They'll Never Catch Us

by Jessica Goodman

  I get it now, why Stella only ever wanted to run before the sun came up. It’s when everything is new and damp, and just a little creepy. The air is harsh and biting and untouched. And when the sun starts to peek out over the horizon at the lake’s edge, I always catch a hitch in my throat and feel tears prick my eyes. It’s so beautiful it stings.

  The clock says 4:05 a.m. and I give up on finding sleep again. This morning is different. This morning is defiant. This morning is in direct opposition to Mayor Dickerson and Detective Parker. I’m not going to stop running. It’s the only thing left that’s mine.

  I roll over and feel around in the darkness for joggers and a sweatshirt. I pull them on without turning on the light, and tiptoe down the stairs, through the back door, farthest from Mom and Dad’s room.

  When I step outside, it’s freezing, as if it’s become winter overnight. By noon it’ll warm a little, but now in the witching hours, the air is ice.

  My muscles are tight, unworked and unloved after a few days without practice, so I take off slowly, through our backyard and down the street toward town, hearing Mayor Dickerson’s words beat in my brain. It’s not like boys are the ones disappearing.

  Everything in town is closed. Nothing stays open twenty-four hours here. Not the unbranded pharmacy, run by Old Ned who was born in Edgewater, nor the gas station, which hasn’t changed its neon script signage since the seventies. The folks who come up from Brooklyn are always posting photos of it on Instagram.

  I run by it all. Past the diner, where the lights turn on at five a.m. for the farming crowd, and the natural wine shop that opened when a bunch of mustachioed hipsters moved up here a few years back. Past the soap store and the cheese purveyor and the bakery that specializes in sourdough and rye. Everything is still dark. There aren’t any streetlights here. Everything is lit only by the moon. When it wanes, you can barely see your hand move in front of your face. No wonder Edgewater inspires killers.

  I get to the end of the main drag, speed up, and turn left, heading up the hill toward the service entrance at Ellacoya, where the gravel becomes dirt and then a slick path, looping around the lake.

  I run toward the sun, which is finally starting to appear. At first the sky is a haze of milky purples and dusty blues. Everything is magic and I feel nostalgic for a few moments ago, when it was only me and the stars. I can see the water by its reflection, sparkling and shiny in front of me. It’s calm, lapping at the shore and the sound brings me back to every other night like this, when I know I’m all alone with just my skin, my muscles, and my heartbeat. When I can forget what I’ve done, when I can just be.

  I’ve never felt afraid on these runs even though I’m told I should be. It’s people that scare me. The ones who look at me from stern to stem. Out here in the dark, at night, I’m part of the brush.

  But then my mind drifts to Mila. She didn’t get to know these places. Not like I do. What would she say if she were running next to me? I don’t even want to imagine. I pick up my pace and try to push her away as I round the bend toward the dock.

  All of a sudden a branch snaps and I stumble, landing in a pile of crunchy leaves, bracing myself with my hands. I gasp and whip my head around, expecting to see Mila running toward me. But when I turn, there’s no one. Just the breeze and the water, rippling outward. I push myself to stand and try to steady my heart. There’s a rustling in the woods and for a split second I can’t breathe. What if the killer is back?

  But I know that’s impossible.

  I blink hard and shake my head. I keep moving up the path and away from the resort, away from the woods. My breathing is shallow and tender, and I circle back through town, where one of the line cooks at the diner flips on the overhead lights and turns on the griddle. I take a right and push myself toward school to take the long way home.

  The sky is now flecked with oranges and yellows, bursting as day begins to break.

  That’s when I start to hear voices. They’re small at first but clipped and flecked with sharp tones and hard inflections.

  I can hear my breath in my ears and start to slow my pace as I reach the Edgewater High parking lot. I clasp my hands behind my neck and feel the sweat roll down my back, my sweatshirt sticking to my skin. I try to catch my breath, but panic rises in my throat.

