He sat in his car for a long while, uncertain about what the night would bring. The last time he was here, just a few days before, had been their worst moments together. It was when he had found her stuck in the window, some distance away from escape. Some distance away from ending it all. How exactly to measure that distance, he was unsure. A foot away? Twelve inches from the freedom she thought she wanted. An hour, maybe? If he had gotten a call or had been otherwise delayed, an hour was likely all she would have needed to work herself free. Or was that distance to escape measured by gumption? Some part of him wanted to believe she had failed because she hadn’t wanted to succeed. Success meant she would leave him, and he knew there was a connection between them she held on to. She did not always show it, but it was there. She displayed it occasionally, this one, when she allowed him to lie next to her and hold her afterward. He had felt that connection. It was real. But still, she had come close to leaving him. Close to freedom. It rattled him. It could not happen again. He had endured last year’s debacle. The bunker, the forest, and the heartache. But if this one escaped, if this one made it back to the world, his life would shatter down around him. Because of that, because she had been so immeasurably close to ruining it all for him, he had no choice but to be brutal last time when he served her punishment. He hated himself for it afterward.
So tonight, as he sat in his car, he was uncertain how the night would go. It was possible things could go back to the way they had once been. It was possible to get back to that point in their relationship. Part of his hesitation tonight came from not only his worry over how she would receive him after her last reprimand, but what that reaction would mean. Defiance and rebellion, per the rules, would result in her final strike. His reluctance now came from knowing that tonight could mark the end of their time together. This worried him because, despite everything, he loved this one. He loved them all, but with this one their relationship was so long in the making he was depressed that he hadn’t been able to convince her of his love. He felt inadequate, that perhaps she was too good for him, a nasty revelation that left a bitter taste in his throat.
He took a deep breath and climbed from his car, surveying the area around him. It was dark and quiet and he wondered how long things would remain that way. He pushed through the front door, and his shoes clapped on the floor as he walked to the basement stairs. As soon as he opened the cellar door he smelled it. A sweet, pungent odor he knew all too well. Immediately, he knew he’d been too hard on her the other night, that he’d let his emotions overtake him. He’d spent the last few days worrying about her and debating if he should check on her. Now it was too late.
The stairwell was dark, and he clicked on his flashlight as he went. The odor grew stronger as he descended. Finally, when he reached the bottom of the stairs, he played his flashlight across the bed. She was there, the beautiful creature he could not convince of his love, pale and bloated and stiff. He sat on the bottom stair and cried. Why, he wondered, did they all end like this? What more did they want than to be loved and cared for?
He gave himself a full minute to wallow—moaning uncontrollably and rocking back and forth—before collecting himself. Then he went out to his car and retrieved what he needed from the trunk. He kept it under the floorboard with the spare tire. A half hour later, he carried up the cellar stairs the black vinyl bag that contained her body. Out into the night, he looked around again, but there was no one to disturb him. He loaded her into the trunk and slammed it shut in a violent motion that caused him to stumble backward. This single act of anger would be all he allowed himself for his failure. The moment called for efficiency and clear thinking. He sat in his car, leaving the door wide open as he ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes. They welled again with tears but he would not allow himself to cry this time. Dead quiet, all he heard was his slightly labored breathing from hauling her body up the stairs. Between breaths, the still night was interrupted by a far-off noise. He listened for a moment. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistled through the night.
SUMMER 2016
“Are you guys coming back here next year?”
—Rachel Ryan
CHAPTER 33
August 2016
Five Days Before the Abduction
“They have a website?”
“No,” Terry McDonald said. “None that I can find. She said the guy found her in the comments section on a website that discusses missing persons. Invited her to a private chat room. Things progressed from there.”
“Good Christ. I want to put my kid in a bubble when I hear this stuff.”
“You and me both,” Terry said. “Megan’s off to Duke in a couple of weeks, so there’s no bubble holding her for long.”
He sat behind his desk at the Montgomery County Sheriff’s Office and spoke with his deputy. Diana Wells, dragged in by her parents, had told her story the day before.
“Back in the day,” Terry said, “parents used to worry about testosterone-filled teenage boys wanting to get laid, or about kids swigging peppermint schnapps. But now? There’s so much crazy out there it’s hard to keep track. The Internet has introduced a whole new predator. Like this group of idiots running around snatching people off the streets to initiate them into a club.” He held up a sheet of paper. “Our options here, Mort?” Terry asked.
“Not many. Did you say she actually chose certain preferences for the abduction?”
“That’s how she described it. Said she could choose to be taken off the street or put in a trunk. She could have it rough or gentle. She got to choose how long she was gone, too. The minimum was three hours. The most was overnight.”
“Lunatics,” Mort Gleeson said. “So we have an underage girl with a fake ID at a bar who was under the influence of alcohol, who willingly climbed into the accused’s car before any of the mock abduction began. She was not physically harmed. In the end, they dropped her off at the bar. And before any of it began, she agreed to the whole thing. Might be able to charge the girl with stupidity, but going after this club? There’s not much there.”
Terry McDonald leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the pad of paper in front of him. There was a long pause.
“I’ve seen that look in your eyes before, boss. Don’t get yourself in trouble. This is an election year.”
“Just gonna have a look at the links and addresses of those chat rooms.”
Mort Gleeson stood and rapped his knuckles on the desk. “Keep me posted. I know your daughter is at that age, but use sound judgment before you go knocking down any doors.”
Terry McDonald looked up from his notepad, nodded at his deputy. When Mort was gone, the sheriff drummed his fingers on his chin. He looked down at his notes. He underlined it twice.
“Okay, ladies,” Rachel said, walking down the steps of the beach house and onto the pool patio. She carried smoothies on a round tray like a waitress. “My mom and I just made these. Filled with strawberries and bananas and a shot of that protein powder. Supposed to help you lose five pounds in a week.”
Rachel placed the tray on the patio table and handed out the extraordinary drinks that sported long straws and pineapple wedges stuck on the sides.
“None of us need to lose five pounds,” Jessica said, lying on a lawn chair and soaking up the sun.
“The freshman fifteen is coming,” Rachel said. “I’m fighting it off before it finds me.”
“If you keep thinking you’re going to end up fat and ugly, you will,” Nicole said. “Self-fulfilling prophecy.”
Rachel took a seat and they all sipped their smoothies, staring off at the bay and the boats and the wakeboarders ripping white streaks across the water. Occasional cotton-ball clouds spotted the blue sky. The scent of barbecued burgers sat on the shoulders of the afternoon breeze and mixed with traces of freshly cut grass, chlorine, and coconut sunscreen. A lawn mower buzzed from next door and, far off, an ice cream truck chimed as it chugged through the neighborhood. It was summer in Emerson Bay.
“Are you guys coming back here next year?” Rachel asked.