“Define ‘crazy.’” I wish somebody would.
“She was sick. She was obsessed with sick stuff.” I shrivel a little. I wonder what Tasia would think about me. “And she liked to cause trouble.” She gives Jed a look, like he will understand. “Look, I’m not saying I’m happy she’s gone or anything. All I’m saying is, I don’t really understand how my name ended up on some list when I’ve barely said a word to her in about fifteen years.”
I am speechless. I stare at the floor, feeling dizzy, like your story is the winding road I came in on, bile rising in my throat. I am trying to process this. You are not sick. I know this. You care about people. You care too much; that is why Murder, She Spoke exists, because you wanted to talk about the people everyone else had forgotten. If you were obsessed, it was with answers. I know you.
But then I think about your house. How you lied to me, told me the yellow house was yours, posted pictures, provided captions. This is where I go to find peace. I’m so lucky to have this little corner of heaven!
You said the house was yours, but Jed said you lived with your parents. My head is spinning again. How can I tell fact from fiction? I need evidence. I need to focus on the facts, but everything feels slippery out here, like everyone’s thoughts are jaws opening, to swallow mine.
Jed and Tasia look furtively at each other. They think they look over my head but I see them; I know what those looks mean.
“I’m sorry. I don’t really know what you want from me,” Tasia finally says.
“Sera just wants to make sure Rachel’s all right. . . .” Jed tries to help.
“I have no idea how Rachel is. Real talk? I don’t care. I don’t know why my name is on that list.” She spreads her fingers. “All I can think is, she didn’t have many friends. Maybe our relationship meant more to her than it did to me.”
“What about Florence Wipler?” I try to keep my voice even, but the name sounds like ammunition. “Her name is on the list too. Do you know where she lives?” I ask like I don’t know.
Tasia’s eyes go veiled. “Florence was a girl who went missing, in our class. It was a big deal.” It is what inspired you, what made you feel chosen. It is what led to Murder, She Spoke.
“Why would Rachel write her name down?”
“I don’t know.” And when she realizes that won’t work, she adds, “Rachel was obsessed. She rewrote history. Suddenly she and this girl were best friends. Suddenly she knew everything about her and none of us cared. And when that wasn’t enough, Rachel went missing. She would disappear for days, come back with these wild stories, say she had been kept in a basement or grabbed off the street or dressed up like a doll.” She shudders. “Really disturbing stuff. That’s when she got kicked out of school. No, that’s not right. She was ‘asked to leave.’”
I take a stab in the dark. “You were on the bus that day, with Florence.”
“I—” She cranes back; her eyes narrow and contract, like she is getting a new read on me. “Yes.”
I play it light. “What happened?”
“I told you; I don’t know. We were arguing and Florence ran off.”
“What were you arguing about?”
“She— Wait, hey.” She checks in with Jed. “This is so none of your business.” She folds her arms and steps back. “I’m done talking now, by the way. Nice of you to check in. Nice to finally meet you.” She seethes like I am scum, and I am scum. I don’t care about her. All I care about is getting to you and I want to apologize, but then I feel like I shouldn’t. I am just asking. I’m just trying to help. A woman is missing; this isn’t a tea party.
“Thank you,” I say. Jed shrugs like he’s apologizing for me. I start toward the door. The overhead bell dings.
“Hey! By the way?” I turn but she is half in shadow. “It really sucks. When your friend dies right after you’ve had a big, dumb argument. In case you were wondering. It really fucks you the hell up.”
* * *
—
My stomach sinks as Jed and I walk into the parking lot. The air has chilled in our absence, and I shiver with surprise, raise my hands to rub my bare arms.
“Well, that was pleasant.” Jed hands me the helmet.
“I don’t believe her,” I say, too quick. He inhales sharply. He is frustrated with me, and I don’t want to care but I do. I want him to like me. I want everyone to like me and I also want to find you, and it is becoming clear that I can’t have it both ways. “Is that the Rachel you knew?”
“I guess I didn’t know her that well.” He waits.
“Did you see Tasia’s reaction? When we first told her about the list? Did you see how shocked she looked? That didn’t look like the face of someone thinking about something that happened fifteen years ago. I think she’s lying. I think there’s more to the story. It was almost like she expected us. Like she was afraid. Like there was a real and present threat.” I can feel my heart lift, the beginnings of getting carried away.
“I don’t know.” Jed climbs onto his bike and waits for me.
“Well, I do. I know Rachel.” And I do. I know you better than anybody else. And I’m not going to give up on you. “We need to keep digging. We need to talk to Clementine. Doesn’t she live in Happy Camp?”
“I’ve never been to her place. Have you?”
“You could ask Tasia,” I say, but the lights are out. The door is locked. The town is deserted, in the way of small towns on a Sunday night.
Jed is limp, like he is worn-out already, like he doesn’t want to find you. Like he doesn’t care. “Maybe we should just call it a night.”
“Fine, but we’re not finished yet. We’re just getting started.” I force the helmet over my head, ignoring the swirling sensation in my gut. You wouldn’t give up. You never gave up, no matter how cold the case seemed to be.
* * *
—
As we move out onto the highway, the space between my hip bones swirls. I hate this road, especially on a motorcycle, especially in the dark, where I can’t see the curves in the road until they take us, slanting sideways. The air is cold and it slips under my shirt, under my skin.
We are sliding through a turn when a black truck appears behind us, its lights fully bright. The driver lands on his horn, as if we don’t know he’s there, and the sound ricochets from ridge to ridge, so it seems to amplify, open up my eardrums.
I move closer to Jed, to ask him what the hell this guy is thinking, but of course he doesn’t hear me. I lean forward and the wind whips my cheeks and the truck presses behind us so close, I swear I can feel the heat of its metal grille, the smoke of its exhaust. And it rides even closer, the driver jamming the horn down again, swallowing us in the sound.