There’s something dignified about pouring your own coffee at a 7-Eleven. Cup? Pick your own cup. No one is going to ask you if you want a venti, or grande, or a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Cream? All the cream you want. Make it ninety percent cream, if you feel like it.
God, I’m tired.
I pay at the counter, take my coffee out to the truck, and settle in as I flip open the scrapbook.
The first page is the acceptance letter, congratulating Laura, and notifying her that she’ll be living in Royce Hall. I flip to the next page, which is the photo of the girls in front of the dorm. There are roughly fifty of them, lined up in three rows. The first row is on one knee, the second is crouching, and the last is standing upright.
There she is—back row, third from the left. My eyes are instantly drawn to the red hair and blue eyes. She looks happy and excited. Again, I could only imagine the change from living with her mother in Thistleton, to going to college and meeting so many new pe—
Laura bleeding out on the floor of the warehouse.
The image is so vivid, I take a sharp inhalation of breath. I rub my eyes, trying to banish the image from my mind, and flip the page.
It’s another group photo in front of a different dorm. There are fewer girls, so the camera is a little closer. Just as before, they’re in rows. “Wilson Hall 2006!” it says at the bottom of the picture.
There’s Laura, again, this time front and center. Her hair is shorter, and she looks slightly older. That first year of college does that to you, I guess.
I flip the page, and it’s filled with photos of the girls moving into Wilson Hall. The following pages are filled with photos of Laura and her friends hanging out and going to parties.
Wait.
I flip back to the Royce Hall group photo. Next comes the Wilson Hall photo, and then pages and pages of Laura and the other girls of Wilson Hall.
Why aren’t there any photos of Laura with the girls from Royce Hall?
I bring the scrapbook closer to my face and inspect the metal rings mounted to the spine that hold the pages. They’re bent, ever so slightly. Someone has ripped out those pages.
That’s it. Whatever I’m looking for is in those pages.
I’ve got to find someone who knew Laura at New Hampshire University.
I continue studying the photos. There are photos of Laura and her friends, and some of just Laura. I constantly go back and forth between these and the Wilson Hall photos. As I advance in the photos, I can see her circle of friends expanding. More guys start showing up, but I’m particularly drawn to one girl who begins to appear with more and more regularity. She has straight, long, brown hair and deep brown eyes. There are photos of her and Laura at parties, in addition to simple candid shots. Through the photos, I watch their friendship grow. There are movie ticket stubs pasted onto the pages, fliers for parties and concerts, and other memorabilia. They were best friends.
This is the person I need to talk to, to find out who has Murphy. All I need is her name.
I flip another page, and it brings me to an article cut from The Wildcat, New Hampshire University’s student newspaper. The headline reads, “Student Legal Society Brings Challenge to New Parking Ordinances”. Accompanying the article is a photo of a group of smartly dressed students. The girl I’m interested in is second from the end. The students’ names are captioned under the photo.
“You’re the one I have to find, Amy Winstead,” I say aloud.
I pick up my phone, and pull up the browser. I’m worried that there might be too many Amy Winsteads and, sure enough, there are a few dozen in my initial search. I add “New Hampshire University” and “lawyer” to the search, and hit enter.
It returns the address and phone number for a law office in Montpelier. I tap the phone number on the webpage and my phone automatically dials the number.
It’s getting late, so there’s no surprise when my call goes to voicemail.
“You’ve reached the offices of Amy Winstead. Please leave your message after the tone, and it will be returned as soon as possible. You can also call back between our normal business hours. Thank you and have a wonderful day.”
Beep.
“Hi, uh, my name is …” I briefly toy with giving a fake name but decide to come clean. “Listen, my name is Jacob Reese. I wanted to speak to you about a mutual acquaintance—Laura Aisling. I believe that you may have known her when you both attended New Hampshire University. If you could give me a call back, I’d really appreciate it. It’s, uh … It’s important. Thank you.”
I leave my number, hang up, sit back in my seat, and roll my neck. Deep cracks emanate from my spine. I stare out the window to the setting sun. There’s nothing more I can do today. I have to get some sleep.
I start the truck.
It’s going to be a long drive back to The Hollows.
I’m facing the heavy steel door.
The pressure on my sh—
I startle myself awake.
My hands are gripping the steering wheel. It was only for a moment, but yeah, I was falling asleep while driving. I curse, clench my teeth, dial the heat up to full blast, and turn up the radio.
There’s only twenty more miles to go, but this is the worst part of the trip. There’s no stimulus to keep me awake. It’s pitch black outside and the two-lane road just winds on and on through the unchanging forest.
“Just get home,” I tell myself.
As a way to keep myself awake, I start thinking about what I’ll say to Amy Winstead. I have the same problem that I thought I was going to have with Laura’s mom—how can I ask questions without raising suspicions? I could tell her the truth that Laura and I dated for a while, but why would I be asking about their friendship? I could tell her—
—on my shoulder.
“Jacob?” a voice whispers.
Do not turn around. Do not turn ar—
—thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.
I open my eyes, and quickly turn the wheel to get the truck back into the lane.
“Dammit!”
I slap my face, hard. The sting gives me a temporary adrenaline rush.
I’ve only got a few more minutes to go. I’m almost home, but already, the adrenaline rush has passed, and my breathing is slipping into a steady rhythm.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a light coming from the passenger seat.
It’s the burner phone.
I quickly turn down the radio. I don’t know how long the phone has been ringing. The number, like the number for the text message earlier, is blocked.
I quickly pick up the phone and answer.
All I hear from the other end is the sound of someone breathing.
