I’m about to hang up when he answers.
“Mitchell’s.” The site gives the official name of the store as Temptations, but we always called it Mitchell’s, plain and simple. I guess he’s picked up the habit.
“Hi, yes. Mr. Mitchell.” That uneasy feeling hits me right in my chest. He’s one of those men with a face like a caution sign, always on the edge of a bad mood, like he could snap at any moment.
His voice is harsh over the phone, like he just swallowed a handful of gravel. Still, I keep my voice sunny. “My name is Abby, and I’m an old friend of Kaycee’s.” As soon as I mention her name, his breathing hitches, then starts again. “I’m back in town for a bit and was just wondering if you knew how I could reach her? I would love to connect with her.”
“No.” The word is a short, explosive burst. Then silence for so long I check to see if he’s hung up. “No idea where that girl is. Haven’t talked to her in almost a decade.”
“You don’t have a number? An e-mail?”
“She ran off because she wanted to be alone, so I left her alone,” he says—sharply, like he’s daring me to say he did wrong. “If you were such good friends with Kaycee, why don’t you know how to get ahold of her?”
“Mr. Mitchell, wait,” I say, before he can hang up. I squint into the lowering sun. “Do you remember when Kaycee got sick, when she was in high school? Can you talk to me a little about that time?”
Another pause, and my pulse begins to climb. Nothing from the end of the line.
“What are you,” he said, “some kinda journalist?”
“No,” I say. “Just a friend.”
“What’d you say your name was?”
“Abigail.” I don’t give my last name. “I’m from Barrens, like I said. I just had a few questions for Kaycee. I was hoping she’d be willing to talk to me.”
There’s another long stretch of silence.
“Mr. Mitchell?” I say. “Are you still there?”
“Still here.” He clears his throat. “As far as I’m concerned, Abigail, you can talk to Kaycee in hell.”
Chapter Nine
The house I rented is tucked behind a beauty salon in town, not far from where I once babysat as a girl. When I was a kid, the town was basically Main Street, which was also Route 205, and the three official streets that bisected it: First, Second, and Maple. Other than that, it was all nameless county roads that everyone called by the people and businesses that lived there—the Simmons’ Farm Road, the Dump Route. Since Optimal arrived, however, the town has been spreading steadily, sweating new housing clusters and tackle stores and stop signs. The single real estate agent I could dig up told me glibly that Barrens was in the middle of a housing boom—as proof, she could find me only two places for rent, and the other was a converted shed at the back of a slaughterhouse.
As I get out of the car, the loud sound of crickets is broken by a kid laughing. Across the street, outside another nearly identical two-bedroom, a young girl hula-hoops in the driveway. Long-haired, pretty, giggling.
In the hiss of the wind I think I hear a whispered voice and turn around. A blond girl is just locking up the salon and for a second, I imagine that Kaycee Mitchell has come back after all, or that she never really left. She must feel me staring because she turns and glares, hitching her bag a little closer.
But Kaycee, I realize, has left her fingerprint on everything in Barrens; by disappearing, she ensured that she would never leave. She is a slick on the telephone poles once molting with flyers begging for information on her return. She is a shadow on the football stadium bleachers, where she once sat to watch Brent play, sucking on a Newport while Misha and Cora shimmied on the sidelines in their cheerleader costumes. She is in the reservoir and the sky, she wanders the halls at Barrens High, I bet, her face mascara streaked, holding a tissue soaked with blood.
Of all of them, Kaycee was the only one who ever showed me pity. Sometimes, she even showed me kindness. Almost as if brief flares of the past, of our friendship, would sometimes burst again into her memory.
But she could be cruel, too. I remember when she collapsed out of her chair at the desk next to mine, she nearly bit off my hand when I tried to help her. Not metaphorically: she actually almost snapped down on my fingers, like a dog.
And then there was Chestnut, and the collar she’d left in my locker. One of her last gestures. Twisted, cruel, incomprehensible.
Almost as bad as killing him in the first place.
—
The hula-hoop slips from the little girl’s waist, and the noise of it startles me back to the present. She hops out to recover it with her arm, spinning it back up to her elbow.
As I lean over to get my bag out of the passenger seat, a male voice rings out: “Hannah! Time to get ready for bed.”
I get out of the car again and almost can’t believe it: it’s Condor. He’s silhouetted in the beam of light from the streetlamp.
“Abby?” He squints, and the girl—Hannah—turns to stare. A smile creeps over his face. “You following me?”
“Seems like it’s the other way around.” I slam my car door, and hitch the bag a little higher on my shoulder.
“I don’t know.” He gestures to the little girl. “Hannah and I have been living here for a long time.” He puts a hand on Hannah’s head when she tries to get behind him. “Small town.” I can’t tell if he means that as a good thing or a bad thing. “This is my daughter, Hannah. Go on,” he says, when she doesn’t greet me. Then he turns back to me. “She’s shy,” he says.
“That’s all right,” I say. “Looks like you’ve got some moves on that hula-hoop, Hannah. I’m impressed.”
This earns me a cautious smile. “Thanks,” she says.
“Hannah’s in a big hula contest next week,” Condor says, and she says “Dad,” and glares at him.
“It’s not a contest. It’s a competition,” she says with great disdain, and Condor gives me a what-can-you-do-kids-these-days kind of look. “There’s a trophy and everything,” Hannah goes on. “I could teach you, if you want.”
“Uh-uh, no way. I’m wise to your tricks.” He grabs Hannah by the shoulders and turns her in the direction of the house. “No more stalling. This hula girl is twirling off to bed. Run upstairs and I’ll be up in a minute.”
“Nice to meet you, Hannah.” I give her a wave and she sprints upstairs, slamming the door behind her. “Cute kid,” I say.
Condor shrugs. “She’s a handful, but I’ll probably keep her.” He’s wearing a T-shirt that shows off his tattoos, bare feet, jeans rolled up to the ankle. He looks like he smells good, like he feels good, and I suddenly imagine his hands all over me.
Dangerous.
“So we’re neighbors, huh?” Condor says.
“For a little while,” I say quickly. Before I can regret my tone of voice, I start for the door. I’m going to take my cue from Hannah. “Good night.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the early-to-bed type,” he says, before I can make it across the yard.
I hate it when people read me. I turn around to face him. “It was a long day.”