The Creeping

We’re closing in on five in the evening when the girls slip on their flip-flops and trudge out to their cars. Zoey kisses me on the cheek and whispers in my ear that she’ll return at eleven before joining Cole and Michaela, who are arguing about who is the most sober to drive. Zoey crosses her heart and yells, “I was only pretending to drink that pink swill so Michaela would pluck the stick from her ass and have fun.” Cole whines about leaving her car parked on my street as she climbs into Zoey’s backseat. They all wave at me through the windshield as Zoey backs her SUV out of my driveway.

Back on the couch, I stare at the haze of colors on the TV screen, not really watching or following whatever junk is on. After the third time my eyelids droop closed, I stagger upstairs for a nap. With four hours until Sam is off and six until we go grave digging, I curl under my comforter. My head sinks into my pillow, my shoulder into the mattress.

“Stella, are you okay?” Sam whispers close to my ear.

“Mm-hmm,” I murmur.

“Your front door was open,” he says.

I sit bolt upright, throwing Moscow from the crook of my arm. He growls as he pads off the bed. Sam’s profile is outlined perfectly against the brightly lit hallway, but everything else is dark. “What? It’s unlocked?”

“Yes, and wide open.”

“Dad isn’t here?” I throw my legs over the side of the bed, knees wobbly as I stand, blood rushing to my head.

“His car is gone. Maybe you didn’t close it all the way and the wind blew it open?”

“No.” I shake my head into the dark space between us. “I walked the girls out.”

“Maybe you left it unlocked?” he whispers.

“No way.” I put my lips to his ear. “I’m a hundred percent sure.”

I feel his eyes linger on mine for a half second before he breathes, “Follow me.” He takes my hand and leads me soundlessly through my bedroom door. Even in the jaundiced glow of the hallway I’m shaky walking close behind him. We move from my room to Dad’s to the guest room, searching. As I peer into the far reaches of the linen closet, it occurs to me that I really hope whatever ghosted the front door open is long gone.

The balls of my feet ache from balancing on tiptoe as we angle downstairs. I twine my fingers in the hem of Sam’s shirt and hold my breath as we check behind curtains, inside my nana’s antique trunk, and under the dining room furniture. Nothing other than lint and a decaying legless gummy bear. No doubt discarded by Zoey and nibbled on by Moscow before he decided that Zoey’s favorite food group isn’t real food.

“There’s nothing here,” I say, a trill in my voice. “Maybe I’m wrong about the door?” Sam doesn’t respond. I scoop the amputee gummy from the carpet. “Zoey always leaves her mark.” I look to see if Sam’s cracked a smile, but he’s staring hard at something behind me. I twist around to face the fireplace.

Mom had this thing about capturing moments, even ones she had to manufacture herself by ordering me to pose just so. That’s why the mantel is crowded with photographs. But all those framed pictures are lying facedown. All except one: a photo taken during an elementary school picnic the spring before Jeanie vanished. Me, Sam, and Zoey, hand in hand, are lined up at the head of a wooden canoe, our mouths open wide, singing. Jeanie’s blurry figure is off to the side, up to her ankles in Blackdog Lake, apart from the rest of us but still in the shot. I’ve never noticed her there before.

She isn’t singing or grinning. Her face isn’t exuding light. She’s focused on what or who is to the right, beyond the scope of the lens. Panic makes her face resemble a three-hole light socket—her mouth and eyes gaping and dark at what she sees.





Chapter Twenty-Three


I’m calling the cops,” Sam says from behind me. It takes almost a full minute for me to look away from the lonely photo and push Sam’s phone from his ear. I can’t get over the fact that suddenly I remember Jeanie sniffling and staring vacantly at the seat in front of her on the bus ride to the picnic. Zoey was bouncing next to me, the seat cushion jouncing me into the air each time she landed. We reached Blackdog, and Jeanie was still a husk of herself, refusing to do anything but gape and sniff. Zoey wouldn’t stand for her ruining our fun and told Sam and me not to play with Jeanie.

Our silence was why Jeanie hovered on the outskirts of us, and it floods me with guilt and resolve in equal measure. I can’t travel back to that day and invite Jeanie to sing with us or paddle in the same canoe or roast marshmallows sandwiched between Zoey and me or ask her why she was acting so strange. But I can be brave for her now.

“This is supposed to scare us,” I say.

Sam tries to hit the send button again. “Mission accomplished.”

“No, Sam.” I cover the screen of his phone. “I mean, that this was done by whoever doesn’t want us uncovering more missing animals. More missing girls.”

He lets me take the cell from his hand but frowns. “That’s why I’m trying to call the police, Stella.”