Looking at Western Park now, you’d never guess the decomposing body of a young girl was found just a few hours ago. The first tulip bulbs of the year are sprouting. The landscaping is crisp and clean with only a remnant of slush melting in the center of the greenery. Beyond that, it’s quiet. Not even the traffic noise seems to break through. Between the darkening sky and the chill in the air, the place is nearly deserted. I dip my chin into my coat and trudge toward the koi pond.
My mind is racing. Abby to Missy to Nicole and around and around we go. Before CFSU, I never realized just how easy it is for young girls to disappear. Whether by choice or by force, there seems to be an infinite amount of cracks waiting to swallow them whole.
It’s depressing when you think about it, really. The heartbreak and the unanswered questions. Rosie’s stats were accurate, but saying only three thousand cases are open like it’s a good thing is a problem in and of itself.
That’s thousands of children across the state who might never be accounted for, and we’re lauding that as a success.
I have a confession to make, but I can’t do it with my mom and dad around. It’s about Abby. Can you meet me at the park?
JJ has frequently been described as a nice kid. A good brother.
But I know better than most that appearances can be deceiving.
JJ stands with his back to me on the cobblestone bridge. I approach slowly, trying to assess his mood. Agitated? Distressed? Confrontational? I need to be prepared for anything.
Hands stuffed into his pockets, he bounces from foot to foot. I round the pond, and when he sees me, he straightens, taking a few hurried steps toward me before doubting himself.
“Hi, JJ,” I say, prodding his expression for signs of guilt. He doesn’t drop his gaze from mine, but his eyes are slightly puffy and skittish. They’re rounder than Jen’s and heavier lashed, but also flat, like a boy in a Norman Rockwell painting.
“Hey.” He stares down at the koi pond. They bob along the surface, orange blobs with gaping mouths.
“Come here a lot?” I ask, breaking the ice.
“Not really.”
“Like the fish?”
“They’re all right.”
“You know, my dad hated fishing,” I say. “But he did bring us to the aquarium once, and there was this huge pool filled with koi. They had these long whiskers and beady little eyes—and they were always clumped together, fighting for the pellets the volunteers gave out. They bit my brother’s fingers. He said it didn’t hurt, but I didn’t believe him. I thought they were tiny vampires.”
JJ nods. “I can see that. You’re not supposed to feed these guys, but everybody does. Sometimes they bring entire loaves of bread and just toss in chunk after chunk. But then the fish don’t know how to find their own food, and they die, and the park crew has to bring in a whole new batch.”
“I didn’t realize it was so bad for them.”
“They can’t learn how to survive when they’ve been spoon-fed garbage their whole lives.”
I study his face, the twist of his mouth, the serious scrunch in his forehead. “It takes perseverance to adapt,” I say.
“Does it?” he asks.
“You know, JJ, I have to tell you that since you’re a minor, I really shouldn’t be talking to you without a parent present. Does anyone know you’re here?”
“No. I told my dad I was going to Ryan’s.” He paces the length of the bridge away from me and sits on a bench stationed along the path.
In the summer, the park hosts a remote-controlled sailboat competition that launches from this spot. Retirees and sailing enthusiasts line up on the bank and race their model yachts around the pond. It’s almost as much a spectacle as CC Spectacular, but without the pomp and circumstance.
I take a seat beside him and realize his shoulders are shaking. He hunches over, rubs his face as if he’s tired, then rises to his feet.
“JJ, why did you send me that message?”
“I don’t know.”
“Confessions are serious. I’m not a lawyer, so whatever you tell me, I have a duty to report it and take appropriate action.”
“I know, it’s not, but—shit, I don’t know what I’m doing.” He sits back down.
“This is really something we should be doing at the station with your parents. Why don’t you come with me, and we can call them when we get there?”
“No,” he says emphatically. “I’m not doing this with them. I can’t. Please, just hear me out and then afterwards if you need to arrest me or whatever, I won’t put up a fight,” he shrugs.
I angle myself on the bench. “Why would I arrest you?”
He drops his head into his hands. A noise of frustration escapes his throat and he rubs furiously at his glistening eyes. “This is my fault.”
