They'll Never Catch Us

by Jessica Goodman

  Naomi leans back and crosses her arms. “I never understood you runners, the ones who wanted to do this forever, who never want the speed to stop. I just run to keep my anxiety away. To get some endorphins. But you and Mila. Both so serious, so obsessed.”

  “It’s my entire life.”

  “I guess I’m like that with Model UN,” Naomi says. “I’m Poland this year, and if someone tried to steal it from me, well, let’s just say they’d never see it coming,” she says, ripping a bite out of one of her mozzarella sticks as if to demonstrate tearing her competition apart. But she can’t keep a straight face and all of a sudden we’re both laughing.

  I’m surprised to hear the sound coming out of my mouth. To feel my lips turn into a smile. Maybe it’s because Naomi has totally disarmed me. Maybe it’s because I can’t stop staring at her smile, painted with a pink lip gloss, or the way she runs a thumb along her wrist tattoo as if it’s a real bracelet. For the first time since I found out Mila died, I feel a little bit lighter.

  But then I remember she never answered my original question. “So do you, though? Think her dad could have hurt Mila?”

  Naomi looks to the ceiling. “Maybe.”

  “That kind of sounds like a yes.”

  Naomi fumbles for her phone. She taps a few times then turns the screen toward me on the table so I can see a headline from the Hadbury Local: NOISE COMPLAINTS RAMPANT ON ROLLINGTON LANE.

  “This is where the Keenes lived,” she says. “It doesn’t mention Thomas by name, but everyone knew this was about him.”

  I scan the page and see the date is from earlier this year. A few key phrases jump out at me. “Repeated domestic disturbances.” “Fearful neighbors.” “Constant calls from concerned citizens.” It even cites a few police reports that were filed the same year.

  “Mila was devastated when this came out,” Naomi says. “Awful to see it in print.”

  “Wait, was he not at the funeral?” I ask.

  “Well, get this,” Naomi says, leaning in and resting her elbows on the table. “I heard that when the police went to his house to notify him, they found it abandoned. Totally empty. He had left town and no one noticed.”

  “What?” I ask. “How did I not know this?”

  Naomi shrugs. “His parents, Mila’s grandparents, are like Connecticut royalty. Tessie and Daniel Keene. Have lived in Greenwich forever. They cut Mila and her mom off when they left her dad, but I bet they found a way to bury it,” she says. “They weren’t even here today. Felt too guilty, Shawna said. I think it’s bullshit. And no one knows where Thomas is. Super suspect.”

  “Extremely,” I say.

  Naomi picks up another mozzarella stick and breaks it in half, letting the glossy cheese droop between both sides. She looks up at me with sweet, calming eyes. “I know you didn’t do it,” she says, twirling the cheese on her finger. “I hope everyone else does too.”

  32

  STELLA

  I thought finding Mila’s dad would be easy. A quick Google search. A phone number lookup. I had no problem with the research portion of library class. But Thomas Keene seems impossible to find. Naomi was right. He has gone off the grid completely. There’s an old LinkedIn account that described him as a “businessman,” that faceless now-deleted Instagram, and a bunch of photos from some prep school reunion a few years back. But other than that, he’s a mystery.

  I close my laptop and tap my feet against the footboard of my bed, running through different scenarios, each one more gruesome than the last. The morning sun peeks through my window and I know I only have a few moments left before I have to leave for school.

  I’m about to give up and start packing up my backpack when something pops into my head. Naomi said no one was at his house, but if his family’s rich as hell, maybe he’s living at someone else’s property. A cottage in the Keene name or something. I flip open the computer and head to one of Mom and Dad’s real estate databases. My brain spins as I enter the Keene name and Mila’s grandparents’ estimated ages before narrowing the search to Connecticut. Within a few seconds, multiple listings pop up. There’s an apartment building in Stamford that looks like an investment property, a mansion in Greenwich that must be the family estate, and a handful of other places that have been owned since the nineties. But when I sort by most recent, my heart begins to pound.

  The first listing is brand-new, purchased only a month ago in cash by Tessie and Daniel Keene, Mila’s grandparents. I copy and paste the address into the search bar and hold my breath as the page loads. From the satellite view, the house looks like a sleek mid-century ranch nestled in the woods, up in the northwest corner of the state where the border meets New York and Massachusetts in the Berkshires. It’s less than ninety minutes from here.

  My fingers tingle as I try to decide what to do. I could call Detective Parker and plead with him to make a house visit. But would that hurt me even more? Parker already wants to blame this on me. Maybe sharing the information would make me look even more suspicious, like I was trying to divert the investigation away from me or something.

  There’s only one option. I whip out my phone and send Naomi a text, my fingers flying over the screen. I don’t wait for a response as I run down the stairs, jacket in hand.

  “Bye, Stella!” Mom calls as I head out the front door. “Have a good day at school!” I wave and head to the car. But I’m not going to school. I’m going to Connecticut.

  * * *

  —

  “Wasn’t sure if you were kidding or not.” Naomi sits on the hood of her beat-up Toyota Corolla, wearing a puffer coat, a plaid skirt, and black Doc Martens boots, paired with knee-high hunter-green socks. She rubs her gloved hands together to keep away the cold, but her smile is wide and warm like she’s glad to see me. “This better be good. I’m missing a Model UN meeting for this.”

  “It is,” I say, trying to ignore the butterflies swarming my stomach. We’re in the parking lot of a health food store, where one sign promises organic avocados even though it’s November in the Northeast. But it’s smack-dab in between Hadbury, Edgewater, and Thomas Keene’s probable new address. “I found him,” I say. “Thomas Keene is home.”

  Naomi rolls her eyes. “Uh, no he’s not. The cops checked last week. Remember?”

  I shake my head. “I think he moved.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a crumpled piece of paper, where I had written his address in my chicken-scratch handwriting. Naomi’s eyes widen as she scans the page. “Looks like Tessie and Daniel Keene bought this house a month ago,” I say. “In cash. Don’t think Thomas Keene could have done that on his own, right?”

  “Well, shit.” Naomi pulls out her phone and searches the address. “It’s in the Berkshires.”

  “Does that mean anything to you? Did they ever go there?” I ask.

  “When Mila was little, they had a country house in Litchfield County,” she says. “I went there once. They had a pool and a big grill built right into the deck. Her dad had been trying to replicate some bulgogi recipe he’d had in Manhattan. I think he was trying to impress me or something. It was so bad, way too sweet, but he was trying.” Naomi’s eyes get misty for a second and she bites her lip. “Mila thought it was hilarious. She scrounged around in the freezer until she found some old hot dogs we could toss on the grill instead. He showed us how to catch fireflies that weekend, and how to toast marshmallows so they turn golden, but don’t burn. It was the only time I saw her dad relax. It was like being there, he could just be free.”

  “So you think he could be living up there?”

  “Yes,” she says without hesitation.

  “Road trip?” I ask. Naomi hops down off her car and rushes around to open her door. She pauses and flashes a smile, her dimple coming into view.

  “I’ll drive.”

  * * *

  —

  The house is big and wide, an elegant on
e-story building nestled far back into a wooded lot, full of tall oak trees, ferns, and weeping willows. The front is all glass and clean lines, and a stone pathway leads to the front door.

  Naomi pulls the car into the driveway slowly, gravel crunching under the tires, and shuts off the engine. We both sit silently for a second, the reality of where we are setting in.

  “Should we ring the bell?” she asks.

  It seems like the logical thing to do. The only thing to do. Then the kitchen floods with light. Naomi inhales sharply beside me.

  “He’s home,” she says.

  I reach for the passenger door to step outside.

  “Wait,” Naomi says. She grasps my arm tightly. “I’m just a little nervous. I haven’t seen him since before . . .” She trails off and looks toward the house. We can’t see anyone inside, no shadowy figure or hulking man, but I can sense her fear, her pain. Naomi’s voice is small and far away. “He was mean and sloppy when he was high.” Naomi shudders and she closes her eyes. “I’m just scared, that’s all.”

  My stomach flips with rage and despair for both Mila and Naomi, for what happened to Mila, for . . . everything. I take Naomi’s hand in mine. “I’m with you,” I say. “We’re doing this together.”

  She looks at me, surprised, but then squeezes my hand right back. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, a small smile spreading across her face.

  I want to say something back, but the enormity of what we’re about to do washes over me. If Mila’s dad really hurt her—if he was able to kill her in cold blood—then what would he do to us? Two girls who are trying to learn the truth?

  I look to the house one more time and see a small man wearing gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt padding through the kitchen. Through the window, I can see his salt-and-pepper hair is thin, and his shoulders hunch as he walks. I take a deep breath in. “Let’s go,” I say.

  I push the door open into the cold air. I walk steadily, knowing if I show any fear, it’s all over. Naomi must know it too because I hear her feet behind me, rushing to keep up.

  “Ready?” I ask as we reach the front door.

  “Yes,” Naomi says. She whips out her phone and taps over to the voice memo app. She hits record.

  I curl my hand into a fist to knock, but before I can make contact, the door swings open to reveal Thomas Keene looking surprised and a bit scared, his gray eyebrows high on his forehead.

  “Naomi Lee.” His voice is raspy, like he’s a smoker, and his skin is sagging around the edges of his mouth. “I was wondering when you would find me.” Then his gaze lands on me and he stares straight into my eyes. “You must be Stella Steckler.”

  I open my mouth to respond but he holds up his hand. “Let’s do this inside.” Naomi looks at me and mouths What the fuck? I shake my head, bewildered, but we do as he says and step inside. The door swings shut behind us.

  Thomas walks along the hardwood floors in his white drugstore socks until he reaches the sunken living room. It’s open and bright but bare, with nothing on the walls. One potted plant sits in the corner. He flops down onto a tan suede couch facing the floor-to-ceiling window and extends his arms along the back of the sofa. “Please,” he says, nodding toward the matching armchairs across from him. “Let’s chat.”

  Naomi and I sit at the same time, and when she leans back in the chair, staring at Thomas in shock, I know I have to take the lead. I perch on the seat’s edge and rest my elbows on my knees. “How did you know we would show up?”

  Thomas smiles thinly. “I’ve known you your whole life, Naomi,” he says, nodding at her. “It was only a matter of time before you came looking for answers.”

  Naomi stares at him, her mouth open.

  “And I’ve heard about you, Stella, that you and Mila were each other’s greatest competitors. I just figured you and Naomi would find each other. Looks like I was right.”

  Something about the smugness in his voice makes me want to scream, to break every piece of glass in this house. “Then why have you been in hiding? The police are looking for you, you know.” The words are coming up like vomit and I don’t know how to reel them back, to play this strategically. I want answers.

  Thomas sighs, his face weary. “I know.”

  “Why didn’t you contact anyone when your only daughter went missing?” My voice rises, but I can’t help it. My anger bubbles to the surface. “Where have you been?”

  Thomas cracks his knuckles. His fingers are slender, with clean, trimmed nails and palms that look like he’s never done manual labor in his life. Why would he have to? With a house like this and a trust fund he kept from Mila, he’s all set.

  “Look, Stella,” he says, putting on what must be his dad voice. “You may have only heard terrible things about me as a father. How I was neglectful and angry, how I only cared about numbing everything.” He rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger as if he has a headache. “But she was my daughter. My only daughter. As soon as Shawna left, that was the wake-up call I needed.”

  Naomi shoots up out of the chair and I can see her hands curl into shaking fists by her sides. “But you made them leave,” she says through tears. “You said you would get help but you didn’t. Shawna couldn’t take it, and Mila was terrified that you would hurt yourself or them. And now you sit here playing the grieving father?” Naomi crosses her arms over her chest. “Bullshit. I know you had something to do with Mila’s murder.” She spits the last word like it tastes like poison.

  Thomas stands and starts wringing his hands, a concerned look on his face. “Wait a minute,” he says, his voice rising. “You think I killed Mila?”

  Naomi steps closer to him, her combat boots thwacking against the shag rug. “Prove that you didn’t,” she hisses. Her spine is straight and she no longer looks scared. In fact, she looks strong, like she has nothing left to lose. I can see why Mila liked her. Naomi has the same kind of fury as I do, but she’s better at using it for good.

  Thomas drops back onto the couch and rests his head in his hands. “I was in rehab,” he says softly. “Out in Malibu.”

  “Malibu?” I ask.

  He nods. “After Mila and Shawna left, my whole life fell apart. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I was using more than I ever had. I knew I had been so wrong in all of this. It was just a shame spiral. But you have to understand. Addiction is a disease. I couldn’t stop.” Thomas shakes his head and his eyes become glassy, like they’re about to spill over. I try to remember the last time I saw a man who wasn’t my father cry, and I can’t. Dad has always been a crier, tearing up at sappy movies about grandparents and dabbing his eyes during rom-coms. He lets it flow, not caring who sees.

  But seeing someone else’s father break down may qualify as torture. I push down the awkwardness and remember we still need answers.

  “I tried to visit Mila once, surprise her and Shawna at their house,” he says. That must have been why Mila was talking to him on the phone before our run. I don’t want to see you anymore. You can’t come here again, she said. Remembering sends a shiver down my spine.

  “But it was a disaster. They kicked me out as soon as they saw I was still strung out. Mila wouldn’t speak to me after that. It was the last straw.” Thomas looks at me, his eyes pleading. “I called my squash buddy Jim and had him arrange it. He had me sent to Malibu for a month. It was hardcore rehab. One of those over-the-top places where you’re totally cut off from the world, with counseling, detox care, and yoga. No Wi-Fi, no cell service. You can’t even write letters.”

  “Bet it cost a hundred grand,” Naomi says under her breath.

  Thomas snorts. “Almost. But I would do it again in a heartbeat. I came back ready to mend my relationship with Mila and Shawna. I reached out that day, you know? The day they found her.” Thomas breaks down then, a sob rippling through his body. He hunches forward and clasps his hands in his lap. Then he breathes deeply and con
tinues. “I was on my way back east and called Shawna from the center. She didn’t pick up but I left a message. I found out as soon as I landed. Couldn’t bear to go to the funeral. Every day’s a struggle to stay sober, and I knew if I went . . .” He shrugs and his shoulders slump forward.

  No one says anything for a second, and then Thomas leans over to the side table and reaches for a marble keepsake box. He flips up the latch and riffles through some papers. “Here,” he says, pulling one from the stack. “Proof. I stuffed all my travel documents in here when I got back.” Thomas slides a piece of paper over to us and immediately I can see it’s a receipt for the place in Malibu, confirming Thomas was there for weeks, including the time Mila disappeared.

  “So you couldn’t have hurt her?” I ask. After hearing so much about him, this guy had turned into the bogeyman. But seeing him here, up close, he looks frail and timid, a grieving father who never had a chance to make things right with his daughter. A man with regrets.

  Thomas doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. Naomi moves from her chair to the couch and sits next to him, leaving a little room between them.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says softly. “This must be unbearable.”

  Thomas lets out a whimper and it’s almost too soft, too raw, too vulnerable. I want to run. He turns to Naomi through tears. “I’m the one who should be sorry,” he says. “If I hadn’t been . . .” Thomas’s voice trembles as he trails off. “None of this should have happened. Mila should still be here.”

  Naomi blinks back her own tears. “You can’t rewrite history,” she says. “All we can do is figure out the truth. Find out who hurt Mila and bring them to justice.”

  I know she’s right, and the sentiment is sweet and tender, but there’s one thing still bothering me, one thing that just doesn’t make sense, especially since he says he didn’t have Wi-Fi out in Malibu. But he could be lying. He could have snuck away. The bill could be fake.