The Lost Girls

by Jessica Chiarella

  “Jesus, Mom. You really don’t pull any punches, do you?” I ask. But this shouldn’t be a surprise—my mother has a particular talent for making everything about herself. About the toll Maggie’s disappearance has taken on her. As if nobody on earth has ever suffered more than she has.

  “I want you to make this right, between you and Eric,” she says, like I’m an unruly teenager still, and marriage is a test I’ve failed, a dent I left in a neighbor’s car. Quitting a summer job without notice. “You need to make this right.”

  Involuntarily, my mind conjures an image of Eric sitting before me, his fists clenched, his eyes squeezed shut, as I beg him to tell me what to do.

  “I can’t,” I reply, my voice flat. Because I don’t want to admit that if I could have saved my marriage, I would have a hundred times by now. I don’t want to explain to her that she’s right. It’s my fault, all of it. My mother, who has never tolerated even a chipped manicure in her entire life. She could never understand how deeply the impulse to ruin my own life took hold.

  She clears her throat, a dry sound. A kind of tic she’s developed, now that she’s past the point of tears. A way of showing displeasure. Because that’s the thing about my mother—for all the satisfaction she gains from displays of her own suffering, I haven’t seen her cry in years. I wonder if she’s even capable of it anymore, or if she’s had to sever completely the part of her that feels.

  “Well. There are a few people I want you to meet,” she says, her tone suddenly false and sunny.

  “Okay,” I reply. She doesn’t look at me. I know her well enough to know that she probably won’t look at me for the rest of the afternoon.

  “A couple of VIP donors, and a reporter from the Trib.”

  “Sure. What do you have to drink at this thing?”

  “The usual. Mimosas. And a very nice sauvignon blanc,” she replies, as if she’s been giving this spiel all morning. She leads me toward the living room, which is still crowded with her guests.

  “Grandma said something about gin.”

  “Your grandmother knows that I don’t serve spirits before cocktail hour,” my mother says, leading me into the crowd. “And that she can’t have any, regardless.”

  * * *

  * * *

  IT’S JUST AS miserable as any other fund-raising lunch for Maggie’s foundation, with its weak cocktails and its waterlogged, underripe plates of roasted vegetables and rubbery chicken. Overly painted women who press my hand as they shake it, their eyes inquisitive. As if they might be able to see evidence of the things they’ve heard about me, if they peer intently enough. There is a subtle difference this year too, and it takes me a moment to recognize it. It has to do with the way my mother introduces me around. In previous years, she’d introduce me as her younger daughter and segue into status updates about my marriage to Eric. Have I seen you since the reception? Oh, of course, and now they’ve got the most beautiful three-bedroom in Wicker Park! Completely rehabbed, of course, but still full of that vintage charm. Everything was always described as beautiful. Everything about my life a resounding success.

  This year, when she introduces me, it’s as Maggie’s sister. As if I’m not her actual daughter, but rather some distant cousin, related to her only incidentally. Or worse, a stepchild. I can’t help but be stung by her inattention, no matter how her bragging of the previous years might have rankled me. Here I am, forever the second child, always the sister of a missing girl. Always suffering from my mother’s attention as well as her inattention.

  As soon as the lunch plates are cleared from the table, I slip away. Out the front door and down the drive, heading north when it meets the road. Because there’s no way I can be this close and not investigate.

  Forty-six oh three Galley Road is very much like the other faux-Victorians in Sutcliffe Heights, a two-story blue house, attempting quaintness beneath its wallpapering of money. Harkening back to a time when a house like this might have been owned by a schoolteacher or an electrician, instead of an investment banker. I ring the bell and play the game I always played as a kid, growing up in this place. Trying to guess whether a family member or a member of the household staff will answer the door.

  It’s a middle-aged woman, and immediately I clock her manicure, her Eileen Fisher tunic, the pool of placid skin between her eyebrows—more Botox, surely—and recognize the lady of the house. But she’s opening her own door, so I’ve scaled the first hurdle of investigation—going straight to the source.

  “Hi,” I say, giving her a self-conscious little smile. “My name is Martha Reese, and I was wondering if I could talk to you quickly about your house.”

  “Oh,” the woman says, “we’re not looking to sell, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Oh no,” I reply. “I was wondering if you knew anything about the people who lived here before you.” I’ve looked up the sale history of the place, and the people who live in it now bought it five years ago. Already after Sarah’s murder.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman says. “Who are you?”

  “I’m researching a podcast,” I say, trying to figure out what tactic to use here. Andrea usually does the talking in these situations, so I’m a little at sea. “I’m looking into the history of Sutcliffe Heights. Some of the major events that happened here, that would have made national news.”

  “I see,” the woman says, her face relaxing a little. “A podcast? That’s like a TED Talk, right?”

  “It’s like a radio show that you can listen to on the internet,” I reply.

  “Well,” she says, “my husband and I have only lived here for five years. I must have the seller’s information somewhere.” I can see her internal calculus running again as she pauses, and I’ve never been more relieved to have worn a luncheon-approved outfit. She seems to come to the conclusion that I’m too well-dressed to be up to anything nefarious. After all, money recognizes money. “Would you like to come in?” she asks.