A twinge in my chest. “What is?”
“Okay, last week was really bad,” he says. “Like, the worst it’s ever been. Mom and Dad barely said a word to each other. And Abby . . . she wasn’t in a good place.”
“How so?”
“She was acting super weird. Basically ignored me, and when she wasn’t ignoring me, she just stayed in her room. She stopped coming down for dinner. And my mom, I mean, you see how she is with this blog. I don’t think they took a single picture, which is even weirder for them. They were arguing before I left for school and still going at it when I got home.”
“About what?”
“No idea. I kept asking what was going on, but they just kept insisting they were fine. We’re fine. Everything’s fine. I couldn’t take it anymore. It was like being in a volcano about to erupt. I started sneaking out to spend the night at Ryan’s.”
“So that’s why you weren’t home last night?”
He nods. “Barely feels like a home.”
It’s disconcerting when you lose that sense of safety. Home is supposed to be the place that keeps the danger away, a barrier between you and the rest of the world. How do you find peace when everything that’s supposed to protect you feels wrong?
“Knowing how to take care of yourself is important. Sometimes your parents aren’t going to be able to fix the problem—sometimes they are the problem—and recognizing you needed space is not the issue. I know it can feel bad to lie to your parents, but sneaking out to sleep at your friend’s? That’s pretty harmless.”
He slams his hand into the wood, not quite a punch, but enough to redden his skin. The bench creaks in response. “It wasn’t harmless. Are you hearing me? I wasn’t there. I could’ve stopped this, but I wasn’t there for her.”
JJ collapses into tears.
I give him a minute to work it out before continuing. Truth be told, I need a minute myself. Either JJ is giving an Oscar-worthy performance, or his despair is genuine, and my ill-fated gut says he’s telling the truth.
“Look, even if you had been home, there’s no guarantee it would’ve made a difference,” I say. “We don’t know what happened, and we won’t know for sure until we find Abby.”
He wipes his nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You can’t promise you’ll find her. Look what happened to Missy.”
The bloated corpse flashes in my thoughts. “Someone murdered Missy,” I say.
“Yeah.” He nods to himself like he’s made a decision. “I need to show you something.”
JJ reaches into his pocket, starts to pull something out, and pauses.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles, every muscle on alert. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t want to go to jail,” he says.
“I understand that,” I say. “I can help. Talk to me.” My hand floats to my hip, the acrid sting of nervous sweat clinging to my clothes. “Take your hands out of your pocket, please. Slowly.”
Fear spreads across his face. “Oh, shit, no, I’m not—” Reluctantly, he takes them out and places the item in his lap.
I study it. I was expecting a weapon, but this feels more loaded.
A smart phone.
The screen is smashed to smithereens but otherwise in good shape.
My brain scrambles to catch up. “What is this?” I ask.
“I found it a few days ago.”
“Where?”
“In the basement. I had a project due for Bio and I needed a trifold board. Mom’s got shelves stuffed with props and crafting materials, so I went to see if she had anything I could use, and I found this crammed between two totes.”
“May I?” He nods, and I take the phone. Trying to power it up proves futile, but Luke might be able to work his magic. “Whose is it?”
“I don’t know, I don’t recognize it. But Abby’s been spending a lot of time in the basement.”
“You think this could be Abby’s?”
He shrugs.
“We took Abby’s phone from her room, though. Your mom’s made it clear that she wouldn’t go anywhere without it. Did you buy this for her?”
“No way,” he scoffs. “I’ll get a job this summer after the season ends, but I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Could she have purchased it herself?” This isn’t a pay-as-you-go. A newer model iPhone, judging by the size of the shattered screen. Not cheap. How would she be able to afford this on her own? And how would she be able to utilize it without a data plan? There are prepaid options, but again, how would she get the money and opportunity to do that herself?
“I don’t think so.”
“A sponsor?” I ask. “Does she have a partnership with a phone provider?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen Abby with this phone?”
JJ’s patience boils over. “I don’t know. I don’t know, okay? I don’t have all the fucking answers. I found it and thought it could be important. I should’ve told you earlier, but I was afraid they’d freak out. They were already pissed at me about the socials and the journal.”
Lie.
I believe that he found it, but I’m struggling to buy his explanation for why he kept this from me for as long as he did. I’m not getting the whole story.
As if the timing could be worse, my own phone vibrates. I fumble with it and read the screen. Wonderful. “Detective Stone.”
“You still got your thumb up your ass in the burbs?”
Blaisdell. A man of words. “I’m in the middle of something, Devon, what can I do for you?”
He chews into my ear. “Your DL called. You’re sitting in on my interview, and I need to know when you plan on gracing me with your presence.”
“What interview?”
“With the vic’s parents,” he says. “Media’s making a connection between my dead girl and your missing girl and he wants to button up the loose ends before we’ve got a riot on our hands. I’ll send you the address. Meet me there in thirty.”
The line disconnects. JJ gapes at me.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Is it Abby?” he asks.
“No,” I say, tapping a new message thread. I send Luke a heads up that I’m dropping off another present. “But I do have to go. Listen, JJ. You did the right thing coming to me.”
“Sure.” He tugs up his hood as the wind whistles off the water. “So, what do I do now?”
I stand and adjust my jacket. “Your parents think you’re at Ryan’s?”
“Dad does.”
“Go there and sit tight. I’ve got to take care of something, and hopefully I’ll have some answers soon.”
“Okay,” he says, staring at the pond. The fish wriggle and writhe below the surface. “I, um, I love my sister, Detective Stone. I don’t want to think about bad things happening to her.”
The cracked phone burns a hole in my pocket. “I know.”
After delivering the phone to Luke for processing, I park in front of the Crawford residence. No sign of Blaisdell’s car. I message to let him know I’m here and scan the neighborhood.
The Crawfords’ development is similar to the Scarboroughs’. Great park, a community garden, a hedge maze you couldn’t pay me to walk through—I’ve read The Shining, I’m not dumb—and plenty of wilderness, as it’s situated on the cusp of the Albany Nature Preserve.
Late for his own interview, Blaisdell texts to say he’s running behind. Super.
It irritates him to have to share information.
Homicide isn’t particularly common in Albany. We average about twelve annually, most of which are attributed to gun violence. Last year, Blaisdell caught a rough assignment. A confidential informant flipped on a known prostitute and drug ring that set up shop in a fleabag motel downtown. Paul Montgomery, the boss of said operation, had his own whisper network and discovered the betrayal before SWAT had a chance to make a move. Montgomery was apprehended, but not before he put a bullet in the informant’s head and strangled the prostitute unlucky enough to be in his company.
Blaisdell’s scheduled to testify in that trial, and I know he’s got a mountain of prep to do. Criminal trials aren’t nearly as common as television would have you believe. Most cases are settled out of court, and detectives are called for only a handful of trials over the course of their tenure. Blaisdell’s good on scene. But put him on a witness stand? He’s a hot mess.
With a full caseload and an imminent trial, I can’t count on him for a secondhand debriefing of this interview, and if Cap’s assessment of the media coverage is right (no thanks to Jen’s blog, which, he informed me, was another subversion of my command), we need to address the rumors of a potential serial killer together.
I check my messages while I wait. Voicemail from Luke shortly after I left the station, saying he might have something from the social media dump and to call him when I can.
My thumb hovers over the number, but I decide to wait until after I talk to the Crawfords. If there is a link between the two girls, I want to know about it now before I start trying to connect the dots.
Audio messages from Drew. He sounds excited. Wants to know if I’ll still be home for dinner. He hopes my day is going well.
No, babe, my day is definitely not going well.
I reply, IDK, I’ll try, and drop the phone to my lap.
My hand gravitates to my stomach, some subconscious maternal gesture that feels strange and terrifying. I’m just shy of eight weeks pregnant, if my calendar is correct. I found out three days ago, but the reality hasn’t sunk in yet.
Drew, on the other hand, is thrilled. He’s talked about having kids since our second date, a shitty horror movie in a crowded theater. He’s freakishly good at pointing out plot inconsistencies but not great at being quiet during the show. In the middle of the goriest scene, bodies strapped to tables and limbs being sawed off, Drew smiled. “His right arm was cut off, but his left arm’s in the bandage. I can’t wait to start a family. Two kids, maybe three. Big yard and a dog. Cats are dumb, though. Are you a cat person?”
