Last Girl Ghosted(103)

“I tried,” I rasp. “My aim was bad.”

“You choked.”

“It was too late. They were gone.”

“Don’t fuck it up again.”

“Too late.”

“No,” he says, taking my hand. His gaze is urgent to the point of being desperate. “Not quite yet.”

I wheeze, hear my own breath in my throat.

“Little bird,” he says, reaching for my hands and squeezing hard. “Get up and run.”

When I open my eyes, there is nothing, just gray. The air around me is tight; my breath ragged. I push out into the murk and feel plastic. Panic is a wave that washes up and I start thrashing, using all my strength, my lungs growing tighter. I’m a dervish, kicking and scratching, not enough air to even scream.

Ohgodohgod. It all comes back.

No. No. I don’t want to go. Not now, not like this. The world. My life. Jax. Dear Birdie. You built a life. A good one. Come back to it.

There. A point of light. I calm myself enough to poke a finger toward it and feel the teeth of a zipper. It takes all my strength, all my focus to push, push until the zipper starts to move. Blessed air rushes in, then more. Light. Stars. The tops of trees swaying in bright moonlight, just like the tree house.

I burst out of my cocoon with a wail, drawing gorgeous air into my lungs. I scramble out of the body bag I’m in, and feel the dirt beneath my palms.

You.

You left me for dead. I put my hands to my throat; it’s bruised and painful. I remember your hands squeezing, your eyes staring into mine, as I thrashed and struggled for breath. You an impossibly heavy weight on top of me.

We could have had everything, you whispered, as the light drained from the world. White stars danced in front of my vision. I stopped trying to pry your fingers from my neck. Your grip was a vise, your eyes blank with the pleasure my pain and fear gave you. But you threw it all away.

Robin is crouched beside me.

He’s gone, she whispers. He’s left. This is your chance.

She’s crying, shaking.

The day will come when you won’t need her anymore, Dr. Cooper said. And on that day, you’ll let her go. She won’t go away; she’ll just become a part of you on the inside.

Lungs aching, I crawl to her and move a wild strand of hair out of her eyes.

I’m sorry, she says. I don’t know what to do.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. She is only air and light. “I do.”

There’s a rustle of leaves, a mournful call in the night; the moon moves out from behind the clouds. And I’m alone in the darkness of the woods. A homecoming of sorts. An awakening. I was always alone out here. And it’s okay, even right.

The bag I was in gapes like a mouth and I sit shaking, still wearing that thin black shift, feeling my body, which is savaged and broken, every movement marked with pain, but whole and alive.

Beside me are three makeshift graves, each marked with a simple wooden cross, each carved with a name—Mia, Melissa, Bonnie.

I sit weeping for them.

I offered them the gift of freedom, you said. And no one wanted it. I thought you were different. I thought you were the one.

The wine, and whatever was in it, had the room pitching. It’s only freedom if you choose it for yourself.

That earned me a blow across the jaw; I lift my hand to touch the ache. I crawl over to their graves. I want to offer them each something—a flower, an apology, a rescue—though I have nothing left to give. It’s too late for them. But not for me.

That’s when I see the headlights of a car moving up the drive.

You’re back.

I could make my way back to the road, find my way home. But I don’t. I owe us all more than that, more than just an escape where I spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. But one that brings justice for us all.

Now I just have to get there before you do.

I marshal every ounce of strength I have and run.



fifty-one


The bitter taste of failure and loss crawls like reflux up Bailey Kirk’s throat. It’s a taste in his mouth, a pounding in his ears. He holds on to Jax as they exit the car in front of the town house. She has not stopped crying—not at the hospital, not at the police station. Ben rushes out of the town house doors and takes Jax from Bailey, and she falls against him, holds on tight.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. The street is empty; the snow that fell earlier has stopped, some of it collected on branches, the parked cars. The air is frigid.

Ben helps Jax inside and Bailey follows.

Jason sits at the dining room table, and Bailey looks at him, hopeful. But the younger man just shakes his head.

“There’s no way to track the number. I’m sorry. That’s the whole point of Bitcoin. No trail. I thought I could find a way. But—no.”

“What about the internet fixer she hired?”

“Another ghost,” says Jason. “I used her computer, the one she uses to access the dark web. But he’s not responding.”

Despair sits in the room, a ghoul in the corner, sucking up all the air.

“She’s gone. Like all those other girls,” says Jax from the couch. “Just gone. You never found them. How are we going to find her now?”

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. He doesn’t have any answers, just keeps seeing the fear in Sabrina’s eyes. He rode with her in the ambulance, Jax following in his truck. They sat in the waiting room until her parents arrived, Nora on her way. Now, he keeps reading the text his boss just sent: