How to Disappear(23)

Plus, I’m constantly scared.

Which is good.

In real life, if you’re so scared, you’re debilitated, you’re supposed to suck it up. Go to your happy place. Talk it over with your stepfather, who encourages you to stop hiding in your room and go back to fourth grade even if the back of your skirt did get caught in your panties so everyone saw your butt.

In the new real life, scared is my motto and creed and religion. It makes me nocturnal, cleaning out offices on night shift. I got the job off Craigslist. At sunrise, when I’ve mopped my last floor, the boss hands me a wad of cash.

In the room I’m subletting (also Craigslist, also cash), I do hundreds of crunches. Deep knee bends like a manic jack-in-the-box. Push-ups and headstands and walking on my hands between the closet and the tiny bathroom.

Then I eat a bag of frosted Winchell’s Donuts.

I’m not actually fat. I pass the pinch test for not being morbidly obese. Let’s just say I won’t be climbing to the top of a human pyramid anytime soon.

What used to be empty space between my thighs is filled with slabs of me that rub against each other when I walk. I’m cushioned in a muscled sheet of safety.

I live half a block from three bus lines, a quarter mile to the metro. Be fit. Run. Hitch with whoever gets you off the street fastest.

When the girls who rent the other rooms in the apartment are gone, I sneak into the living room and watch Ultimate Fighting on their cable.





23


Jack


I’m in a crap motel outside Laughlin, where I’ve been sitting since I left Calvin’s house. I paid with Manx cash and signed the register with illegible handwriting. From a hundred miles away, Summerlin feels like ancient history.

It took less than a day for Olivia to download my attachment, a fake contest for tickets to see Taylor Swift live. I might as well be standing right behind her every time she logs on, draped in Monica’s Mermaid Ninjas’ mantle of invisibility. I’m not pleased to be this level of creeper, but at least I’m not turning on her camera remotely and watching her undress—I could, but I wouldn’t. But then, the guy in the cheesy horror movie who chants, “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” probably doesn’t think he’s a freak either.

I keep clicking on Olivia’s screen, refreshing it, waiting for it to update with what I’m looking for. As soon as Nicolette e-mails or Facebook messages or contacts her in any way from a computer, I can find her.

I watch Olivia buy a skirt online and shoes that don’t have much to them except heels. For hours, all she gets is spam and notices from her dad’s church. Her youth group has a Facebook page. She’s bringing lemon bars to their next meeting. This gets eight likes, a “yum,” and a smiley face.

I eat cartons of KFC, Big Macs, and chili cheese fries.

I wait a day, two days, five days.

Don says, “Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one? Speed it up.”

“Do you think I want to draw this out?”

“Don’t make me wish I got somebody else for this.”

“Why didn’t you? If you had so many people begging to do your bidding.”

“Because Mom was in play.”

I don’t know if he’s trying to motivate me, scare me, or hit me in the face with the stakes, but he’s three for three. I pull two mini-bottles of whiskey out of the mini-fridge and pour them into the glass I’ve been using for my toothbrush.

Maybe all the drunk, creative guys had it right. Because then I figure out the obvious. Just because I can’t get into Nicolette’s phone doesn’t mean she’s not using it. Why would Olivia get e-mail from Nicolette when they both have phones? Ding, ding, ding: I have to get Nicolette to stop using her cell phone to talk to Olivia. I need her in Olivia’s computer. That’s when I’ll get to take my mantle of invisibility on the road.

If she loses the phone, I’ve got her.

It feels like I’m playing Clue against Nicolette, except that I already know she did it and where and with what weapon and to whom. I leave the motel for long enough to buy the phone that’s going to lead me to her.

Don’s right.

I’m going to win the game.

I explain that there’s a new strategy, and he blows. It’s pointless to try to explain. He doesn’t have the concentration to sit through it, and the likelihood that he’d forgive me for not figuring it out sooner is nil.

I say, “Tell me anyone’s closer to finding her than I am, and I’ll mail you a finger. Let up. I’m on this 24/7.”

“I don’t want your friggin’ finger! I want results. You’re supposed to be the smart one. Do something smart. Because something might happen that I can’t stop.”

Without thinking, I say, “Whatever happens to Mom happens to you.”

There it is: my first death threat.





24


Cat


The first message arrives at 1:40 a.m.

The phone pings.

On the dimly lit screen, a text: I know where you are.

My heart stops. I’m still breathing, but there’s no pulse or sound or heartbeat. The phone drops onto the bed.

No. No no no no no no no.

I was supposed to be untraceable. How could this happen?

I bite into my lower lip until I taste blood.