I’m not now and never will be a cat person.
Neither is Drew, thank god. He’s an excellent counterpart to my oftentimes stoic demeanor. Calm yet emotive. Sensitive but not to a fault. He’s not afraid to call me on my bullshit or force me to take some me time when I get too much in my head.
It’s not him I worry about. It’s me.
What if I don’t have the mothering gene? What if I’m already hardwired to fail? I picture the hospital, going through the labor, the hee-hee-who breathing method and the final pushes, the baby finally coming, and . . . nothing. I feel nothing. There’s no bond, no rush of love. I look helplessly up at Drew with tears in my eyes, hand him the baby, and walk out of the room without another word.
I know that I’m my own person. I make my own decisions, and I won’t let my life be dictated by the fact that my mother walked out on us.
But there’s knowing, and then there’s knowing, and the fears return relentlessly.
What if, for all the intentions I have to be a good mother, nature pilots me in another direction? A carbon copy of her departure.
Isn’t that the saying? Every girl turns into her mother?
I have a stable career, a stable husband, a stable house—but am I ready to make it a stable home? Will I have to give up my career? This job is taxing, as unyielding as my doubt. Some days I leave without a shred of energy left to give to Drew. What happens to the equation if we throw a child into the mix? Whatever sense of balance we have, the equilibrium of happiness, I don’t know if it can withstand all those winds.
More so if I’m programmed to leave.
A notification appears on my screen, interrupting my kaleidoscope of insecurities. Jennifer’s blog post is going viral. Wonderful. The clickbait title. The pictures of Missy and Abby. Christ. This place will be crawling with reporters soon.
I pick up the journal and skim the first page to get a feel for what Abby wrote about. When she wrote. There could be answers in here too.
Blaisdell pulls up behind me a minute later. He offers an abrupt honk. I see his crooked shit-eating grin in the rearview, more yellow than white.
He slams the door and circles to meet me. His shoes squeak on the pavement, and he must’ve bathed in a vat of Axe. I have to take slow, shallow breaths or I won’t make it through this interview in one piece.
“Detective Stone,” he says gruffly. “Don’t fuck this up. You’re here because your DL called in a favor, but this is my case.”
“Detective Blaisdell,” I say, repeating his tone. “If you block me from finding my girl, I’ll shove my foot so far up your ass, you’ll puke blood for a week.”
“Is that a promise?”
Foul.
We walk to the house, strides synched for the time being.
“Let me do the talking,” I say.
“No fucking way,” he says with a cough.
So much for teamwork. “She’ll respond better to me,” I say.
“This is my case.”
“This is our case until I find Abby Scarborough.”
“Thought her name was Chloe.”
The screen door lurches open as we climb the stairs. Madeline Crawford is in her early to midthirties. Average height, dark hair, on the verge of being too skinny. Her eyes are as red as a Romero zombie. The last person a grieving mother is going to be candid with is Devon Blaisdell.
He clasps his hands in front of him like he’s saying a prayer. “Hello, Mrs. Crawford,” he says. “I’m Detective Devon Blaisdell, and this is Detective Emilina Stone.”
“Hello.”
“Terribly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Crawford,” I say.
“Thank you,” she says, expression unchanging.
“Can we come in?” Blaisdell asks. He pushes his shoulder into mine, nudging me an inch to the right.
“This way,” Mrs. Crawford replies absently. We could’ve told her we were the Ghostbusters and her response would’ve been the same. She holds the door open with one arm pressed into the mesh screen and gestures us inside.
The house smells like lemons. An oriental runner with swirls of maroon, black, and ivory lies on the restored cherrywood floor. An antique telephone bench with a faded plush seat cushion is stationed at the base of an ornate banister.
A full-length mirror hangs above the bench. Like I’m crossing over into another dimension, I watch my reflection step onto the carpet. Madeline Crawford guides us into a modest living room and robotically sits on a stiff gray couch.
