Mrs. Raburn picks up the phone on her desk and calls the office. “Yes, Ms. Keagan? Yes, according to my attendance records I’ve got a student who’s been absent for a week. A Colleen Bristow. Have we made a phone call to her guardians yet?”
Johnny looks right at me and I know we’re both on the same page.
Mrs. Raburn hangs up the phone, and in a too-cheery voice that immediately leaves a taste of distrust in my mouth, she says, “Well, Ms. Keagan is on it. Probably just a case of the flu that’s overstayed its welcome.”
And just like that, she continues with business as usual.
I’ve got a lump in my throat, and I spend the first part of class just going through the motions as I wait for Mrs. Raburn to release us to our workstations.
Something’s out there. Something sinister is out there in Glenwood, and it’s stealing people and pets and it’s doing something to them. Any of us could be next. Or maybe Colleen already is.
When Mrs. Raburn is done divvying up assignments, Johnny sits down next to me, his notebook open in his lap, with a list of everything he knows.
- missing pets
- missing wild dogs
- missing homeless people
- Gretchen Sandoval missing
- Faith finds Gretchen
- catatonic dog dropped off at All Paws on Deck
- Colleen missing?
“We have to find Colleen,” I tell him.
“When’s the last time you remember seeing her?”
I think—really think—and I’ve got nothing. “I can’t remember,” I finally say. “I remember her saying she wanted to work on that story Mrs. Raburn tried to assign me, and I know I saw her after that, but I just can’t remember. What about you?”
“I think I ran into her in the parking lot later that week. She was kind of frazzled, you know?”
“But she always was.”
He nods. “Do you even know where her parents live?”
I shake my head.
We huddle together around my computer and do some sleuthing, starting with looking up Colleen on Instagram. Unfortunately, Colleen is about as quiet online as she is at school, but after scrolling for a while, we find out her sister is not.
Below a picture of a pudgy baby dressed as a pumpkin for Halloween, the caption reads:
He gets it from his mama. Carla Bristow: @ColleenBristow @HankBristow @JuanitaBristow.
And then below an old wedding photo of a young man and woman, the caption reads:
Carla Bristow: RIP Mama and Dad. Not a day goes by that we don’t think of you. Another year without you here. It will never feel real.
Below that is a stock photo of a lit candle with a scrolling script that reads In Memoriam, and the next photo is an old family photo of two parents, a teenage girl in a soccer uniform, and a little girl, who I’m guessing is a young Colleen, with a book shoved under her arm.
“Did you know her parents were dead?” asks Johnny.
I shake my head. “Didn’t know she was part of the club.” My chest tightens as I think about how much I probably have in common with Colleen and how all I ever had to do was ask her about herself just once. I’m a little disgusted with myself when I think about how much I fuss over being Matt and Ches’s third wheel when people like Colleen are basically friendless. I feel like such a jerk. “We’ve been in journalism with her for two years,” I say.
He sighs. “Trust me. I’m feeling like a pretty big dick right about now.”
I click on Carla’s profile and scroll through the pictures. It looks like she’s got a boyfriend or a husband and a young daughter now.
“Do you think Colleen lives with them?” I ask.
“It would make sense.” He taps the screen. “Stop.”
I scroll back one photo and squint until I see what he’s looking at. “I know that apartment sign,” I tell him. “It’s over by Ches’s duplex.”
“What are you doing after school?” he asks.
“Home to get my grandma’s car and then work.”
“You got time to run by here first with me?”
“Let’s do it.”
After school, Matt is searching for Ches. “She’s been such a flake lately,” he says.
“Well, I’m about to flake on you too. I’ve got to do something with Johnny.”
He raises his brows knowingly.
I snort. “For the paper, you perv.”
He shoos me away, and I run toward Johnny’s car. As we drive to Colleen’s apartment, we go over and over the list of what we know, hoping that one of us might somehow think of something new.
“I think I have a cousin who lives here,” says Johnny as we pull into the apartment complex.
The buildings are all various shades of beige, the wood thick with coats of paint after having weathered many Minnesota winters. It’s not the prettiest place to live, but it has a little pool and gym by the rental office, and there are lots of signs cautioning drivers about children at play. Nothing about the place screams luxury, but it’s definitely safe.
“How do we find Colleen’s sister’s place?”
“Drop me off here,” I say. “I’m going to see what I can get out of the rental office.”
I take a quick glance in the visor mirror and apply some fresh lip balm. I know that sometimes people look at me and they underestimate me. They see a cherubic blond girl who would probably be easily taken advantage of if she wasn’t careful. And you know what? Sometimes that’s true, but sometimes it pays to use people’s misconception to your advantage.
Hesitantly, I walk through the door to the rental office, where an old man sits with his feet propped up on the desk, a beat-up paperback with a sinking battleship on the cover splayed across his chest. A light snore whistles out from between his lips.
“Excuse me? Sir?” I ask in my most girlish voice.
He grunts but doesn’t wake up entirely.
“Sir?” I ask once more, and kick the desk.
That gets him. His whole body fills with electricity, limbs flailing. “Whose? What?” Then he looks up to me and sniffs, kicking his legs off the desk and shoving an empty sandwich bag into his paperback to keep his place. “Uh, yes, ma’am, how can I help you? Is this about the hot water in building C? I’ve got maintenance on it.”
“Oh no,” I tell him. “No, I’m actually just looking for my friend. Um, my parents just, like, dropped me off here and I’m supposed to meet her for a school project. But I just got, like, really confused with all the building numbers. Oh gosh! I mean letters. And I can’t remember her apartment number and she’s not picking up her phone.”
He sighs. “We, uh, really don’t give out that kind of information.”
“I guess I could just call my parents and maybe you can talk to them?”
He looks at me for a long moment. “What’s your friend’s last name?”
I clutch my hands to my chest, really driving home the clueless fat girl act. “Oh, mister, thank you so darn much. It’s Bristow,” I tell him.
“Ah, yeah, Carla. Just saw her the other day with that boyfriend of hers.” He flips through a few papers and hands me a map of the complex after circling building D and jotting down 26. “D twenty-six.”