. I have no signal. The nav has stopped working too.
How long were we connected? Was she able to trace the call, ping my location?
It seems I’m in the right place. A white brick building faces me, at the front of the property, just like Peyton said. The salvage yard sign stands tall and bright, though everything else looks dark.
I cut my engine and switch off the headlights. A chain-link fence surrounds the junkyard, as do a few spotlights—four or five, maybe.
I get out, locking the car behind me, keeping the wasp spray clenched in my hand. I move to the fence. A giant heap of scrap materials sits beyond it. Behind the yard is a wooded lot, what Stacey at the yacht club must’ve been referring to when she mentioned the conservation land.
I try my best to focus, looking for a bus—a school bus, a city bus … But what if it isn’t a bus at all? What if Peyton is somehow mistaken?
I follow the fence to the right, counting up the sections. When I get to the ninth one, I see the place where the metal has been curled up. I take a moment to peer all around—behind me and over both shoulders—before checking my phone again.
Still no signal.
Twenty-one percent charged.
I take a photo of the junkyard sign and text it to Garret and Detective Marshall, along with a message that tells them I’m here. The text will go through eventually; there must be a hot spot somewhere.
My pulse races as I squat down and crawl through the hole in the fence. I imagine Peyton having done the same. How did that happen? Where did she get taken from? Or did she come here on her own?
Once on the other side, I click on my key ring flashlight and shine it over heaps of wood, scrap metal, tires, and bumpers. I move in deeper, passing smaller sections of junk: collections of things like hubcaps and car seats.
Peyton mentioned the bus wasn’t exactly visible, meaning she’d been alert when she first arrived. Had she come to meet someone? Or had she been scouting out the area, looking for clues related to the page she got in her mailbox?
It’s eerily quiet. There’s only the clattering of wind chimes somewhere in the distance. I creep past a pile of car doors, still unable to spot a bus. Where is it? I continue to follow the fence, moving toward the back side of the salvage yard. I hold my flashlight high, able to see the wooded area that borders the yard.
Who owns this place? Does the person know about the wide, gaping hole in the fence section? Peyton said the junkyard’s been closed, but for how long? And when is the owner coming back?
I shine my light over a mound of old bricks, five feet high. Behind them, I find two stacks of compressed cars, piled like multilayered sandwiches. I aim my flashlight between the layers, spotting a golden-yellow color.
I edge closer, noticing a gap in the mangled metal, where two thick, black horizontal stripes stick out from the heap, making it clear.
It’s a yellow school bus.
I scurry to get to the other side of it, to see if the folding doors are there, just as something crashes—a loud clank, like metal on metal, somewhere behind me.
I check my phone again, startled to find it’s working. Eighteen percent charged.
I open up the keypad and dial 9-1-1. At the same moment, my phone vibrates with a call. Detective Marshall’s name flashes across the screen.
I pick it up.
“Terra, hi. I got your message. That twenty-two-year-old woman you were talking about from Pineport, Maine … I couldn’t find any missing-persons cases that matched her description with that location.”
“Are you sure?”
“Definitely sure. We reviewed the chat logs. We also saw the photo you spoke about—the book page about junkyards that Paylee22 had sent … Long story short: It seems someone’s playing games with you, which isn’t so uncommon on chat sites of this nature.”
“Wait, what?” My skin flashes hot.
“It’s true,” she continues. “Sometimes people suffering from one trauma will actually hide behind another, more fictitious one. That way they can get the attention they crave while still protecting their identity and the details of their trauma.”
“What?” I repeat. What does all of this mean?
“The site is called Jane Anonymous, after all.”
“But Peyton wouldn’t do that.”
“We did find a case that matched some of what Peyton reported to you: the shed, for example. The victim escaped after a handful of days. The authorities found the shed only weeks later, and yes, it’d been dismantled. The victim fit the profile too: a twenty-two-year-old female student taking classes at a community college … The victim reported that a white male, late twenties, dressed as a police officer approached her in the parking lot of an abandoned school and forced her into his car. But that crime happened a year and a half ago, not eight months. It also happened in North Carolina, obviously nowhere near Maine … or Chicago as Peyton first reported.”
