They'll Never Catch Us

by Jessica Goodman

  Shawna nods and continues. “I want to thank the whole Johnson family for hosting us here this morning and for allowing us to search the grounds.” She turns to Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, who stand off to the side, wearing matching Ellacoya vests and holding hands.

  “Anything for one of our own,” Mr. Johnson says in his steady voice.

  Shawna smiles weakly and steps back, her shoulders shaking.

  Mr. Johnson clears his throat. “Detective Parker will split you into groups and give you routes to canvass,” he says. “You will each get a whistle and if you find anything, anything at all, any sign of her, use it to call Parker over. He’ll be circling the area.”

  Parker gives a quick nod and starts distributing little plastic whistles, each one hanging from a thin string. One makes its way into my hands and it feels like a toy, something a child would play with. Not a way to save someone’s life.

  “Please, let’s find my baby girl and bring her home,” Shawna says, her voice floating above the group. She leans up against her sister for strength and I glance at Ellie. I picture us years from now in the same situation, me comforting her, making everything better, cleaning up whatever mess we had gotten into. That’s the only way it would be.

  Parker takes his place on the crate and starts barking instructions, splitting the group into packs of four and handing out trail maps. He sounds just like his son Calvin when he led us in stretches. Ellie and I get stuck with Raven and Julia, who cross their arms in unison like miffed little soldiers.

  The detective walks through the crowd handing out maps on laminated sheets of paper, as if we don’t all know this land by heart. As if we haven’t spent years running over roots and whacking brush back to make our own trails. When he gets to our little foursome, he hands our map to Julia and avoids making eye contact with me. Ellie too.

  “You four will take the banks on the far side of the A-frames, by the boat launch,” he says in his clipped monotone. “Form a line and walk your assigned area three times, then come back for another assignment.” When Parker moves to the next group, Julia and Raven turn to us.

  “Come on,” Julia says briskly. She and Raven walk in front of us, but not so far that I can’t hear their mumblings. “God, I can’t believe we got Stecklered.”

  Ellie winces and falls into step with me as we trail behind them. I nudge her shoulder, hoping she understands. Fuck them.

  She elbows me back and tilts her chin up to the sky. Fuck them.

  “Here,” Julia says, stopping in her tracks at the base of the last A-frame. A chill picks up and she wraps her arms around her middle, pulling her fleece tight. If Mila really was out here alone, there’s no way she’d survive the cold. Not at night. “You heard Parker. Spread out and walk to the banks.”

  “What are we looking for?” Raven asks.

  I want to laugh because it really is a good question. No one told us.

  Julia opens her mouth once and then closes it. “Uh, clues?”

  I snort. “Clues? What is this, Nancy Drew?”

  Julia’s mouth grows small and her eyes narrow. “Got a better idea?” She’s always looking for a fight, even when no one’s there to see it. She just wants to be able to say that she put the Steckler sisters in their place. “Go find something that proves she’s actually missing. That she didn’t just go for a joyride and forget to call home or something.”

  Raven winces, but Julia doesn’t even notice. They start walking, their gaze glued to the grass.

  “I’d rather have no friends than have a friend like Julia,” I say.

  Ellie giggles that little-girl giggle of hers, the one that used to melt my heart when we were kids. Now when she does it, it’s a reminder that I don’t make her laugh so much anymore.

  Julia looks over her shoulder and scoffs. They’re getting closer to the water now, sidestepping kayaks that guests left haphazardly on the damp sand.

  “I cannot believe you two are enjoying this,” she says, loud enough for the group next to us to hear. Heads turn. Eyebrows raise. “And in front of Raven, too. You are so heartless.”

  The smile falls from Ellie’s face and her lip quivers. “Sorry,” she says quietly.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s check the canoes.” Ellie follows behind me, eyes tracing the shoreline. The boats are piled on top of each other and I look behind the stand. Nothing. Obviously. I move to the rack of paddles and part them with my hands. Again. Nothing. I wonder how long I can pretend this has a point.