  There in the middle of the parking lot are trucks. Half a dozen. With satellites poking out the top. Women in smart pencil skirts and silk pants, made up with lipstick and blown-out hair. They’re standing around holding microphones and clipboards. Dudes in suits and earpieces dot the scene. There are cameras. So many cameras. And they’re all gearing up to film us when we arrive for school in a few hours.

  I take a few steps closer, craning to hear what they’re saying, how they are going to describe us as we become the perfect backdrop for their news segment.

  One woman with honey-blonde hair is running lines, practicing her little monologue into the space in front of her. She wraps a scarf around her neck and closes her eyes.

  “I’m Gertie Adler from Channel Twelve News, and I’m here at Edgewater High School, where yet another young woman has gone missing while on a run,” she says, her brow furrowed. “You might remember Edgewater as the town where female cross country stars were brutally murdered while running nearly a decade ago. Police believe all three girls were killed by the same perpetrator, but the cases remain unsolved. We have to ask, is the Edgewater killer back? Is there a serial killer on the loose in this idyllic mountain town once nicknamed Deadwater?” she asks, her voice rising with the question. “And what is it about Edgewater that makes people want to harm little girls?”

  A rage builds inside my chest and my fingers curl into fists. I want to hurl myself at her middle and throw her to the ground. I want to whisper the truth into her ear.

  We’re not that fucking little.

  18

  STELLA

  By the time I get to school on Monday, all I want to do is practice. It’s been almost a week since Coach held an all-squad session and I can feel my muscles rebelling, softening. But when I see the reporters, relegated to the patch of browning grass across the street, which is technically not Edgewater High property, I know this week will be shot.

  Principal Pérez looks like she’s giving them a stern talking-to, but that doesn’t stop a perky woman with a mousy-brown updo. “Raven Tannenbaum!” she yells. “Do you think Mila ran away like your sister?” Raven blinks but doesn’t say anything as she picks up her pace, hiding her face behind a shield of red hair.

  “Stella Steckler!” calls a white man with pimples and curly blond hair. “How did you feel about losing to Mila in the first meet of the year?”

  I grit my teeth as Ellie wraps her hand around my elbow, a signal to not engage, to keep moving forward.

  “So what if I lost to her?” I mutter under my breath. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  Ellie nods solemnly, but twitches with discomfort. Dark bags hang under her eyes and her shoulders sag like she’s exhausted by all of this. “They want to turn you into a monster,” she whispers.

  She said the same thing last year, after I came home from the police station, where Parker kept me in that cold, stark conference room for hours, questioning me about Allison Tarley, making me relive the worst five seconds of my life, telling me things about myself as if I were a specimen, an object.

  “You’re competitive, Stella,” he said, his voice calm and deep. “We’ve known that for years. You’ll stop at nothing to win, to be the best, to take others down. Isn’t that right?” He looked so much like his son Calvin in that moment, tough and broad, handsome and cocky.

  That’s what made me shut down and stop talking. I wasn’t going to convince him of the truth. It was obvious then. My silence didn’t help, I learned later. But it was my coping mechanism. How could it have been the wrong one?

  “They want to turn you into a monster,�
�� Ellie said at the time. Both of us had hair that was wet from the shower and she curled up against the foot of my bed. “You should pretend you’re not.”

  Now, in the halls, lockers slam with urgency. Everything seems to be moving slower, like we’re all wading through molasses. There’s a heightened sense of worry simmering below the surface. Students look at each other with wide-open eyes, as if to ask, Again?

  We were all in elementary school when the murders happened, and middle school when Shira went missing. But I remember what it was like, how even the wind blowing a door open would make teachers jump, how the girls were given curfews, how our parents installed deadbolts on the doors.

  When we get to the junior lockers, Ellie shoves an elbow in my side and gives me a look. It’s that Don’t do anything you’ll regret look. The one reserved for when she knows I’m on the verge of a full-on freak-out meltdown. I’m not, though. Not today.

  After last year, a few reporters won’t scare me.