The walls are painted navy a shade too dark for the space. I suspect there’s asbestos—all the old houses in this area have it—and the blue probably hides decades of lead paint. A built-in with hundreds of books lines the wall in an attempt to bring character.
You won’t find charm like this in contemporary houses, but I’m grateful Drew didn’t want a fixer-upper.
Mrs. Crawford doesn’t look like she’ll be worrying about lead levels anytime soon. She picks at a piece of her cuticle. A dot of blood spurts onto her skin. She wipes it with her opposite wrist and moves on to the next nail.
“Will your husband be joining us, Mrs. Crawford?” I ask.
“Madeline,” she sniffs. “Everyone calls me Maddy.”
“Maddy, then,” I say, keeping a tempered tone.
“No. He’s . . . he identified the body.”
Blaisdell takes the seat beside her and offers a tissue. It’s crinkled and there’s not a box in sight. I hope it’s not used.
Madeline dabs the corners of her eyes. “I couldn’t bring myself to go with him. He’s picking up his mother from Saratoga. She can’t drive and she’ll want to be here while we . . . make arrangements.”
She focuses on the mantel above the stove at a framed photograph of Missy. Lasers have been replaced by charcoal-colored bubbles since my school days, but the signatures of a class package remain the same.
“I made her wear that shirt,” Madeline points.
“It’s lovely,” I say. Royal blue, scoop neck, long sleeves. A nice complement to the flecks of green in her hazel eyes and the chocolate brown of her hair.
So much like Abby Scarborough’s.
“She hated it. Said I wanted her to look like Violet Beauregarde.” She cries again, perhaps weighted down by the understanding that fights with her daughter about clothes, about anything, are over. There won’t be a day when she wakes up to a slammed door, a teenage attitude, or an exuberant shriek of celebration.
“I understand how difficult this is,” Blaisdell soothes, “but I need to ask you some questions.”
Sniff. Fresh tears slide to her lips. “Okay.”
He scratches his neck with a meaty finger. “Have you ever been to Western Park?”
My thoughts float to JJ on the bench. The phone. Another piece that doesn’t fit.
Madeline sighs and blinks to focus. “Yes. Of course. We’ve lived here our whole lives.”
“Does the location have any significance to you?”
“I don’t understand the question,” she says.
“Would there be any reason . . .” He trails, shakes off his idea, and begins again. “Is it possible that Missy was left in the tree house because it’s important to you or your husband?”
Is he expecting her to pontificate about motive? Come on, Blaisdell, this isn’t Criminal Minds. This woman is hardly qualified to psychoanalyze her daughter’s killer.
Madeline chews her cracked bottom lip. “We’ve only been a handful of times. Tulip Fest. Homecoming pictures. A show at the community stage once. I didn’t know about that tree house until this morning, detective.”
And now she’ll never forget it.
Before Blaisdell allows this to go sideways, I take the wheel. “Would you mind just giving us a run-through? Your account of the day Missy disappeared again?”
A pregnant pause swells. “Sure.” Madeline Crawford rolls the tissue into a ball and squeezes it as she speaks. “It started off like any other day. I woke her up for her music lesson. She’s played the clarinet since fourth grade and takes it very seriously. She was going to be first chair this year.” She sobs into her fist.
“Take your time.”
Once she’s able to collect herself, she continues. “Missy’s lesson lasted for an hour. We stopped at Bowled for a couple of salads. I remember laughing because she stood on the chair to take a picture of our food.” Madeline’s chin quivers. “Uh, we ate there then headed to dance. She’d signed up for an extra class to keep her skills sharp until cheer practices start up again. They used to use the girls for baseball, but Brienna Tarpington got hit by a foul ball last year and her parents made it into a whole thing. The school decided they could only cheer at football games.”
“Did you stay to watch the class?” I ask.
“No. I ran to the bank then stopped at the co-op for a few things. Just around the corner. When she was done, I picked her up and we went home. I got started on the laundry and she went up to shower before her study group.”
The study group that didn’t exist.
“How did her mood seem?” Blaisdell asks.