  * * *

  * * *

  I SIT IN her living room, drinking iced tea as she looks through a box of records she’s recovered from her home office. A couple greyhounds lounge on the couch opposite us, watching me with tired wariness. I’m clearly a break in their daily routine. Interrupting their afternoon nap, probably.

  “What are their names?” I ask, motioning to the dogs.

  “Charles and Diana,” she replies. “My sister breeds them, so she’s in charge of the naming. You’d think that there’s never been a significant world event since the eighties. My last two were Sonny and Cher.”

  “That’s sweet,” I say as she fishes a sheet of paper out of the box, holding her cheaters a little away from her eyes as she considers it.

  “Here we are,” she says. “Abigail Woods was the previous owner.”

  “Abigail Woods?” This is a strange turn, if Ava has her facts right. “No one named Ketchum?” I ask.

  The woman shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Oh,” I say, and perhaps the woman can see that I’m a bit deflated by the news, because she pulls her reading glasses off and points them at me.

  “You know, I think this was the seller’s second residence. I seem to remember she lived in New York most of the year.”

  “Do you know if she had a renter or if someone else lived here?” I ask.

  “Her brother had lived here for a while, did some work on it, I think. The Realtor said he was a contractor in the area, that he’d done all the improvements himself. But the house was vacant already when we bought it.”

  “And she never gave a reason for why she wanted to sell?” I ask.

  “The typical reasons,” the woman said. “The upkeep on a second residence was too much; you know, that sort.”

  “Do you remember hearing about a girl who lived here once?” I ask. “A teenager who was killed?”

  The woman s
eems to blanch a bit. “Killed here in the house?” she asks. “Oh no, I think they have to report that before they’re allowed to sell.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “Not in the house. The information I have is that her father lived here, and she would have spent time here as a teenager. She died later, once she moved into her own apartment.”

  “You know, I do seem to remember something like that,” she replies, sitting down next to me on the couch, the veins in her feet blue and puffy beneath the ankle strap of her sandals. “She went missing, right?”

  “Yeah, she disappeared while walking to meet her friends one night. Her body was found in LaBagh Woods two days later.”

  “Right.” The woman nods. “So terrible. I do remember some of the women in my book club talking about that, when we read The Virgin Suicides.”

  “But you didn’t know she lived here?” I ask.

  “I had no idea. I just knew she was a local girl. I wonder if my husband knew about it,” she says. “You know, if you need to interview either of us for your radio cast, we’d be happy to help.” She scratches her number beneath Abigail Woods’s contact information on a piece of paper and hands it to me.

  “Thanks,” I say, setting my glass down and getting up. “I’ll be in touch if I have any follow-up questions.”

  “Of course,” she says, also rising. And then she makes a motion with her arms, a waving that looks more akin to someone who has just been dropped into cold water. “Oh, I remember!” she says. “Her name was Maggie something, wasn’t it?”

  “Maggie?” I repeat, and then press my back teeth together until my temples ache.

  “Yes,” she says, picking up steam. “Now I remember, they were saying she went missing and was found in the woods. Maggie something-or-other. A local girl. Does that help?”

  I want to tell her that Maggie isn’t the girl who was found in the woods. That she was never found. That this woman should tell her goddamn book club to stop gossiping about my sister. But instead, I force a smile.

  “Yes,” I reply. “That’s very helpful.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  As soon as I let her know that I want to discuss Sarah’s case, Ava invites me to dinner at her apartment that Friday.

  The rare weekend off for me, she says in her text. So we can get to know each other a little. The address Ava gives me turns out to be new construction in Wicker Park, one of those modern affairs where the front is all windows, two floors of green glass reflecting the sky and the street behind me. I ring the bell and watch Ava approach through the frosted panel in the front door, her figure swaying slightly as she descends the stairs from the second floor, a curl of smoke behind the glass.

  “Hey,” she says when she opens the door, ushering me inside. “I barely recognized you without the goth outfit.” I raise a hand to my hair, remembering the dark wig I was wearing the night we met, feeling heat crawl up my neck.

  “Yeah, it’s all a bit much, isn’t it?” I ask. I can hear something that sounds like “Chain of Fools” playing from the landing above. Ava’s curly dark hair is clipped back, away from her face, and she’s barefoot, holding a round globe of red wine in one hand. She looks almost impossibly young for a doctor, except her lips are red with lipstick, and I’m pretty sure the loose blue wrap dress she’s wearing is Ralph Lauren. And the condo, on first glance, probably cost as much as my mother’s house.

  “I thought it was amazing,” she replies.

  “This is for you,” I say, offering the bottle of wine I’ve brought, because it was on sale at Mariano’s, marked down to $15 from $25. I know just enough about wine to know that it’s not a great label. After all, Eric and I once joked about having a house wine at our old place, because we bought rioja by the case at Liquor Park. Nowadays, when I’m not swilling vodka, I consider a $6 bottle at Trader Joe’s to be treating myself.

  “Oh, lovely,” Ava says, as if she’s genuinely delighted by my meager offering. “Beaujolais is Ted’s favorite.”