  As I make my way down the halls, I see a flash of neon blue once, twice, and then a million more times. The flyers are plastered all over, on corkboards, on lockers, and littered on the floor. I stop in my tracks and pick one up, the cardstock heavy between my fingers.

  JOIN US FOR THE

  MILA KEENE CHARITY RUN

  5K AROUND THE TRACK

  TUESDAY

  3 p.m.

  $15 ENTRY FEE

  ALL PROCEEDS GO TO

  THE MILA KEENE SEARCH FUND

  SPONSORED BY

  THE EDGEWATER VARSITY XC TEAM

  My jaw drops and my face feels hot. I know this is nice, but what about practice? With regionals so close, we’ve already lost so much training time. Doesn’t anyone else want to win as much as I do? That’s what Mila would want. I turn around and hustle through the halls until I make it to Coach’s office. The door is open and he’s shuffling a stack of papers, flustered and unshaven.

  “Stella,” he says with little affect. “What?”

  I hold up the flyer and open my mouth. But Coach raises his hand as if to stop me.

  “Don’t say a word.”

  “But—” I start.

  “But what?” he asks. His voice is tired and impatient, like he’s been up all night or subsisting on only coffee and protein bars, both of which could be true. “Sit, Stella.”

  I do as I’m told, but cross my arms over my chest as I drop into the plastic chair across from him.

  “We’ve lost almost a week of practice,” I say. “Everyone’s going to be rusty as hell by the time we get to regionals.” But we both know I don’t care about everyone. I care about me.

  “Look, Stella. Things are a bit dicey after last year. Parker still has it out for you, and I don’t want you making a stink anywhere near this.” Coach leans forward. “I don’t have to remind you that your chances of landing a scholarship are almost gone. You’re a junior. This is when the scouts make their final decisions. You’ll be lucky if they take another look at you. You know that, right?”

  I fight the stinging in my eyes, the burning in my throat, and nod. I do know that.

  “The last thing we need is you looking like a suspect or raising any eyebrows,” he says. “You gotta show them all you can be on a team. I need you to support the efforts to find Mila but not get too close to the case. Do you understand me?”

  Of course I understand. I just want to find Mila, to laugh about all this and push each other to the finish line. But if I say any of that out loud, I know I’ll cry. “So if tomorrow’s taken over by a charity run, how are we supposed to get better? How am I supposed to win at regionals? Show them I’m too good to ignore?”

  Coach raises his arms over his head and stretches. “Get in the weight room or something. Go on the treadmill. This is bigger than practice, Stella.” He lets the empty space sit between us. Then he leans in and lowers his voice like he knows he shouldn’t share whatever it is he’s about to tell me. “Apparently Mila’s dad has been totally MIA,” he says. “And so even though he’s got a whole trust-fund situation, Mila’s mom now has to raise money for a private detective to get some extra resources. They don’t trust Parker’s team to get it right. So I expect you to be there and not make a scene. Okay?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Good. Just think of it like practice, okay? Work on your time. Stay in your own lane. Don’t fuck it up.”

  “Okay, Coach.” I pick my bag up and turn to leave.

  “Oh, and Stella?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know this isn’t really your thing, but it wouldn’t kill you to show some emotion.”

  “Emotion?”

  “You know. Feelings.” He smiles, like he’s just made a sly joke, but in a second, it slips from his face. “A girl is missing, after all.”

  I grit my teeth. How I wish I could throw him to the floor and rip that smirk off his face. Coach has no idea what the fuck he’s talking about and I don’t know how to explain it to him. So I don’t.

  * * *

  —

  The flyers seem to follow me for the rest of the day, scattered on desks in World History and French. As the bell rings for third period, I trudge back to my locker to dump my books from my morning classes, but I keep seeing those neon papers out of the corner of my eye. It takes everything in me not to rip down every single one.

  “Hi, Stella.”

  I turn to find Tamara leaning up against the locker next to mine, cradling a stack of paper in her arms.

  I grunt hello and spin the dial on my lock.

  “Just wanted to see if we can count you in to come to the charity run,” she says.