“Fine. Normal. Happy. I asked her if she wanted a ride, but she said it was close and didn’t mind walking. I’d met Carolina’s parents a number of times, so I didn’t think anything of it. The kids were always getting together for some project or tutoring session, always alternating whose houses they went to and dividing up the work.” She curls her fist to her lips and shakes her head. “I should’ve asked more questions. I should’ve realized she wasn’t telling me the truth.”
“You can’t blame yourself, Mrs. Crawford,” I say.
“Wouldn’t you?” she asks.
Blaisdell clears his throat and silences me with an imperceptible nod. “When did you realize something was wrong?”
“She wasn’t answering my calls or texts. That’s one of our rules. I don’t mind if she socializes while she studies, but she has to be available if we need to get ahold of her. Missy took her curfew very seriously. When half an hour passed and she still wasn’t answering, I got worried. It’s not like her to lose track of time. I had, you know, I just had a bad feeling.”
I jot some key words down on my notepad. As much as apps have become second nature, I still prefer pen and paper for these situations. Puts people’s minds at ease.
“Is that when you called the police?”
She shakes her head and squeezes the tissues a little faster. “No, we called Carolina’s parents first, Albert and Jude. Wonderful people. Jude was confused. She said she didn’t know about any project and put Carolina on speaker. She said, um . . .” She wipes her nose and takes a few deep breaths to steady herself. “She said there was no study session. That she hadn’t seen Missy after school for weeks. I said that’s absurd, she’s been going to your house almost every day, maybe you’re mistaken. And Carolina, bless her heart, she told me I was the one who was mistaken. She said Missy had been more distant; that’s the word she used. Not weird, but distant. Busy. They assumed she had a boyfriend, which is just not true, detectives. Missy would’ve told me if there was a boy.”
I have to wonder.
“Is that when you reported her missing?”
“Yes. They took our statement and told us to hang tight. That she’d probably turn up on her own. Kids will be kids, they said. She probably needed to blow off some steam. But I knew that was malarkey. Missy didn’t have steam to blow off. She’s a perfectly adjusted girl who loves her life.” Her face droops. “Loved. Loved her life.”
“Mrs. Crawford—”
She stops me with a stern hand. “My husband and I drove around the neighborhood for half an hour after the police left, asking neighbors if they’d seen or heard anything, but,” she shrugs. “I, god help me, I was hoping we’d find her, like she’d broken her ankle or had a concussion or something. Do you know what it’s like to hope that your daughter has had an accident? That something awful has happened to her, but it’s a fixable awful? Just so you can have an explanation that makes sense? So your child comes home?”
Madeline’s voice pinches toward the end, and the emotional buildup releases. She buries her face into her hands and wails.
Blaisdell shifts uncomfortably and gives me a sidelong look.
“Mrs. Crawford,” I start, “I know this is a difficult discussion, but is it possible that Missy was seeing someone and she chose not to tell you? Or hadn’t gotten the chance to tell you yet?”
Madeline vehemently shakes her head again, shreds the tissue into mushy ribbons, and rolls them together in her palms. “Absolutely not. Missy is a good kid. We’re good people. Our friends are good people. We go to church every Sunday. No one we know could be capable of this. Everybody loves her.”
I recall my conversation with Rosie. “Did Missy have a history of running away? Skipping school or not coming home when she was supposed to?”
She furrows at me. “My daughter is dead, detective.” She pauses, her eyes skittering around the room. “She didn’t run away. Somebody murdered my baby.”
I allow Mrs. Crawford her tears.
When the worst of it is out of her system, Blaisdell asks, “What about someone she had a problem with? Someone who might’ve had a grudge?”
Blaisdell belongs in a knockoff mob show. Derivative Sopranos. Low budget. Bad accents.
Madeline Crawford seems equally unimpressed. “Like I said, Detective Blaisdell. Everybody loved Missy. She’s student council president. Co-captain of the cheer squad. Volunteers for park cleanups. She . . . she was nice to everyone.”
Emphasis on was. Tasting the new tense.
While I don’t say it—since I have more tact than Blaisdell—I’m skeptical of this claim. My job warrants the doubt. Everyone wants to believe the best about their children, but middle school is tough for many kids. I’ve seen how jealousy can get the best of even the nicest girls. How they fight for their place on the social ladder—or become targeted because of it.
