Vanishing Girls(61)

There’s a short pause. “Are you threatening me? Because I’m not afraid of you.” This last part is obviously a lie. Even through the door, I can hear that the girl’s voice is shaking.

“Then you’re dumber than I thought,” Andre says. “Now get the f*ck out of my office.”

Before I can retreat or react, the door swings open so hard it cracks against the wall, and a girl comes rushing out. Her head is down, but still I recognize her immediately from the paper: the pale skin, the straight fringe of black bangs, and the red lipstick, like she’s auditioning for a part in a movie about a vampire from the 1920s. It’s Sarah Snow’s best friend, the girl who supposedly accompanied her to get ice cream the night Madeline disappeared. She pushes past me roughly and doesn’t even stop to apologize, and before I can call out to her, she’s gone, darting animal-like up the stairs.

I want to go after her, but Andre has already seen me.

“What do you want?” His eyes are bloodshot. He looks tired, impatient. It’s him: the guy from the photo, leather-jacket guy. He’s nobody, Dara said, months ago. They’re all nobodies. They don’t matter.

But she was wrong about this one.

I try to see him as Dara might have. He’s older, maybe early twenties, and his hair is already thinning, although he gels it stiff to conceal the fact. He’s good-looking in an obvious way, like someone who spends a lot of time flossing. His lips are too thin.

“Casey sent me down here,” I blurt. “I mean, I was looking for the bathroom.”

“What?” Andre squints at me. He takes up most of the doorway. He’s big—at least six-four—with hands like meat cleavers.

My heart is still going, hard. He knows what happened to Madeline Snow. It’s not a suspicion. It’s a certainty. He knows what happened to Madeline Snow and he knows where Dara is and he takes care of problems. It suddenly occurs to me that no one would hear me if I screamed. The music upstairs is too loud.

“You looking for a job?” Andre says, when I don’t respond, and I realize that I’m still holding the stupid application.

“Yes. No. I mean, I was.” I shove the paper into my bag. “But Casey said you guys aren’t doing parties right now.”

Andre’s watching me sideways, like a snake watching a mouse move closer and closer. “We’re not,” he says. His eyes go over my whole body, slowly, like a long, careful touch. He smiles then: a megawatt, movie-star smile, a smile to make people say yes. “But how about you come in and sit down? Never know when we’re going to start up again.”

“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I don’t—I mean, I was kind of looking for a position right now.”


Andre’s still smiling, but something shifts behind his eyes. It’s like the friendly switch has just cut off. Now his smile is cold, scrutinizing, suspicious. “Hey,” he says, pointing a finger at me, and the certainty yawns open in my stomach: He recognizes me, he knows I’m Dara’s sister, he knows I came to find her. All this time, he’s been screwing with me. “Hey. You look familiar. Don’t I know you?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. He knows. Without meaning to move, I take off down the hall, walking as quickly as I can without breaking into a run, taking the stairs two at a time. I burst onto the dance floor, pinballing off a guy dressed in a dark purple suit who reeks of cologne.

“Why the hurry?” he calls after me, laughing.

I dodge a small knot of girls swaying drunkenly in heels, squealing along with the song lyrics. Luckily, the bouncer has temporarily abandoned his post—maybe it’s too late for new arrivals. I push out into the thick night air, heavy with moisture and salt, taking deep and grateful breaths, like someone emerging from underwater.

The lot is still packed with cars, a tight Tetris formation, bumper-to-bumper—too many cars for the number of people inside. For one disorienting second I can’t remember where I parked. I fish my keys from my bag, clicking the car open, feeling reassured when I hear the familiar beep and see headlights blink expectantly at me. I jog toward the car, weaving between cars.

Suddenly I’m blinded by the sweep of headlights. A small, dark VW cuts by me, spitting gravel, and as it passes underneath the light I see Sarah Snow’s friend hunched behind the wheel. Her name, heard or read a dozen times in the past ten days, returns to me suddenly. Kennedy.

I thud a hand down on her trunk before she can fully bypass me. “Wait!”

She slams on the brakes. I circle around to the driver’s side, keeping one hand on her car the whole time, as if it will prevent her from driving away. “Wait.” I haven’t even planned what I’m going to say. But she has answers; I know she does. “Please.” I place my hand flat on the window. She jerks backward an inch, like she’s expecting me to reach through the glass and hit her. But after a second, she buzzes down the window.

“What?” She’s holding on to the wheel with both hands, as if she’s afraid it might jump out of her hands. “What do you want?”

“I know you lied about the night Madeline disappeared.” The words are out of my mouth before I know I’ve even been thinking them. Kennedy inhales sharply. “You and Sarah came here.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but Kennedy nods, a movement so small I almost miss it.