The Good Girl

“It’s bad,” she concludes.

 

“It’s inconclusive,” I lie. “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.” But there’s nothing mistakable about the vigilant way the man hurries from the elevator, making certain no one sees, or the fear in the girl’s eyes. She’s crying. He mouths something that I’m certain contains the f-word. Something happened inside that apartment. The earlier footage couldn’t be any different. Two lovebirds heading up for a quickie.

 

“But she was alive?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Who is he?” she asks. “This Colin...”

 

“Colin Thatcher.” I release Mrs. Dennett’s hand and reach inside the manila folder. I pull out the man’s rap sheet. “He’s been arrested for a number of misdemeanors—petty theft, trespassing, possession of marijuana. He served time for selling and is wanted for questioning in an ongoing racketeering case. According to his last probation officer, he went MIA a few years back and is essentially a wanted man.”

 

I couldn’t begin to explain the horror in the woman’s blue eyes. As a detective I’m used to words like trespassing and racketeering and probation officer. But Mrs. Dennett has only heard these words on reruns of Law & Order. She couldn’t begin to understand what it all means; the words themselves are elusive and hard to grasp. She’s terrified that a man like this has her daughter.

 

“What would he want with Mia?” Mrs. Dennett asks. I’ve asked myself this very question a thousand times. Random crime is relatively rare. Most victims know their assailant.

 

“I don’t know,” I say. “I have no idea, but I promise you I’m going to find out.”

 

 

 

 

 

Colin

 

Before

 

The girl sets her plate on the wooden deck beside her. And then she rises beside me and we both stare, over the wooden railing, into the dense forest as a woman emerges. A fiftysomething woman with short brunette, hair in jeans and a flannel shirt, pudgy hiking boots, and she’s waving to us, like she knows us, and a new thought crosses my mind: it’s a trap.

 

“Oh, thank heaven,” the woman says as she welcomes herself onto our property.

 

She’s trespassing. This is our space. No one was supposed to be here. I feel suffocated, smothered. She’s got a water jug in a hand. She looks like she’s walked a hundred miles.

 

“Can we help you?” The words eject from my mouth before I can figure out what’s happening, what I’m going to do. My first thought: get the gun and shoot her. Drop her body in the lake and run. I don’t have the gun anymore, don’t know where the girl is keeping it. But I could tie her up while I ransack the cabin for its hiding place. Under the mattress, in the bedroom, or along some crevice in the log walls.

 

“I’ve got a flat. About a half mile down the road,” she says. “You’re the first cabin that wasn’t deserted. I’ve been walking....” she says, and then stops, to catch her breath. “Mind if I sit?” she asks, and when the girl manages a nod, she drops to the bottom step and guzzles from the water jug like someone who’s been stranded in the desert for days. I feel my hand reach out and clutch the girl’s, feel myself crush the bones of her hand until she lets out a whine.

 

We forget all about our dinner. But the woman reminds us. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says, motioning to the plates on the floor. “I was just wondering if you might be able to help me fix the tire. Or call someone, maybe. My phone has no reception around here,” she says, holding it up for the girl and me to see. She says again that she’s so sorry to interrupt. Little does she know what she’s intruding on. It’s not just our dinner she’s disturbing.

 

My eyes drift to the girl. Now’s her chance, I think. She could tell the woman. Tell her how this crazy person kidnapped her, how he’s holding her captive in this cabin. I hold my breath, waiting for any number of things to go wrong. For the girl to tell, for the lady to be part of a ploy to catch me. She’s working undercover, maybe. Or for Dalmar. Or maybe she’s just some lady who watches the news and sooner or later she’s gonna realize that that girl is the one she’s been seeing on TV.

 

“We don’t have a phone,” I say, remembering how I dropped the girl’s cell in the garbage can in Janesville, how I cut the phone lines when we arrived at the cabin. Not that I can have her stepping foot inside our cabin, seeing the way we’ve been living for weeks: like two convicts on the run. “But I can help you,” I say begrudgingly.

 

“I don’t mean to be a bother,” the woman says, and the girl, simultaneously, says, “I’ll just stay here and do the dishes,” as she squats to the ground to retrieve our plates.

 

No chance in hell that’s gonna happen.

 

“You better come with,” I say to her. “We might need your help.”

 

Mary Kubica's books