The Creeping

I like to believe that even if the memories are lost, I’d still feel something in the presence of the person who took Jeanie. My nerve endings would tingle or I’d become really dizzy. There’s not a bit of that with any of the Talcotts. Not even psycho Daniel. Poor Daniel. Where is he now? First his sister, now his mother. He’ll be devastated. Frantic. I’m the only person who can help him. Somewhere in the black hole of my mind is the proof of his father’s innocence and his sister and mom’s killer. I throw myself down on the bed, gathering up the loose fabric of the comforter in my fists. Jane Doe, Bev Talcott, Jeanie, the finger bone. They’re related somehow. Knit together by a common killer.

Whatever is happening, I won’t be safe until I remember who took Jeanie. I need help for that. Help from someone who remembers the events of that summer; who remembers Jeanie. I know we were only six, but Zoey has a way better sense of who Jeanie was. Maybe something she knows could help? It’s not much to go on, but it’s all I have right now. I snag my cell off the nightstand. The phone rings twice before Zoey answers.

“Took you long enough,” she whines. “I’ve been going craaazy waiting for you to call. I can’t believe your dad sent me home. Next time I see Joe, I am sooo giving him a piece of my mind, and for that matter—”

“Zo, just listen. I need your help.”

“Interrupt much? What, you need me to break you out of the prison cell your bedroom has become? Mom just got home and said your block has more cop cars than the Fourth of July parade.”

“No, not yet, anyway. Shane and Dad are still downstairs talking. But listen, they’re pinning Mrs. Talcott’s death on Mr. Talcott. Jeanie and Jane Doe, too.”

She gasps on the line. “I always thought he had rapey eyes!”

I sputter, “No, Zoey. He doesn’t have . . . What are rapey eyes?” I shake my head hard like she can see me through the receiver. “Whatever they are, he doesn’t have them. He didn’t do any of it. I would know. I swear I would know.”

“Okay, but you don’t remember anything, so how would you know? Maybe he’s got a thing for little girls and diddled the one in the cemetery? Maybe the old ball-and-chain found out that he hurt Jeanie and Jane Doe, so he offed Mrs. Talcott to keep her quiet? I mean, you don’t even know if you saw who took Jeanie for sure.”

“I know I saw something, and I don’t believe it was Mr. Talcott.” I want to tell Zoey about the finger bone found on Jane Doe, but Shane was clear that the detail wasn’t being released publicly. Also, it doesn’t really feel like my secret to tell.

“What, now you have some sixth sense for guilt? Like a super-tingle in your tits telling you whether or not Mr. Talcott did it? How could you possibly know?”

I sigh. This is what I’ve been dreading. Spilling the truth. I steel myself for Zoey’s wrath. “Because I told the police something the day Jeanie was taken. I don’t think I would have said it if I’d seen Jeanie’s dad take her. I knew Mr. Talcott, you know? Wouldn’t I have recognized him taking his own daughter and told the cops?” Okay, so that’s half the truth, but not the part that she’ll be pissed about.

She sniffs. “That hardly proves anything, Slutty Sherlock. The cops could have misinterpreted what you said. Maybe you were trying to tell them it was Jeanie’s dad and they didn’t get it?”

“No, Zo,” I explain. “I repeated myself two hundred and fifty-five times. There was no mistaking what I said.”

“You’re killing me with suspense,” Zoey says, distracted. I can tell she’s probably giving herself a pedi by how disinterested she sounds. “Drumroll . . . what were you saying?”

I take another deep breath and swallow. “I was saying, ‘If you hunt for monsters, you’ll find them.’?”

A loud clatter on the other end of the call. Plastic against tile. Zoey curses and then fumbles with the phone. She shouts, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, right? What the hell, Stella? If this is a joke, you’re a real twisted psycho-slut and you just made me smear nail polish all over my new jeans.”

“This isn’t the kind of thing I’d joke about. Two hundred and fifty-five times, Zo. Shane counted.”

“OMIGOD . . . I mean, what does that mean? Why was six-year-old you talking about monsters?” She sounds so concerned that for a moment I let myself believe she’ll only be supportive and that it won’t matter that I kept it from her. “Wait a tampon’s bloody second. How long have you known? I mean, you don’t remember anything from that day, so how do you know what you said?”

I close my eyes. “I asked Shane to let me see the case file last September. I don’t know why or what I was looking for. My dad was never going to tell me . . . .”

A long pause. “So you’ve known for nine months and you didn’t tell me?” her voice is quiet, laced with venom.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” I rush to explain.