“Would it be possible for us to take a look in Missy’s room?” I ask.
“Why?”
Blaisdell scowls. His nostrils flare. He looks like a bull about to storm the gates, clearly agitated with her reticence. “We might see something you don’t.”
Madeline moves farther from him. “Are you suggesting I don’t know my own daughter, Detective Blaisdell?”
“Not at all. I was—”
“Because there was nothing we didn’t share. Missy and I had a wonderful relationship. She trusted me with her secrets.”
“I understand that, but—”
He’s digging his hole deeper and doesn’t know how to stop. “What he meant to say,” I interrupt, “was that we need to get to know Missy better. See the world through her eyes. And the best way to do that is see where she spent her time. I remember how important having my own space was at that age.”
Madeline stands, wipes tears from her eyes, but doesn’t answer right away. “Okay,” she says after a moment. “Come with me.”
Blaisdell glowers but follows us up the stairs. We pass a wall with to-do lists, school announcements, and permission slips. A calendar without a blank space to be found. Practices, appointments, tutoring sessions, concerts, private lessons.
As if hearing my thoughts, Madeline says, “We color-coded to keep track of our engagements and synched our phone calendars.” She plants a hand on the page and reluctantly moves on.
We stop in front of a door plastered with black and white shots of Paris. Eiffel Tower. Arc de Triomphe. Bastille. Louvre.
Her hand finds the knob but doesn’t turn. She presses her forehead against the wood and breathes deeply. “I haven’t touched anything,” Madeline sobs. “It might be messy.”
“That’s okay,” I assure her. Apologizing for a mess is a normal she can hold on to. Madeline pushes the door open and steps aside to let Blaisdell and me enter.
As opposed to the days of beaded curtains and boy band posters, Missy’s room is a beautiful combination of chaos and simplicity. Her bed is made, beautifully creased corners and elegant lines. Pillows arranged by size and a lap desk perch at the headboard. A shaded lamp with a crystal base shaped into three balls.
It smells like almonds and expensive perfume. Definitely not going to find a bottle of Heavenly in here.
In lieu of a desk, there’s a rolling laptop table stationed beside a beige chaise longue on a faux fur carpet. Chic and feminine yet functional. Above a distressed-style dresser and mini fridge, which Blaisdell determines to be full of bottled water and bagged apple slices, are four separate collections of collages.
Her core group of friends appears to consist of four other girls. They show up in some combination in basically every photo. Halloween costumes and spirit weeks. Cheerleading competitions and yellow choir robes. Beaches, restaurants, mall.
Mall.
Here I pause. I recognize Crossgates from the layout of shops and familiar blue tiles of the floor. They haven’t changed since I was their age. The girls stand in front of Forever 21, a double-level excuse to spend five dollars on a skirt with TACO TUESDAYS stitched onto the pockets.
Forever 21, I remember from the few miserable times I’ve had to get my phone fixed, is right across from the Apple store.
The five of them pose with their arms around one another, giant bows in their ponytails. Their T-shirts are a gradient of colors ranging from neon pink to pastel peach. They each have a letter ironed to the front, spelling out one name.
C-H-L-O-E.
“Was Missy a fan of Chloe Cates?”
Blaisdell stops picking through the nightstand drawer and clomps to my side.
“CC Spectacular? Oh, yes,” Madeline says, her voice lightening for the first time in our conversation. “She loved ‘CC and Me.’ I kept waiting for the phase to end, but,” she holds out her hands in a what-are-you-going-to-do gesture. “There’s a lot worse on the Internet these days. Some of these girls dress and act like they’re grown. Chloe’s page was more wholesome. I didn’t mind her subscribing. Jennifer Cates seems to have similar values, and the family skits are pretty adorable.”
“They’re something, all right,” Blaisdell scoffs, moving to the next collection of pictures. His scrunched forehead and squinted eyes make him look like a gopher trying to decipher a cryptic language. Under other circumstances it would be comical.