  I motion to Ellie to move on and we head closer to the water. The ground is muddy and my sneakers begin to sink into the soil. I hear Julia and Raven behind us, whispering in worried voices, but I ignore them and join Ellie, who’s crouching down near a bush, looking toward a thicket of branches.

  “Find the key to unlock this mystery?” I ask, half kidding. Ellie opens her mouth, but then I hear a gasp from over by the canoe paddles where we just were.

  “What?” Ellie calls, a frantic pitch in her voice.

  Raven’s face has gone white. Her mouth is open and she turns around frantically, hair flying in the wind. She’s clasping a phone with a bright red case. From here, I can tell there’s a thin, long crack along the screen. It’s Mila’s.

  Julia rushes to Raven’s side. “Don’t move!” she calls. Then she raises the whistle to her mouth and blows as hard as she can, sending a piercing wail over the lake and across the grounds. Birds ruffle their feathers and take flight overheard.

  “We found something,” Julia yells.

  Shouts ring across the lake and the wet sound of sneakers squelching in mud gets louder as half the search party descends on our foursome.

  “What is it?” someone asks.

  “Mila’s phone,” Raven says, her voice quavering.

  Parker pushes through the crowd until he’s standing right next to Julia and Raven. He frowns. I try to read his face, but there’s no emotion. He just lifts a bulky camera from his bag and snaps a photo of the phone. “Where did you find this?”

  Raven nods to the paddle stand. “Right there. On the ground. Under the paddle, so it was still mostly dry. It’s dead, though.”

  Julia whips her head around. “Stella, how did you not find this? Weren’t you just looking here?”

  Parker looks at me quizzically, almost with delight.

  No no no no no. My throat is dry and scratchy and I have no answer.

  Parker leans down and snaps some more photos. Then he pulls a plastic bag from his pocket and motions for Raven to drop it inside. She looks reluctant, but follows instructions. She was always one to play by the rules.

  Parker zips it closed and stashes it in his satchel. “I’ll need you to answer a few questions about this,” he says to Raven. “In the lodge, maybe?”

  She nods, eager to help. “Whatever you think is best,” she says.

  Parker turns to the rest of the crowd and waves his hands for a few other officers to come forward. “Everyone else, step back. This is now a potential crime scene.”

  Raven nods and starts walking toward the lodge, clearing a path through the group. Parker follows her lead but before they get to the grass lawn, he turns around and and looks at me. “Stella,” he says. “We should chat. Soon. I’ll find you.”

  I try to keep my face neutral but I can feel dozens of eyes staring at me. I can feel their questions. Their suspicions. Their wonder.

  Did Stella Steckler do something to Mila Keene?

  17

  ELLIE

  The announcement comes just after Raven and Julia find Mila’s phone. The whole cross country team is summoned into the lobby bar at Ellacoya, where we sink into plush armchairs in front of hulking wooden coffee tables, covered with mugs of hot cocoa. Tamara walks around with a tray full of marshmallows in silver bowls and tiny silver spoons used for stirring.

  I always did love coming to E
llacoya, loved the decorations, how it painted a scene of what Edgewater should be like. Pairs of snowshoes march up the far wall by the staircase, and sets of skis cross behind the bar. Baskets of soft blankets sit on both sides of the couches, and recently fluffed pillows rest on the windowsill. Dozens of board games are stacked in a bookshelf against the wall. The room is as comfortable and cozy as someone’s actual living room, not just made up for guests and out-of-towners willing to shell out a few grand for a make-believe mountain experience. Ellacoya is a promise and it delivers.

  Parker walks to the front of the room and barks at us. “Settle down. We have a visitor.” It only takes a few seconds before Creed Dickerson, the town mayor, walks through the grand French doors. He’s wearing what he always wears, ratty hiking boots, cargo pants, and a well-loved navy fleece zip-up. His white beard covers his neck and his hair is wild, sticking out from all sides of his head.

