Vanishing Girls(60)

“Please,” I say, and then, so she won’t suspect how desperate I am, quickly add, “it’s just—I really need the money.”

She scrutinizes me for a second longer. Then, to my surprise, she laughs. “Don’t we all?” she says, winking. “Okay, then. You know where to find him? Down the stairs across from the ladies’. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. And don’t forget to drop off your application with me before you leave.”

“I won’t,” I say, standing up so quickly the chair screeches against the floor. “I mean, thanks.”

Back in the hall, I pause for a moment, disoriented in the sudden darkness. Up ahead, the disco light is whirling, sending showers of purple light around a mostly empty dance floor. The music is so loud it makes my head hurt. Why would anyone come here? Why did Dara come here?

I close my eyes and think back to the days before the accident. Weirdly the only thing that comes is an image of Parker’s car, and that fogged-up windshield, the rain fizzing on the glass. We didn’t mean to. . . .

I open my eyes again. Two girls spill out of the bathroom, holding hands and giggling. As soon as they start down the hall, I slip after them, noticing for the first time a dark alcove immediately across from the LADIES sign, and stairs leading down to the basement.

The stairs corkscrew around a small, bare landing and abruptly turn from wood to concrete. Another few steps, and I’m deposited in a long, unfinished hallway with cinder-block walls and a paint-splattered concrete floor. The whole basement feels forgotten and disused. In a horror film, this would be where the blond girl goes to die in the opening scene.

I shiver in the sudden chill. It’s cold down here and smells like all basements, like moisture barely contained. Naked bulbs encased in mesh hang from the ceiling, and the music is nothing but a dull thudding, like a monster’s distant heartbeat. Boxes are heaped at the far end of the hallway, and through one half-open door I see what must be the staff changing room: grim gray lockers, several pairs of sneakers lined up under a bench, and a cell phone buzzing forlornly, performing a quarter-turn rotation on the wood when it does. I get the sudden, prickly feeling of being watched, and I spin around, half expecting someone to jump out at me.

No one. Still, my heart rate won’t return to normal.

I’m about to return upstairs, thinking I must have misunderstood Casey’s directions, when voices down the hall crest sharply, suddenly, over the music. Even though I don’t hear a single word, I immediately know: an argument.

I continue down the hall, moving carefully, holding my breath. With every step the itch in my skin gets worse, as if invisible people are leaning forward to breathe on me. I remember, then, the time Parker dared Dara and me to walk across the graveyard off Cressida Circle at night when we were kids.

“But go quietly,” he said, dropping his voice, “or they’ll reach out and—” He seized me suddenly by the waist and I screamed. Afterward he couldn’t stop laughing; still, I never did walk across the graveyard, too afraid that if I did, a hand would reach out and grab me, pulling me down into the rotten earth.

I pass another door, this one gaping open to reveal a dingy bathroom with caulk oozing like thick caterpillars between cracks in the wall. By now the voices are louder. There’s a final door, this one closed, a few feet farther on. This must be Andre’s office.

The voices abruptly go silent and I freeze, holding my breath, wondering if I’ve been detected, debating whether I should knock or turn around and run.

Then a girl says, quietly but very clearly, “The police grilled me for, like, four hours. And I didn’t have anything to tell them. I couldn’t tell them anything.”

A male voice—Andre—replies, “So what the hell are you worried about?”

“She’s my best friend. She was drunk. She doesn’t even remember getting home. And her sister’s missing. Of course I’m f*cking worried.”

My heart stops beating for the space of a breath, a name: Madeline Snow. They’re talking about Madeline Snow.

“Lower your voice. And don’t feed me some horseshit. You’re trying to cover your ass. But you knew what you were getting into when you signed up.”

“You said everything would be private. You said no one would know.”

“I told you to lower your voice.”

But it’s too late. Her voice is rising in pitch like steam being forced through a kettle. “So what did happen that night, huh? Because if you know something, you have to talk. You have to tell me.”

There’s a moment of silence. My heart is drumming hard in my throat, like a fist trying to punch its way out.

“Fine.” Her voice is shaking now, skipping registers. “Fine. Then don’t tell me. I guess you can just wait until the police knock down your door.”

The door handle rattles and I jump backward, pressing myself against the wall, as if it will keep me invisible. Then there’s a scraping noise, the sound of a chair jumping backward, and the door handle falls still.

Andre says, “I don’t know what the hell happened to that little girl.” The way he says little girl makes me feel sick, like I’ve accidentally eaten something rotten. “But if I did know—if I do know—you really think it’s a smart idea to come around here playing Nancy Drew? You think I don’t know how to make problems disappear?”