Nice Girls(28)

The front yard hadn’t been raked in some time. There were plastic bags and pop cans littered about, probably blown in from the strip mall nearby. The asphalt in the driveway was cracked. Beneath a front window, there was a small white wooden cross planted in the grass.

Before I left the car, I double-checked Mrs. Jackson’s address online, on the phone book’s updated website. Then I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror—the concealer still smudged beneath my eyes and my lips covered with balm. I made sure the collar on my trench coat was straightened out, my school bag clasped shut.

I looked like Ivy League Mary again.

As soon as I reached the front door, I heard a heavy thud from inside the house. The door jerked slightly open. Through the crack, I saw an eye peer out at me.

“What do you want?” a voice asked. It was soft, barely more than a whisper.

“Hello,” I squeaked, the script in my head vanishing. “I—I’m Maddie Johnson. I was wondering if I could—”

“No.”

The door slammed shut.

I took a deep breath. With a shaky hand, I knocked.

“Hi, Mrs. Jackson. My name is Maddie Johnson, and I wanted to interview you about your daughter, DeMaria. It’s for an Ivy League school newspaper. We’re focused on social justice.”

The door opened again, just a tiny crack.

“I—I saw the post you made online about DeMaria. You reported her missing, but the police said she was a runaway, right? I’m trying to tell your version of events since DeMaria’s story was underreported.”

The eye blinked, said nothing.

“And I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Jackson. My condolences to you and your family. What DeMaria went through was . . . awful,” I faltered.

“It’s not ‘deh-mare-ee-ah,’” the voice said. “It’s pronounced ‘deh-mahr-ee-ah.’ Get her name right.”

“I—I’m sorry,” I said, my stomach in my throat. The crack in the door widened.

“Come in.”

“Thank you, Mrs.—”

“I prefer Leticia.”

I followed Mrs. Jackson into the house, a shadow moving into the foyer. I made sure to close the door behind me. But when I tried to lock it, the thumb turn wouldn’t move. It was jammed in place.

“Door doesn’t lock,” said Mrs. Jackson, her voice already in another room. “Just make sure the barricade is in place.”

“Okay,” I said. I looked around and saw the plank of wood that leaned against the wall nearby. It was a makeshift barricade, propped up by a small row of nails on each side of the door. I slid the plank of wood across the door, unsure if I’d done it correctly. It was flimsy protection, a thin piece of wood meant to protect an even bigger one.

The interior of Mrs. Jackson’s house was dim with dark wooden walls. The carpeting was an old mustard yellow. Past the foyer, the living room and kitchen sat across from each other.

Not knowing what else to do, I wandered into the living room. I heard Mrs. Jackson shuffling around in the kitchen, but I couldn’t catch a glimpse of her. The blinds were drawn over the lone window. I sat down on a large brown sofa propped against one wall, next to a TV set, a lamp, and a TV tray. Above the sofa, there hung a large painting of a forest. A gray playpen sat at the other end of the room.

“You can sit in this one.” I looked up, startled.

Mrs. Jackson was larger and shorter than I expected. She was draped in a baggy sweatsuit, a pair of furry slippers on her feet. She made no sound as she moved, ghostlike, and set up a metal folding chair between the TV and the sofa. I immediately moved into the metal seat, taking the plastic water bottle that she handed me.

“Thank you, Mrs.—Leticia,” I said, quickly. Mrs. Jackson said nothing and floated over to the couch across from me. Her short black hair was spiky. Mrs. Jackson looked like she was either in her late thirties or early forties.

I could feel the weight of her eyes as I struggled to pull my laptop and notebook out of my bag. My legs were jittering. I wanted small talk to fill the silence, but Mrs. Jackson only stared. She was subdued in person—there was none of the fervor that she’d showed online.

My laptop wouldn’t turn on fast enough. I started flipping through my notebook, listening to the rustle as the pages turned. The silence grew heavier. My hands were shaky. Mrs. Jackson was becoming suspicious—I could feel it. The longer the silence dragged on, the more she’d sense that Maddie Johnson was not, in fact, a journalist. That Maddie Johnson needed to be kicked out, the police called on her.

And this would be a repeat of what happened with Carly, wouldn’t it—me, the crazy bitch who got involved when she shouldn’t have.

I heard a giggle. A baby waddled in from the hallway. He looked to be around a year old. He wore a light yellow onesie, a pacifier in hand. The boy’s eyes were big and brown. He had dimples and a dopey smile on his face, the kind that babies seemed to have when they discovered something new. He waved to us with a flailing hand, giddy. I waved back as he wobbled over to Mrs. Jackson, his arms outstretched.

“What do you want, Demetrius?” she asked as she scooped him up. Demetrius let out a delighted squeal.

“Cute kid.”

Mrs. Jackson didn’t respond, placing the pacifier in Demetrius’s mouth. He set to work sucking on it and turned to stare at me.