  “I’m sure you all know Mayor Dickerson,” Parker says in his booming voice. “But he has an announcement that we’ll be sharing with the rest of the town immediately after this. Mayor?”

  “Yes, hello. Edgewater’s fastest. What a delight,” he says, clasping his hands behind his thin, wiry frame. “I so wish this was under different circumstances, but it seems I have no choice. Until we find Miss Keene, we are bringing back an old rule. Effective immediately, young women are not allowed to run by themselves on the trails, and you cannot run before sunrise or after dark, even with a partner.”

  A quiet murmur spreads throughout the room and anger builds in my stomach. The town instituted this rule after the murders, when people were too scared to even go to the farmers market alone. But it’s bullshit that the girls are the ones who have to suffer, who have to change our behavior. I glance over at Noah and his crew. They’re all looking down or away, unfazed. This doesn’t affect them. It never affects them.

  Mayor Dickerson shuffles from foot to foot and his waterproof pants rub together in a swishing sound. “Any questions?” He smiles in a way that means he does not have time for questions, nor does he want to give us the answers. He wants us to shut up and listen.

  “Isn’t that sexist?” Julia says. “Just the girls have to run together?”

  “It’s not like boys are the ones disappearing while out for a jog, Miss Heller,” says Dickerson. “We’d rather err on the side of caution.”

  Julia narrows her eyes. But she knows it’s no use to argue. Not in this town—and not about missing girls.

  Back when we hit puberty, I learned nothing about running was free, not the wind in our hair or the fire in our lungs. That’s when people started looking at me differently. Started staring as I ran through town. I wondered if it was because of my chest. If my sports bra wasn’t as supportive as it should have been. If my shirt was sweaty and stuck to my skin in a way that suggested something I wasn’t even aware of. That’s when I started noticing how us girls were the ones who had to watch ourselves. Girls out for a jog. Girls trying to get their times up. Girls trying to chase the electric high that comes with pumping your legs up and down for miles on end. Girls trying to get away, to feel something, anything, that we can’t while sitting still. Girls in motion.

  The mayor glances down at his watch and looks back up again. “Well, I’ll be off. Pit stop at the Elks Lodge. Stay safe, runners.” He walks out of the lodge quickly, leaving all of us in a stunned silence.

  I sort of expect Coach to stand up for us. Or to secretly whisper Don’t listen to him after Dickerson leaves. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything. Instead, he gathers his things and looks at us with furious eyes, sitting above big purple circles.

  “I’ve been told we have to cancel practice Monday” he says. “But I expect you to keep moving. Weights. Core work. Stretching. Do it inside. In your living rooms, on your floors. I don’t give a shit. Just show up on Tuesday ready to get your asses kicked. This changes nothing.”

  I can feel Stella tense beside me. She knows as well as I do that he’s wrong. This changes everything.

  * * *

  —

  I wake up shaking, my sweaty sheets balled in my fists and my jaw clenched. It takes a second before I can breathe normally again, before I realize the night terrors are back. My vision is shaky and I squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe. But it hurts to inhale. I just want to calm my nerves, to push away whatever demon was chasing me.

  I roll over onto my side and stare out the window into the inky darkness, stars dotting the sky. This was the same view I had all summer, waiting for Noah’s signal, a tiny pebble chucked this way. A classic move, but it worked. With every little knock, whether it came on a Wednesday when I had to be up early the next day for a shift at the lake or a Saturday when I could sleep in, my stomach fluttered and contracted. It had become a Pavlovian trick. He came calling. I answered.

  The first time he did it in June, I thought it was a branch. I didn’t hear it right away. But then another stone made contact and the sound was bigger, louder. I shuffled out of bed and moved to the window, peeking down to the yard. Noah stood there in a dark hoodie, his bike on the grass next to him. He waved.

