Girl Last Seen
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Newsletters
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Ioulia Zaitchik
Cover design by Lisa Amoroso
Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Laurin, Nina, author.
Title: Girl last seen / Nina Laurin.
Description: New York : Grand Central Publishing, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017003100| ISBN 9781455569021 (paperback) | ISBN
9781478970064 (audio download) | ISBN 9781455569007 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Adult child sexual abuse victims--Fiction. | Kidnapping
victims—Fiction. | Deja vu—Fiction. | Psychological fiction. | BISAC:
FICTION / Suspense. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PR9199.4.L38415 G57 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017003100
ISBN: 978-1-4555-6902-1 (trade paperback), 978-1-4555-6900-7 (ebook)
E3-20170426-NF-DA
PROLOGUE
Ella
The night is so bright it hurts her eyes. She’s used to the dark ceiling, always unchanging and so low she could barely stand up straight, so the night sky is blinding. She’s used to the tomb-like silence of the basement, and all the soft sounds of the night assault her eardrums, set her teeth on edge. She fights the urge to shut her eyelids and press her hands over her ears. She stumbles on along the edge of the road, even though tiny bits of gravel sink into the soles of her feet with every step.
She’s no longer used to walking. Her weakened muscles tremble with the effort of every step. Every gust of wind chills the scalded skin of her exposed arms and legs, and when a big icy drop lands in the middle of her forehead, she jumps. Other drops pitter-patter all around her as the air grows colder and damper; she shivers. Rain, she remembers, straining to retrieve the word from the foggy recesses of her memory. This is rain. It’s nothing to be afraid of, just water from the sky.
The memory of buckets of water being dumped over her head, flooding her nose and mouth as she tries to scream, jolts her nerve endings. As the rain turns from a drizzle to one endless sheet of icy water, her legs buckle. She barely feels the stab of gravel on her knees. She has time to break her fall with her outstretched hands, and she stares at them, bewildered. There’s no rope, no chain. Instead, thick bands of scars circle her wrists, still crusted with scabs in some places.
In a stupor, she can’t look away from them.
Her hands. Her hands are free.
A whimper escapes from her, lost in the hiss of water on pavement. Even when she hears the car through the noise of the rain, even when the headlights blind her and when the car pulls over and stops next to her, she can’t bring herself to look away from her hands.
She has no more strength to fight.
Fighting never did her any good anyway.
Steps crunch across the gravel. Someone leans over her, momentarily shielding her from the downpour. “Girl. Are you all right?”
She wishes she could answer, but she’s not sure she has a voice anymore. Maybe it died months ago and she never knew. She’d like to answer, but she’s afraid of finding out.
“How did you get out here?”
She hears more steps and another voice. “Sean, dammit. Look at her.”
“Yeah, I see.”
“No, I mean look at her.” A string of curse words. “I’m calling for backup.”
“We should bring her into the car,” says the first voice. It’s different from the other one. Smoother. Soothing. Filled with an emotion she thought she had forgotten a long time ago.
“No,” says the other one. “Don’t touch her. I’m calling an ambulance.”
“Are you out of your mind? It’s pouring. Her teeth are clattering. I’m going to get her into the car, and then you can call a dozen ambulances if you want.”
“Protocol, Sean,” the other voice says. He sounds angry, and a rush of terror makes her curl in on herself, pressing her forehead into her knees. It never helped, but for some reason, she keeps doing it.
“Fuck protocol,” the first voice snaps back. “Look at her, dammit. She has no shoes. She’s bleeding.”
Finally, she raises her head just a little and squints. Red and blue lights are flashing through the curtain of rain. Red, blue, red, blue, red, blue. It’s beautiful, she thinks. It’s been a while since she’s seen that much color. It makes her want to cry, although it could just be rain getting into her eyes.
She tries to remember what a white-and-blue car with red and blue lights means but can’t.
There’s a rustle, and someone kneels next to her. She quickly presses her forehead back into her knees.
“Sweetheart,” says the voice. It’s the first voice, the good voice. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”
“Sean,” barks the bad voice in the background.
“Fuck off, Murphy. She’s just a little girl.”
She looks up, blinks away the rain, and sees him for the first time, only for a second before rainwat
er floods her vision. He has wide, dark, almond-shaped eyes, and they’re filled with concern and worry and sadness.
