The Creeping

I fight the urge to peer deeper into the shadowy corridors around us. “I bet Caleb would remember,” I say, keeping my volume low. “I want to ask, but yesterday when I tried to ask him about that summer, he told me it was too dangerous to be hunting for Jeanie’s killer.” I lean over the table to be closer to her. “He said he’d tell my dad on me if I didn’t stay out of it.”


“Well, duh,” Zoey says. A half roll of her eyes, because Caleb doesn’t even warrant a full roll, in her opinion. “My handi-capable brother is not exactly known for his courage. He needed a night-light until he was thirteen.” She flicks her hair from her eyes and taps a disjointed melody on the table. She’s instantly impatient when Caleb’s the subject. A hum buzzes from her throat, and I’m about to lose her completely to the lyrics of an unidentifiable song.

I reach across the table and hold her hands. “You could ask Caleb. Don’t mention me, just act like it’s something you’re wondering. He’ll probably remember.”

Zoey’s face crinkles with mean-spirited amusement. “He smoked so much pot in high school I’m surprised he doesn’t forget his own name.” Her mouth cuts a neutral line. “You’d think if he or Daniel remembered us hunting something in the woods, one of them would have had the brain cells to mention it at some point during all these years.” Her eyes settle on my hands over hers. “If it’s that important, I’ll ask.”

Having exhausted the subject, Zoey gives me the rundown on what I missed yesterday—Caleb ogling Cole, the Ds ending up in a shoving match over Zoey, Michaela noticing the rain clouds gathering, Caleb ditching the others, and Zoey refusing to go home until the hail pelted her in the water. Imagining the bedraggled group, shrieking and sprinting through the wood toward the shelter of the cars, does bring a smile on. Zoey tactfully—so tactfully that I suspect an alien hijacked control of her brain—doesn’t mention Taylor.

“Why did Caleb ditch you guys?” I ask.

She drums her sparkly painted nails on the table between us. “He probably had one of his stoner-ific boys pick him up. He came home reeking of stale beer.” She pinches the tip of her nose and sticks her tongue out.

Sam lets two beige folders thud on the table between us. “Been in a library much? Keep quiet,” Zoey purrs. I give her a chastening glare until she adds, “Kidding. What’ve you got there, Wikipedia?”

“Clippings the archivist pulled for me.”

Zoey shoves the folders toward Sam, who catches them before they glide off the table. He takes the chair next to me and starts thumbing through the pages. All photocopies of newspaper articles. He divides the sheets into equal stacks and slides us each one. After the task of combing through articles of unrelated missing children last night, I feel too gutted for it today. But sometimes you have to suck it up. I look over my pile, keeping one eye slightly squinted as though it helps buffer me from the awful details. The Savage Bee covered crimes that were big news throughout the state, and many of my articles are on the missing children I read about last night. Zoey’s luck isn’t any better.

“Look at these,” Sam murmurs excitedly, his hair a wayward pile from all the absentminded rubbing as he read. He arranges three photocopied articles in front of us. “This one is Betty Balco, the girl in 1938 that Mrs. Griever told us about. She was playing in the front yard. Her mom went inside to grab laundry for the clothesline and when she came out, Betty was gone. And these”—he points to the others—“are for two other missing girls. In 1930, Rosalyn Jensen disappeared while hiking in Blackdog with her brother. He said she was lagging behind and then vanished. She was five. And this one, Penelope Petersen, disappeared when she was six in 1936. Her family was picnicking somewhere called Norse Rock.”

Zoey snatches up the articles on Penelope Petersen and squints at the faded black-and-white photograph. “All this proves is that there were sickos in the olden days,” she says. “I have an entire stack of articles testifying to that fact. Big surprise.”

“Read the second paragraph,” Sam tells her.

Her eyes skim quickly over each line. As she reads, the blood drains from her cheeks. “They’re little gingersnaps too.” She places the page down delicately as if she’s afraid of disturbing their sleep. “Redheads just like Jeanie,” she adds in the barest of whispers.

“There’s nothing in these clippings about their remains being found or any serious suspects or arrests ever being made,” Sam says. I reach for the articles, hands shaking. I scan them for the details Sam says aren’t there. I have to make sure. As I do, Zoey rests her head on her folded arms, and Sam stares over his shoulder at the bank of front windows. Their panes give the forest across the street the look of a cubist painting. I imagine his gaze sticks to the dark mesh of trees, searching for the monstrous explanation. The articles are short, and it doesn’t take long for me to drop them on the table. Sam was right: no bodies, no suspects, only fruitless leads.

Sam’s irises are darker as he turns back to us and says, “They vanished just like Jeanie.”





Chapter Seventeen