Madeline chokes on a sob and sits on the edge of Missy’s bed. “I didn’t love the idea of Missy having a phone, but with her late practices and tournaments, it made life easier. Plus, everybody her age has one. I didn’t want her to feel alienated because I was too strict. I’m not unreasonable.”
I sense this was an argument they had before and nod in agreement.
“I limited her screen time and reviewed her privacy settings. I monitored her feed so she didn’t post anything too controversial or revealing.” She draws out the last word, implying all the things no mother wants for her child.
I think of Abby and the phone JJ gave to me. “Have they been able to locate Missy’s phone?” I ask.
“No,” Blaisdell says. “Wasn’t on her person or in the tree house. Trying to coordinate with the phone company for tower triangulation, but we’re SOL if it’s turned off or dead.”
Madeline weeps.
I point to the mall photograph. “When was this taken?”
She examines the photo, her thumb caressing Missy’s cheek. “That’s from September. It was the CC Spectacu-palooza.”
“What a mouthful,” Blaisdell says.
“How would you describe that event?” I ask, flipping to a fresh page in my notepad.
“Shitshow,” she says, and utters a laugh. She claps a hand over her mouth, as if showing any sign of happiness in this place is forbidden. I think it’ll be a long time before she allows herself to feel anything but sadness.
“Meaning?” Blaisdell rolls his hand for her to continue.
“Detective Blaisdell, when was the last time you took a bunch of hyped-up thirteen-year-old girls to a concert?” she asks.
I suppress a smile.
“Never, but my sister loved *NSYNC back in the day, so I get the whole boy band craze. Kind of.”
Madeline focuses on me. “It was insanity, and that’s saying something because I’ve chaperoned four different cheer championships. Stiflingly hot. Hundreds of shrieking girls being crammed into the event areas. Music so loud my ears rang for days after. JJ Cates was there, too, and oh, they adore him. JJ 4 EVER and I LOVE JJ and JJ MARRY ME on glittery poster boards.”
“How did Chloe take that?”
“She seemed to enjoy it. They did some prank skit and did a brief Q&A with the audience. Missy had a little crush on him, so it was cute to see her with hearts in her eyes. CC and JJ. As far as sibling relationships go, theirs seems good.”
I love my sister.
Luke’s message just became more pressing. “Was there a meet and greet afterwards?” I ask.
“Not for that show, but there was for the most recent one, and very well attended.”
“You were there?”
Madeline looks at me like I’ve got three heads. “We were in the front row. I surprised Missy with VIP meet and greet passes. A reward for making honor roll third quarter.”
Two missing girls. One dead. Both uniquely bonded by the imaginary creation that is Chloe Cates. Not a coincidence. Blaisdell realizes this as well. His ornery quips have taken a back burner to the details of the mall appearance. For once, we might be in agreement. We’re chasing the same perpetrator.
“How would you compare the atmosphere of the last show to the previous one?” I ask.
She drops the photo on the bed next to her and sighs. “Fine? Mediocre? Strained, perhaps. Ugh, it was terrible, what she went through.”
Blaisdell arches an eyebrow at me inquisitively.
“She got her period,” I say.
From the stretch of his countenance, it’s clear the idea is out of his comfort zone.
“I felt so bad for her,” Madeline says. “All those people laughing, and to have it be live? I can’t imagine.”
“Did she seem distressed?”
“Wouldn’t you be?” Madeline says matter-of-factly. “She actually finished the last skit, but that girl was mortified. I thought for sure they’d cancel the VIP, but they went through with it, and she seemed like her regular, sparkly self.”
“What about the parents? Jackson and Jennifer, what were your impressions of them?”
“They seem like nice people,” she says, leaving me to interpret what nice means. “Jackson Cates is great with the crowd, dancing and singing and just really friendly—incredibly popular with the late teens and young moms. Old moms, too, with those dimples and biceps, but not my cup of tea. To each their own. Jennifer doesn’t seem to mind. She has an infinite supply of energy. And she loves Chloe.”
As long as there’s a camera on them.
“One last question, Maddy,” I say, taking a final look at the collages. “Was there anything about the meet and greet that stood out to you?”
She almost dismisses the idea but stops herself. “There may be something,” she offers, and tells us the story of the autograph.