  I follow her up the front stairs and onto the apartment’s main floor, which is a high-ceilinged living room in front and a kitchen that looks like something out of The Jetsons in the back. A man stands with a dish towel thrown over his shoulder at the kitchen island chopping greens. The room smells of dill and browned garlic and roasted nuts.

  “Marti, this is Ted,” Ava says.

  “Welcome,” Ted says, flashing uncannily white teeth as he waves the blade of the knife in greeting. Ted is tall and strapping, a guy who might have modeled for Abercrombie & Fitch in high school. His sandy hair is parted and slicked to the side, like he’s the sort to keep a black fine-toothed comb in his front pocket. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Marti brought Beaujolais,” Ava whispers as she passes behind him, as if it’s a delightful secret. She grabs another large wineglass off a hook beneath their cabinet.

  “Brilliant,” Ted replies, and it strikes me as something my father used to say. Ted is Yacht Club Ken, in every way. But there’s also something endearing about him, the charm of a golden retriever puppy who thinks the world is a marvelous place because people have always been so enamored of him. Not the sort of guy you’d guess would have a brother-in-law in prison for murder.

  “This place is amazing,” I say, gazing around, from the giant windows framing the setting sun, to the fireplace in the living room, to the glass partition where a metal staircase climbs to the third story.

  “Ted’s in real estate,” Ava explains, pouring a glass from the wine decanter on the counter and handing it to me.

  “Commercial now,” he says, going back to his chopping. “But I still have a knack for the residential, when the need arises.”

  “We’ve been here two years, and sometimes it still feels like we’re just getting settled in,” Ava says.

  “That’s because she sleeps at the hospital as much as she sleeps here,” Ted replies, as if he and I are coconspirators. “I’m settled in just fine.”

  Ava gives him a flick on the shoulder. Admonishing and playful at once.

  “C’mon,” she says, grabbing the decanter and motioning for me to follow. “Let’s go out back.”

  Out back is a large patio on the roof of the garage, surrounded by greenery, overlooked by a third-story balcony. Ava curls up on one of the lounge chairs, and I follow suit. Around us, windows from taller buildings are lit from within, and I catch glimpses of movement here and there.

  “Ted seems great,” I say. “He cooks.”

  “Ted’s all right,” she says, demurring in a way that makes it clear she enjoys the compliment. “Sometimes I feel bad for the poor guy. He had no idea what he was getting with my family. I’m pretty sure if I hadn’t proposed, he would have eventually come to his senses and bailed.”

  “You proposed?” I ask.

  “In the car one day. I think we were actually driving to one of Colin’s court dates. I just up and asked him, and he nearly ran a red light, he was so flummoxed.” It’s the first time she’s mentioned her brother by name, I realize. Colin. Her brother, the convicted girlfriend-killer.

  “Where are you from originally?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

  “I grew up in Albany Park,” she replies. “Mom worked in the office at a high school, Dad was . . . well, I guess Dad was a lot of things over the years.” I let this drop, mostly because it feels like she wants me to ask her about it. It’s a trick I picked up from watching Andrea interview people for the podcast. Never let the other person direct the conversation.

  “Do you get up there much anymore?” I ask.

  “Not recently,” she says. “Plus, we moved between rentals a lot. Any type of visit would be more like a bar crawl around the neighborhood. Colin used to spend time up there, but I never really went back once I was out.”

  The irony is, she and I grew up only a few miles apar
t. But from what I’ve gathered in the week I’ve spent googling Colin’s case, her upbringing was quite different from mine. Blue-collar, for starters. And then there was the violence. First, their father’s—the kind that landed Ava’s mother in the ER every few months for the better part of ten years. And then there was Colin’s record. A bar fight that ended with charges of assault and battery, resulting in a hundred hours of community service.

  Her brother’s attorney presented evidence of their father’s abusiveness at his murder trial, perhaps as an attempt at mitigation for Colin’s criminal record. It backfired, of course. It made Colin look like just another link in the family’s chain of male violence. The sort that was learned by example, a power that could be gained only through the ability to hurt another person more. Unlike my family, who traded power by proving we could need each other less and less. Until any need at all became a weakness.

  Still, sitting on the deck and watching the lights in the buildings around us flicker on one by one, I can’t help but imagine the ways in which Ava and I have traded places. She, who started with such difficulty, whose talent and intelligence have bought her a rightful place in Chicago’s young and mighty upper crust. And I, who was gifted a place in old Chicago money as a birthright but threaded trip wires through the rooms of my own home. Found a perverse relief in the wrong step that brought it all down.

  “So I assume you’ve looked into the case by now?” Ava says.

  “Just what I can find online,” I reply. “It’ll take a Freedom of Information Act request to get copies of the police and medical examiner’s records.”

  Ava nods.

  “Let me know if you need me to have my attorney put some pressure on them,” she says, and it surprises me a bit, that she wouldn’t have her own copies. “I know, on first glance, the case against him looks pretty good,” she continues. “Not like the cops or the prosecutor railroaded him. Like they did their jobs. Looked at the boyfriend, found he had a prior assault charge. His DNA was a match to what they found on her. He even admitted he was at the apartment when she went to meet her friends.”