“So maybe she was lying about the location?”
“Or maybe she was using the details from this woman’s case—passing them off as her own, that is.”
“Might there be a connection to my case? Could the guy who took me be the same one from North Carolina?”
“Terra…” There’s dismissal in her voice; it threads a needle through my heart.
“Are they still looking for the guy that took her?” I ask.
“That case is now closed.”
“Why?”
“These things are complicated.”
“Looking for someone after the victim has resurfaced alive, you mean?”
“The victim is now dead.”
My eyes press shut.
“There was an accident,” she explained. “It happened a few months after she got back from being missing.”
I look out toward the woods, searching for a focal point, knowing I’m supposed to be concentrating on my breath. Inhale, exhale. Just. Breathe.
“Terra?”
“Yes. I’m here.”
“Bottom line: This Peyton person obviously hasn’t been completely honest with you.”
“But I knew that already.” How guarded she was being …
“Hold on,” she says. “You knew this Peyton person was lying to you, misrepresenting herself, and you still involved me? Is that true?”
“I knew she was misrepresenting herself about some things, but not all of them.”
“Are you listening to yourself? Do you know how valuable my time is? The time I spend tracking down false leads is time I could be spending helping someone else.”
“I’m sorry for wasting your time.”
“Please, just let us do our job. You have a job too. Finish school, move forward with your life, develop real relationships with real people rather than this online anonymous stuff.”
I gaze back at the bus, still able to hear Peyton’s cries inside my head, drowning out my thoughts.
“Terra? Are you hearing what I’m telling you?”
“Did you read the story about the water well?”
“Not yet. I’ve been so focused on the chat logs and this other case in North Carolina. But if I promise to read it, will you do something for me?”
“What?” I ask. How much time have I wasted?
“Get yourself home. Do you want me to have a car sent?”
“No. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”
“I’ll be fine,” I repeat. “I’m coming home now.”
“Your aunt will be happy to hear that. Call me again if you need anything, ok
ay?”
I hang up and shine my flashlight over the door to the bus. It’s folded partway open. To the side of it, collected in a stack, is firewood. Why would it be here? I venture a little closer, able to hear something. The sound of a zipper, plus the shifting of leaves against the ground.
I take another step just as the lights go out—all of them, leaving me in the dark. I click off my flashlight too, and stand, frozen, flashing back to the darkness in the well, able to hear a high-pitched laugh that chills my bones.
I begin to back away, my limbs trembling, my lungs cinching. I try my best not to let out a wheeze, peeking down at my phone. I wake up the screen. Fifteen percent charged. I dial 9-1-1. The screen goes black. At first, I think it’s dialing, but nothing happens. The number reappears on the screen. I press it again.
“Well, hello there,” says a male voice, cutting through the darkness, making my entire body quake.
For just a moment, I tell myself it’s the 9-1-1 operator. But I know it isn’t. The voice isn’t coming from my phone. It’s coming from somewhere behind me.
I press my eyes shut. Could this just be my imagination—a horrible story my brain has conjured up to let me know that I really shouldn’t be here?
A warm breath smokes against my face. It carries a sticky-sweet scent, like barbecue sauce. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, trying not to even blink.
His voice pokes through the darkness once again. “It’s good to see you.”
Can he?
See me?
Might he be talking to someone else?
“You know it isn’t safe to be walking alone by yourself at night, don’t you?” he asks. “Never mind in a salvage yard that isn’t even open to the public.”
I clench my teeth, feeling as though I might seriously combust. I position my finger over the spray trigger and listen for his breath, trying to gauge where he is—over to my right, at least two feet away. I hold the spray bottle outward.
But he grabs my arm and twists it behind my back. The cell phone jumps from my grip. I hear it knock against something hard.
Did it get through to Emergency? I didn’t hear an operator.
I start to turn away and reach into my other pocket, but he grabs that arm too, pressing both wrists together, pinning them at the base of my spine. A loud, popping sound spouts from my shoulder. Still, I try to get away, using my legs, kicking outward, still unable to see.
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