  It was easy to climb up to my window along the trellis on the side of the house, but I motioned that I would come to meet him. I pulled on a sweatshirt and tiptoed downstairs and out the sliding side door. When I emerged, Noah tackled me to the ground in a playful bear hug, kissing my neck and running his cool hands along my stomach.

  “Shh!” I said, suppressing a laugh. “My parents could wake up.”

  “Wanna go for a ride?” Noah asked, his eyes twinkling with possibilities.

  I nodded and stood on his bike pegs, arms wrapped around his neck as he pedaled to the entrance of Sweetwater Lake. I breathed deeply, trying to absorb him, never forget him.

  When we got there, Noah stopped and unlocked the gate with his head lifeguard key. He pulled out a blanket and we sat there together on the sand, watching the sky for the first hint of sun. Noah pulled out a beat-up paperback filled with lines of poetry and started reading aloud. Howl by Allen Ginsberg. I wasn’t sure if I liked the poem itself, but I liked the way Noah read it, that he read poetry at all. I liked that he surprised me. I closed my eyes and drew my knees to my chest as he recited the words as if he were performing a play. When I opened my eyes, the sky was purple and blue and seemed to emerge straight up from the still lake, serene and warm. I wanted to record every second, remember this is what it felt like to be loved, to be treasured, to be wanted.

  “It’s perfect,” Noah said quietly, his arm looped around my shoulder. “You’re perfect.” He shut the book and set it down next to us. He leaned in, kissing me with his whole hungry mouth. It was then that I knew what was about to happen. We had been messing around for a few weeks. This was the obvious, natural conclusion. I wanted it. I wanted him.

  We moved quickly from there. His callused finger pads pressed against my bare stomach and made me shiver. “I’ve never done this before,” I whispered into his neck as our skin suctioned together like rubber.

  “I know,” he said. “I’ve got you.” He nudged my legs apart and slipped himself inside me, without anything between us.

  “What about a—” I started. I wanted a condom. I knew we needed one.

  But Noah just smiled and kissed my neck. “It’s so much better this way,” he said. “I’ll pull out.”

  I knew I should have pushed, should have demanded protection, but I didn’t. I said nothing. Soon, his gaze moved from my face to my chest, to where he disappeared inside me. Then he closed his eyes finding his way to the finish line.

  His biceps rippled and crested, and his torso moved in a wave. It hurt just a little, but after the initial shock subsided, I felt nothing. No ecstatic pleasure or burning need. There was no blood, no broken body part. No great change or awakening. Just two sacks of bones intertwined with one another, stuck together by
sweat.

  “Wow,” he said, when he finally rolled over. “Wow.” Noah panted just a bit, catching his breath as the sun rose from the horizon.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, pulling the picnic blanket up, over me.

  I always hated the idea of “losing” my virginity, as if it were something that I had misplaced between the couch cushions. It seemed deranged that it was something someone could “take” from you, as if it were up for grabs and not wholly yours. Back in middle school, I often pictured how it would be, fantasizing about who it would be with and how it would happen—in a bed made with silk sheets or a camping tent decorated in twinkly lights. But that was before I learned the reality is so much more normal. Basic. Carnal. There was skin and sweat and smacking sounds because, of course, we were both simply human.

  There was only Noah, his hulking, damp body, and the sticky goo between my legs. I wiped it off with a bandana and balled the fabric in my fist. Noah reached for me and kissed my forehead, my cheeks, my nose, and my chin. He caressed my hair as I struggled to fight sleep, to remember every moment of what had happened between us. It was only later, when he dropped me off at home, that I felt the wetness still between my legs. That was when I realized he had forgotten to pull out.

  I spent so much of the summer waiting and hoping to hear the sound of pebbles against my window, inviting me on an adventure. I never thought to be the one to knock on his window. I didn’t think I was allowed. I didn’t think I had the power to do that.

  But Noah stopped coming around like that after we went to the clinic in Newburgh. That’s when I started running in the earliest hours of the morning, the ones that could still be considered night.