Nice Girls(42)

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Suddenly there was a cacophony of sound as ringtones blasted from different cell phones—there was George Michael’s upbeat voice, croons from Etta James, and riffs from Britney. I heard a country twang escape out of Kevin’s vest, waxing poetic about a summer night by the lake. John continued on, the annoyance plain on his face.

“We ask for your guidance, oh Lord. I beseech you to help us.”

The ringtones didn’t stop. The noise continued to fill the park as John droned on. My phone continued to vibrate, as if it were itching for me to answer.

“Heavenly Father above us, please help us to find and reunite a member of your flock. Please keep her safe for us and help show us the way to her, wherever she may be.”

As quickly as it began, my phone stopped vibrating. The cell phones all stopped ringing. It was quiet in the park again, aside from the rumble of John’s deep voice.

“Please, oh Lord, help us find Olivia Willand.”

For a moment, it seemed as if an electric current was rushing through all of us. I could sense it as I closed my eyes and kept my head bent. Everyone in the park wanted Olivia to be safe. She was one of us, a citizen of Liberty Lake, our daughter and our sister, our neighbor and our friend. She deserved better.

My phone started jolting again in my pocket. As if on cue, music blasted throughout the park again, Beyoncé and Eminem squaring off against Kevin’s country ringtone. The couple ahead of us looked at their phones sheepishly.

“Amen,” said John finally. With his heavy eyebrows and wire-rimmed glasses, John looked severe, like a preacher about to berate his congregation. I understood why he made Dad anxious. “If we could all just turn off our cell phones, please, to show a moment of silence and respect.”

I pulled out my phone. An unknown number was trying to reach me.

“Hello?” I answered.

There was a pause, then a single word: “Email.”

“Who is this?”

There was a click as the call ended. The voice on the other end had been artificial, robotic.

Outside in the park, among the line of searchers, I felt like I was being watched. I could feel it on me, as if someone’s breath was on the back of my neck. But no one was watching me. Everyone was either listening to John or looking at their phones.

My fingers chilled, I slowly swiped through my phone’s email. I hadn’t checked it in days. But as thirty-two new emails loaded, I noticed the newest one that I’d received about three minutes ago.

The email sender was someone named E69Ch3aT896. The email’s subject heading: “olivia willand.”

For a second, I was back at the lake, staring down at DeMaria Jackson’s arm in the sand.

I clicked it.

The image loaded on my screen slowly, a blurred box of colors.

Suddenly it went crisp.

On my phone, Olivia Willand was sitting on a bed, her legs slightly spread apart. A lacy purple bra was slung off her shoulders, one of her breasts exposed in the dim light. She was leaning back, her arms propping her up. Her lips were curled into a sly grin. She was taunting the viewer—you could only look but not touch. Aside from the bra, she wore nothing else. At the bottom of the image was a single emoji: a kissy face.

I could hear the blood pumping in my ears. My heart was speeding in my chest, the shock and shame hitting me all at once.

I reached for Kevin instinctively.

But he was already running out of the lunch line, frantically waving his arms at John Stack.

“John! Shut it down!”

John frowned as Kevin’s father joined him, his mouth drawn into a tight smile. “What are you saying?” Mr. Obermueller called out.

“Dad, please, shut it down!” Kevin shouted.

The couple ahead of me stared at their phones. The woman’s mouth was half-open in shock. Her husband quickly shoved his phone back into his pocket. His face was burning red.

I suddenly realized what was happening. Up near the park entrance, Kevin yanked the megaphone from John and started shouting into it.

“If you’ve received the email with Olivia Willand’s name, do not open it. I repeat: Do. Not. Open. It.” Kevin was gesturing wildly at the crowd, his voice trembling. “Please report it to me, report it to the Liberty Lake police. We can get this sorted out, but please for the love of God, don’t open it.”

But it was too late. I could already see the heads bending toward their phones and the sharp turns as they saw the email.

There was a howl from the front of the lunch line. It sounded enraged and hysterical and in pain, as if an animal were being ripped apart in front of us. I didn’t need to see it to know that it was Mr. Willand crying out. His missing daughter’s nude photo had been exposed to the whole world.





21




There was a mass exodus as people abandoned the lunch line for their cars, the street, anywhere else. Mr. Willand—big, potbellied Mr. Willand—quickly bolted for the pavilion, his face bright red. He left the hot dogs burning on the grill. I’d never seen him run before in my life. Mrs. Willand just stared at the scene in front of her, unmoving. John put a hand on her back, whispering to her. She squeezed his other hand. It was a tender gesture.

By the time I made my way over to Dad, Mr. Obermueller was already trying to do damage control.

“Again, I can’t thank you all enough for coming, folks,” boomed Mr. Obermueller into the megaphone. His words seemed to fall on deaf, fleeing ears. “Please, everyone, don’t hesitate to take your evidence to the police.”