Pretty Girls Dancing(3)

It was simpler when Janie kept her head down, writing the orders, turning her back to make the treats. More difficult when she had to announce the amount, take the money, and count back change. To interact. The place seemed to swell with bodies. With noise. So many . . . words were floating in the air, demanding responses, although fortunately not from her. She’d perfected the art of flipping a switch—robot mode, her therapist called it—and focused on the tedium while attempting to disregard the snippets of conversation floating around her.

“. . . see her costume last night? Sort of skanky, don’t you . . .”

“. . . gone for two days already . . .”

“Cade seemed to like it.”

“. . . probably ran off with a guy. I heard her dad was super strict . . .”

“He’s a total player, what guy wouldn’t . . .”

“That’s three twenty-eight.” The words came in a rush but were steady enough. She collected the money and counted back the change. The girl—Ellie Breitbach—sat behind her in third-period calculus. They’d never exchanged a word.

Cone in one hand, change in the other, she turned away and picked up the conversation where she’d left off with her friend. “Still, she’s just so obvious. She’s gonna get a rep if she doesn’t . . .”

“May I help you?” Janie focused on the next customer. And then the next. The two lines dwindled. So thoroughly had she blocked the chatter that when the piercing words rang out, they took a moment to sink in.

“What do you think about it, Janie?”

She stilled. Squelched the panic that threatened to surge and searched for the speaker. Recognizing her, Janie’s stomach clenched. “About what?”

In a carefully studied move, Heather Miller gathered up her long, blonde hair in one hand before letting it cascade again, probably for the benefit of the slack-jawed boy glued to her side in the booth. “That girl that disappeared in Saxon Falls a couple of days ago. Surely you’ve heard. It’s been on the news. She might even have been a victim of the Ten Mile Killer, like your sister. Don’t you just think that’s awful?”

Responses raced across her mind and remained unuttered. She thought a lot of things, actually. Like how Heather was a bitch and the only person Janie knew whom she actively disliked. That she realized when she was being baited and would never give the girl the satisfaction of a reaction.

Because even the mention of the Ten Mile Killer made Janie want to scream in ineffectual rage.

But, of course, she said none of these. “I think they’re wrong,” she responded flatly. Doris, the manager, hurried over from the other register, protective as always.

“That’s enough nonsense,” she said loudly. Pitching her voice lower, she murmured, “I’ve got the rest of this. You can go on back.”

Janie turned blindly, Heather’s voice following her as she headed toward the kitchen. “What? She’s bound to hear about it. It’s on the local channel. Some people are saying it’s just like Janie’s . . .”

She walked straight through the kitchen to the hook by the back door where she’d left her things. She grabbed her purse before heading out the door, already digging into it for something to calm the nerves that were suddenly raw and quivering.

With not-quite-steady hands, she found the package of cigarettes and shook one out. It took three attempts to light it. She drew deeply on the cigarette and let the smoke fill her lungs.

But it did nothing to calm the riot in her blood. A girl was missing. And this time from nearby. It would start again. The instant hysteria. The inevitable comparisons. Janie’s family history would be rehashed over coffee cups and dinner tables. Because her sister’s kidnapping seven years ago had been the most sensational thing that had happened in West Bend, Ohio, since its last lynching, more than a century ago.

She’d been ten when Kelsey had disappeared. Vanished into thin air. The news stories had been titled with clickbait clichés. Without a trace. There’d been a media firestorm. It’d seemed as though each time the TV had been switched on, there was a story about the Kelsey Willard kidnapping.

Janie leaned her head against the siding of the building and blew out a thin stream of smoke. It was unseasonably cool, but she felt like a furnace had torched beneath her skin. A vise of dread tightened in her chest as the memories rushed in. Her house had been full of people for weeks after it happened. The local cops and then more from the state. Pastors, neighbors, relatives, friends . . . it seemed like everyone they’d ever known was in and out of their home at some point. As a kid, her social anxiety had manifested as selective mutism, and the crowds filling their home were almost as terrifying as the disappearance of her sister. When she hadn’t been able to escape to her room, she’d learned how to fade into the woodwork. But that didn’t mean she didn’t see—and hear—what was going on.

She inhaled again, then considered the cigarette in her hand. At the time, her mom had said tragedy brought out the best in people, but Janie wasn’t so sure. People had said the right things, but she’d sensed a furtive look of excitement in their eyes layered under the sympathy. As if they were thrilled and even a little bit scared to be on the fringe of the most horrible thing that could happen to a family. Like adrenaline-seeking kids sneaking up to the town’s haunted house on a dare, slapping a hand on its siding, and then racing back to safety just for the bragging rights. We were this close!