  I turn to Tamara, wanting to say something sarcastic or flippant, but when I look at her, there’s fear in her eyes. She fidgets, twisting one of her braids around her finger.

  “I’ll be there,” I say, softening my tone.

  “I know we’re slacking in the practice department, but . . .”

  I shrug and mimic Coach’s words. “This is bigger than practice.” The pained look on Tamara’s face confirms it’s true and something inside me softens. “Thanks for organizing this whole thing,” I say. “Coach told me Mila’s dad hasn’t helped at all.”

  “It’s so messed up. I just hope we can do something to help Shawna.”

  “Me too,” I say as I pull my locker open and reach for my physics textbook. But before my fingers can grasp the thick spine, something hard and plastic drops to the ground.

  I bend down to pick it up. My heart nearly stops. It’s Mila’s Edgewater High School ID. Flecks of dirt stain the edges and a smear of mud nearly covers her face. How did this get here? Quickly, I scoop it up, praying that Tamara didn’t see, that she won’t ask any questions. I shove the ID back into my locker and slam it shut. But when I look up, Tamara’s eyes are wide with shock. Down the hall, I see Noah, Julia, and Raven coming toward us.

  “I gotta go,” I mumble. I head for the gym, the only place where I can wait out the lunch period and just think. How did Mila’s mud-stained ID get in my locker? Who put it there? For the first time since Mila’s gone missing it occurs to me that someone must be behind this. And whoever it is wants me to take the blame.

  * * *

  —

  In physics, I count the seconds on the clock above the door as the period ticks by. As soon as the bell rings, I head back to my locker. But when I approach, Principal Pérez is there, arms crossed over her chest. Detective Parker stands at her side. They’re both staring at my locker, as if their steely gazes will cause it to spring right open.

  I wonder what will happen if I run. But the hallway is crowded and there’s no way out unless I want to bulldoze a bunch of freshmen.

  “Stella Steckler,” Pérez calls when she sees me approaching. The halls go quiet. “A word.”

  I hold my breath an
d walk to the locker, horrified by what’s inside.

  “We have reason to believe there may be some evidence in your locker, Stella,” Parker says with a cool, steady voice. “Do us a favor and open it. Otherwise we’ll have to get the master key.”

  I don’t know what to do. Heat pulses through me and I clench my fists. There’s a crowd now. Freshmen whispering behind cupped hands. Sophomores rubbernecking on their way to class.

  “Move along, everyone. Don’t you have places to be?” Principal Pérez says, but nobody listens.

  I spot Noah with Tamara, Raven, and Julia, staring at me with curious looks at the other end of the hall. I wonder which one of them threw me to the wolves.

  I have no choice. I enter my combination with shaking fingers. The locker pops open and I hold my breath as I step back, letting them search for Mila’s ID, for anything else that someone may have planted.

  A few moments pass but nothing happens. No one gasps or shrieks or holds up that plastic card with any sort of relief. Parker slams the locker shut. “Nothing interesting, Steckler,” he says. “Guess we got a bad tip.”

  What? Parker and Pérez turn back toward her office, shooing students to class on their way.

  Once the hallway is empty, I rush to my locker and fling it open again, digging around to see where the ID may have gone. I take a step back.

  Suddenly, I see Ellie’s dark hair in my periphery. She walks toward me. Huddling close, she leans in and whispers into my ear. “I took care of it.”

  “What?” I hiss.

  But the late bell rings and Ellie’s gone, rushing to her next class.

  “Ellie!” I yell, trying to get her to come back, to explain what the hell is going on. But she keeps walking. She doesn’t look back.

  19

  STELLA

  The charity run takes over the entire school for twenty-four full hours. Every wall is plastered with Mila’s class picture. The same photo that was on her ID. Her missing, mud-stained ID. The one that was in my locker—and then wasn’t. I try to shake the strange feeling as I reach into my gym bag and pull out my sneakers. The rest of the team jostles around me, peeling off their jeans and fleeces and changing into our uniforms.