91. Not a Clue

Maybe there’s truth in it.

Maybe every single thing related to Jocelyn doesn’t have to be some deep, dark conspiracy.

After talking to the deputy, the overgrown brat of a boy who acts like he’s still in high school, I decide to touch base with Poe and Rachel.

Poe is her normal aloof self on the phone, short and distant and claiming no knowledge of Jocelyn’s whereabouts.

“She’s been too busy lately to fill me in on her wonderful life,” Poe says to me.

Where’d that come from?

Before saying good-bye I tell her to let me know if she hears from Jocelyn.

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

Which means that she won’t give it another thought.

What’s up with girls? I mean, really?

It takes a couple of phone calls to locate Rachel. I get her on her cell and she sounds out of breath. Says she’s out of state at some outdoor mall shopping. She basically says the same thing as Poe, but in a nicer way.

Maybe Jocelyn’s aunt did decide they should leave.

But where’d that email come from?

I don’t believe it was from Jocelyn.

I don’t believe that for a second.

Girls can be girls, sure. But not after Christmas Day. Not after everything that was said and done.

I see the leather band around my wrist. I make a fist, then release it. I do this a dozen more times.

Then I touch the band as if it’s Jocelyn’s hair.

Where are you?

Two days before New Year’s Eve, the phone rings.

I jump up from the couch and the boring reality show I’m watching to grab the phone.

It’s her. She’s going to tell me she’s fine and she’s in Florida and she just freaked out a bit like people do.

“Hello?”

Hoping, praying, wanting, needing Jocelyn.

“Chris.”

It’s a female voice, but not Jocelyn. This voice sounds older. Lower. Even though she whispered, I know it’s not Jocelyn.

“Yes?”

“Don’t give up.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not too late to save her.”

“Who is this?” I ask.

But then the phone clicks off.

“Who was that?” my mom asks from her room.

I stand with the phone in my hand, feeling the room start to turn like a ride at an amusement park.

“Just a telemarketer,” I say.

And, oh yeah, they’re selling terror and insanity free of charge.

I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do now.