Last Girl Ghosted(33)

“Do you have the profile pictures?”

He takes his phone from his pocket and I see that there are five missed calls and eleven unread texts. How can he stand it?

He opens the photo app and shows me. The pictures are grainy, lots of movement and blurred lines. In one, a thin young man stands by a lake, turns away smiling. It could be you—as a teenager, thinner, happier. In the other, a young man with floppy brown hair, mirrored sunglasses perched on a large nose, and a full beard stands on a subway platform. I see the shade of you, though either photo could easily be someone else. But I might have picked either of them from a Torch lineup. I feel the same electric jolt I felt when I first saw your image on the app.

“Where were the other women?”

“Mia Thorpe was from Philadelphia. Bonnie Cartwright was from Chicago. Melissa Farrow was from a town in upstate New York called The Hollows.”

A finger traces down my spine. The Hollows. A place I know too well.

“Do you know it? The Hollows?” he asks when I don’t say anything.

I shake my head, not trusting my voice. I feel the heat of his gaze. When I look at him, his slight smile unnerves. How much does he know about me?

He doesn’t press, just goes on.

“All of them with troubled pasts—Bonnie the survivor of a school shooting, Melissa orphaned after a fire killed both her parents, raised by her grandparents. Mia lost her mother, struggled with addiction. They were all young women of some means. Bonnie received a big payout from a lawsuit. Mia had a trust from her mother’s family. Melissa inherited her parents’ life insurance policies. All struggled in the aftermath of extreme trauma—PTSD, addiction, psychotic breaks. When they disappeared, their money went, too.”

He’s watching me, carefully now.

“So, what about you?” he asks. “Is there something dark in your past?”

I bristle. “I don’t fit your profile, Detective.”

“No?”

“I’m still here.”

A shrug, a nod. “True enough.”

We sit a moment, engage in a brief staring contest where I lower my eyes first. He takes a card from his pocket and puts it on the table in front of us. I shift away from him on the couch. A little more of that tattoo reveals itself through the cuff of his long sleeve tee. It looks like a vine with thorns, but I’m not wearing my glasses.

“Maybe he’s not done with you,” he says.

Something about the way he says it makes me go cold inside.

“If he gets in touch with you again,” he says, “I hope you’ll give me a call. Whatever you think he is, whoever you think he is, I’m betting you’re wrong. Don’t protect him.”

I try for a dismissive laugh, but it comes out a little too loud.

“He was just a guy I was seeing,” I say. “It wasn’t that serious. He took nothing. He ghosted me. That’s what you get for meeting a guy on Torch, right? It’s like you said. Most people only want one thing from sites like that. Casual hookups. Sex. When it’s over, it’s over. I’m the idiot for thinking it was more.”

Why are you lying? Robin asks. I think he’s trying to help you.

Bailey sees my eyes drift over to the fireplace, and his gaze follows mine, then comes back. The worried frown again. Do I seem unstable to him? Troubled, like the missing girls? Maybe I am.

“Look,” he says, “he used a fake name. He lied about his work, his address, all his profiles have been deleted. His phone was disconnected. He wanted something from you and didn’t get it. Yet. My guess is that he’s still circling you. That he’ll reach out.”

I remember one of your final texts. Something’s happened. I have to go. I’m sorry, Wren.

Something’s happened. Bailey Kirk happened. It’s obvious.

“Or he knew how close you were to finding him,” I say. “That must be why he took off, right? And now he’s gone for good.”

Bailey presses his mouth into a disappointed line and gets to his feet, moves toward the foyer, taking those pieces of you.

I’m glad he’s leaving, and part of me wishes he would stay. The night ahead seems dark and long. And there’s a light that comes from Bailey—something strong, upright, good. He’s not like you; everyone has layers but I don’t think he’s hiding anything, nothing rotten anyway. We lock eyes again, and I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t some electricity there. I look away first.

“You know,” he says into the quiet. “For your sake I hope you’re right. Maybe your Adam Harper made me somehow, knew I was on his trail, and he’s far from here, not looking back.”

But I wonder if Bailey’s right. You wanted something from me that you didn’t get. Didn’t you know that all you had to do was ask? I’m one of those desperate lonely hearts that I’m so good advising. I’d have given you anything. Followed you anywhere. What were you going to ask me? To come away with you? Is that what you asked them?

“But for my sake, for Mia, for Bonnie, for Melissa, I hope there’s another thread I can pull. Maybe these young women walked away from their lives. Or maybe they were taken, hurt. Maybe they can still be helped. That’s what I’m hoping, Miss Greenwood.”

Is it me? Or does he lean on the name?

“I hope so, too,” I say. “I hope you find Mia and all of them, that they’re well and safe. That Adam is not the reason they’re all gone.”