And something inside her just tears, and an eternity’s worth of sobs spill out all at once. She collapses, and he has no choice but to catch her before she hits the gravel again, his arms warm and dry and—and safe.
She had long forgotten what it feels like to be safe.
She barely hears the other voice cursing behind them, and she’s lost to her pain, to her grief, and to his warm presence, so she nearly misses him saying:
“Dammit, it’s that girl. The missing girl. Ella Santos.”
CHAPTER ONE
Laine, present day
Normal is something you can fake really well, if you try hard enough. You have to start by convincing yourself, and everyone else will follow, like sheep over a cliff. You act as normal as possible; you go through the motions. That veneer of normalcy may be tissue-paper thin, but you’ll soon find out that no one is in any hurry to scratch the surface, let alone test it for weak spots. You can go through your entire life like this, from one menial action to the next, never breaking the pattern, and no one will be the wiser. At least, that’s what I’m counting on.
The day I see Olivia Shaw for the first time, I know it’s not going to last much longer.
Usually, I get to the grocery store at seven and leave at two, either to go for a run or to nap until my shift starts at my second job. At least two runs a week, usually three, and when I don’t go between shifts, I go in the morning, getting up early. When I told this to another cashier, she said she wished she had my discipline, and I nodded along because what are you supposed to say to that? Since then, I try not to talk to people much about anything I do outside of work. I’ve had this job for almost six months now, which is a long time for me, and soon it’ll become strange that I don’t socialize.
That girl isn’t here today. I haven’t seen her in a while; maybe the manager changed her shift, maybe she got fired—I don’t know. The manager is Charlene, and she looks like a Charlene, orthopedic shoes and perm and eternal frosty lipstick in a shade that should have been discontinued back in 1989. I suppose she thinks of herself as some sort of mother hen figure, but I noticed the look she gave me when I came in fifteen minutes late. The air outside is like breathing a swimming pool, and my hair is frizzing, stubbornly curling despite being racked with hot tools only an hour ago. I’m still cold and clammy even though I changed into my uniform, the purple shirt with the store logo over my right boob, my name printed underneath: LAINEY M., the M. because I’m not the only Lainey here; the chubby girl who had so innocently tried to be my friend was Lainey R. Still is, I guess, if maybe not at this store. That was her icebreaker: Oh look, we have the same name—what are the odds? I didn’t tell her no one calls me Lainey, no one important anyway.
It doesn’t matter. I didn’t even choose the name for myself. They picked it at random at the hospital, some soap opera heroine’s first name and a generic surname to go with it. As common and unremarkable as possible. Hiding me in plain sight—that was the rationale.
And it worked, the hiding thing, at least until today. Today, Charlene the manager pushes a slim stack of the usual flyers for me to put up beside the double glass doors of the entrance and exit. I’m still a little slow, and I take them, automatically, forgetting that it’s not Sunday and I just did that, the specials for the week: ground beef, three ninety-nine a pound; condensed cream of tomato, three for four dollars. Only when my gaze slips down do I see what they are, and my brain grinds to a halt.
It’s nothing unusual. Nothing that hasn’t happened before, twice, in the time I’ve worked in this store. One was the six-year-old boy who was found a week later, whose dad skipped town in defiance of shared guardianship, the other the elderly woman who disappeared in the neighborhood and was feared to have killed herself. No one knows what happened to her, least of all me, except one day I came into work and the poster was gone, replaced by more of the weekly specials, by cantaloupes and broccoli and store-brand chips. For all I know, she did kill herself. But she’s not the kind of missing person who interests me.
But today, I look down at the stack of papers in my hands and I see her, Olivia Shaw, age ten.
It’s a typical Seattle PD missing-person poster, with the neat columns of stats underneath. The original picture must have been high quality, full color, but the printer was running out of ink, so the colors bleed into one another like one of those Polaroid photos.
Olivia Shaw has been missing since last Tuesday. She was last seen outside the entrance of her elementary school in Hunts Point wearing a white spring jacket and pink boots. My brain registers the information on autopilot, searing every word into my memory, and in the meantime, a part of me is distantly, methodically, checking off the items one by one. Like pieces of a kaleidoscope, they all click together.
If you have any knowledge of Olivia Shaw’s whereabouts, or any relevant information, please contact…
Images surface in my mind moments before dissolving into black dust, like a dream I’m trying to remember. I spent a long time in the last ten years peering into the faces of girls on missing-person posters, wondering which one replaced me in the basement. But they were never quite the right age, the right look, the right circumstances. Until Olivia Shaw, age ten, missing for one week tomorrow.
From my many sleepless nights of research, I know that most kidnapping victims are dead within forty-eight hours.
You were lucky, Ella.
I force myself to look at the face in the photo, into her slightly smudged features, and I can’t bring myself to move.
Olivia Shaw could be my mirror image, rewound to thirteen years ago. She has a wild halo of dark curls around her head—like mine, when I don’t torture them into submission with a hot iron. Dark skin, like mine. Her eyes—I can’t distinguish the color from the blurry pixels of the poster, but the description says they’re gray.
The sound of my name, my other, new name, takes a while to reach me inside my bubble. It’s my boss. It feels like my spine has turned to brittle stone, and my neck might snap if I turn my head too fast. I register confusion on her face.
“The tape,” she says, blinking her sparse, mascara-clotted eyelashes.
The tape? Right. The tape. Without realizing I’m doing it, I scratch the inside of my wrist under my sleeve. Charlene holds out the clear Scotch tape, her expression shifting closer and closer to annoyance. It takes five steps to cross the distance between us so I can reach out and take the tape from her hand. Doing this, my sleeve rides up and my wrist bone pops out of the fitted cuff. Her eyes flicker to it for just a fraction of a second, the same way people sneak a glimpse of disfigured faces: staring without staring, looking away with such intensity you wish they’d just glare outright, get their fix of the morbid, and get it over with. I can’t wear fingerless gloves here; “accessories” aren’t allowed by the dress code. So I’ve developed a habit of always tugging my sleeves down, a tic that persists outside of this place too.
Probably not the worst habit to have, all things considered.
The sound of tape peeling off the roll raises the hairs on my arms, and I hold the poster in place as I tape its corners to the glass outside the entrance, taking too much care to make sure it’s perfectly straight. As if that will help her. I know it’s all an excuse for me to reread the text, examine the photo, burn it all into my retinas forever and ever and ever. To add Olivia Shaw to my ever-expanding mental collection of the disappeared. Except a part of me already knows one of these things isn’t like the others.
The automatic doors of the entrance hiss open as I pass through, my muscles humming with tension. “Charlene,” I hear myself say, “I’m going to go for a smoke.”
She says something about opening the store in five minutes, but I won’t take longer than that. I’m already on my way out, patting down my pockets before the door has a chance to slide aside and let me out, wondering what I did with m
y emergency pack of smokes. It might be in the pocket of my jacket, which is in the back of the store, stuffed in the shoe box–sized locker in the employees’ lounge. Too bad. I don’t think a cigarette will do it for me right now anyway. Instead, I take my phone out of my pocket, stare at the screen until it blurs, key in the code and screw it up three times until it unlocks. Open the browser and start feverishly typing in the search window.
Another thing I know from my late-night Internet forays: kidnappers, rapists, serial killers—they don’t just stop one day. They are stopped. Whoever stole me—stole Ella—was never found. But in the last ten years, there hasn’t been another girl.
And now there is.
CHAPTER TWO
In the books and movies, the broken girl always dies at the end. Sometimes she’s allowed one final heroic act, one last snarky line before she goes out. Maybe she sacrifices herself to save the real hero, or maybe her death is just a meaningless accident, an afterthought. But she always dies, because she’s too tarnished to live.
Every time I see her die, I’m jealous. That should have been me, a long time ago.
It would have been better for everybody if I had just died, like they presumed I had—for years before I was found. Especially for me, the nameless, voiceless creature that was born out of Ella Santos’s remains, an abomination. A living dead girl.
They had to give this voiceless creature, this Frankenstein’s monster covered in scars and stitches, a new name at random because the creature couldn’t speak to pick one for herself. The most I ever had the wherewithal to do was drop that last y from Lainey, turning it into Laine, one syllable. Sounds like something you’d find on a highway.
I will probably never know what exactly glitched in my kidnapper’s mind that made him decide to take a risk, to allow me to live. I’ve never given up wondering, though. And I never could quite let go of the suspicion that some nameless force in the universe was saving me for something even worse.
Now, as my sneakers rhythmically hit the pavement, the shock of impact thudding in my bone marrow, I can’t help but wonder if this is it.