I try to wait her out and make her speak first, but I can’t take it anymore.
“Who are you?”
“The one who is going to take everything from you, just like you took everything from me,” she whispers.
“What do you want?”
“I want you to understand. I want you to know what you took from me, and what I will do to make you pay. You left me in that room. You locked me in, and left me to rot.”
“You’re not her! You’re not Laura!”
She giggles. “Did you have a good talk with Mother?”
Now, I’m wide awake. “You were watching?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Listen to me,” I say. “I don’t know who you are but leave my dog alone. Give him back to me, and we’ll—”
“Not until you understand.”
“Understand what?!”
“What you took from me.”
“You’re not Laura! She’s dead!”
She giggles, again. It’s childish, and teasing, which makes it all the more ominous.
“You should really get that fixed,” she says.
“What are you talking about? Get what fixed?”
“Your taillight.”
The phone cuts out.
Blinding high beams suddenly fill my rearview mirror. I only have a second to brace for impact before the SUV slams into my bumper. The phone and scrapbook go flying. My chest thuds against the steering wheel. The truck lurches forward, and I fight for control of the wheel. No sooner am I able to correct the truck to keep it from going into the ditch, when the SUV slams into me, again. The truck fishtails, and I struggle to keep the wheel steady. I straighten out just as the SUV charges.
I’m still fighting the side-to-side motion. If the SUV hits me now, I’ll go off the road. I stomp the gas to the floor, and the truck shoots forward. My burst of speed robs the SUV of full impact, and instead of ramming me to one side, it pushes me forward. The impact has smashed one of the headlights of the SUV, and I’m not as blinded as I was a moment ago.
I frantically glance from the road in front of me to the rearview mirror. The single fiery eye of the lone headlight begins to close the gap, setting up another impact. I’m outmatched. The SUV has more power, and a firmer center of gravity than the truck. It’s about to slam into me when I jerk the wheel to the left, into the opposite lane, and tap the brake. The SUV misses, and pulls even with the truck. I yank the wheel back to the right, and use all of the truck’s body to slam into the side of the SUV.
For a moment, I think I’ve hit her hard enough to push her off the road, but the SUV holds, and veers back in my direction. I pull the wheel hard, again, and our vehicles smash together. The sound of grinding and scraping metal fills the cabin. I glance at the SUV, but the tinted windows offer no glimpse inside. The truck is holding its own, but the SUV is going to win out.
Suddenly, the SUV brakes. I’m still accelerating and pulling right. The front half of the truck lurches out ahead of the SUV. I try to hit the brakes, but it’s too late. I shoot forward into her path. The SUV revs its engine, and clips the back of the truck as I cut across the lane.
The truck goes into a spin. The SUV darts forward, accelerating into the night.
The trees and road rotate in front of me, illuminated by the headlights.
Then, I make the most instinctual and fatal of mistakes—I try to correct away from the spin.
It puts all of the momentum of the truck into a fight against the direction of the tires. I feel the truck come up on two wheels, and lean.
There’s nothing I can do to stop it, now.
The truck is going to roll.
As the wheels leave the ground, the engine’s RPMs spike in a high-pitched whrrrr. I scream as the world in front of me flips. There’s a sickening crunch as the corner of the roof crashes against the asphalt, causing the truck to skip. It does a full rotation in the air, and slams back down, again. There’s a pop, and my view is obscured by the airbag deploying. I roll one more time, and the truck lands on the driver’s side. There’s a sound like a thousand nails on a chalkboard, and sparks fly inches from my head as the truck slides along the road. The truck twists one last time as it goes down into the ditch, and lands on its roof.
Everything stops.
I’m hanging upside down, still strapped in by my seat belt. Already, I can feel the blood rushing to my head. I groan, and glance at the grass and trees through the hole where the windshield used to be.
Gingerly, I unclip my seat belt and collapse onto the roof of the cabin. Everything hurts. I’m covered in cuts and bruises, but I think I’m okay. I pull myself out through the window, ignoring the bits of glass that cut my hand, and slowly crawl away from the smoking wreckage. I come to rest in the cold mud by the side of the road and look back at the truck.
It’s totaled.
I sink onto my back, look up at the stars, and catch my breath. It’s all I can do.
My phone rings.
I reach into my pocket, but it’s not there.
I pull myself up, and scramble back to the truck. Every movement hurts. My phone, along with the burner phone, is lying on the ceiling inside the cabin. I pick up both, put the burner in my pocket, and answer my phone.
“Hello?”
“Mr Reese?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Amy Winstead. I’m returning your call.”
“What?”
“Um, I’m Amy Winstead. You called—”
“Oh. Yeah, yeah. Right.” I stand up, which causes me to grunt. “Look, thank you for returning my call, but now is not a good time.”
“You said you were calling about Laura Aisling?”
“Yes, I was, but it’s late. Can I call you back in the morning?”
“I’d like to know exactly what this is about.”
“It’s nothing, really—”
“Is this about her disappearance?”
“Yes, sort of, but like I said, this is not a good t—”
“Mr Reese, tell me what’s going on. How did you know Laura?”
Her tone stops me in my tracks.
“Well, we dated for a few months. I knew her pretty well, but I’m trying to fill in some gaps. I’m trying to find out what happened while she was at New Hampshire University, and I was told you two were friends, so I wanted to talk, but, please, Ms Winstead, I really have to go—”
“Mr Reese?”
“Yes?” I answer. Why does she sound so pissed?
“You’re telling me you knew her because you dated for a few months?”
“Yeah. So, I’m trying to—”
She scoffs. “Mr Reese, Laura and I dated for over a year.”