Author: Laurie Faria Stolarz
Category: Suspense
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/laurie-faria-stolarz/page,16,533399-jane_anonymous.html
What were the odds…?
I approached it slowly, thinking how the Jeep reminded me of Jack’s—an old ’70s model, with a giant eagle decal splayed across the hood. I went around to the driver’s side and tried the door. It opened, but the courtesy light remained off. I sat behind the wheel, remembering how Jack had once stuck a screwdriver in his ignition to start it up when he couldn’t find the key.
What could I use? I started to search, leaning over to open the glove box, accidentally bumping the glass piece stuck in my hand. A singeing sensation shot across my wrist, brought more tears to my eyes. I riffled through the contents, careful to use only my fingers. I pulled out an owner’s manual, a stack of napkins, some plastic utensils, and a golf ball.
Finally, I found something half-worth a try: a bottle opener. I ran my finger over the pointed end, noticing more tingling in my fingers. Was I starting to lose sensation?
Keep focused, insisted the Shelley voice.
Would the tip of the bottle opener fit into the ignition? I went to try it, and my heart instantly clenched. A key was already in the ignition.
I turned it.
The engine choked.
I tried again.
There was a solid rumble.
I peeked into the rearview mirror just as another light flicked on somewhere behind me, illuminating a corral.
I put the Jeep in gear, stepped on the gas, and peeled out of the drive, almost unable to believe that this was really, truly happening. I flew down the street, unsure where I was going. The roads were dark. I clicked on the high beams. The gas gauge on the dashboard read just above empty.
It seemed I was on a hill. The road spiraled downward. My ears clogged from the altitude. I clenched the wheel tighter and slowed down, trying to focus on the dotted lines of the street to avoid going over the edge.
Finally, when it seemed I’d reached the bottom, I sped up again, spotting a car at the end of the road. I followed it, desperate to find a town. The license plate said New England State. I was still relatively close to home.
The car pulled over. I sped right by it, turning left, then right. A sign was up ahead. I pressed on the gas pedal to see what it was. At the same moment, I noticed the car I’d passed following me—a red sedan. Its high beams glared against my side mirror; they flicked on and off as though to get my attention.
I sped faster and wrenched the wheel, making a sharp turn down a narrow road. The Jeep tilted onto its side. I braced myself for a crash, but the Jeep smacked down on all four tires, and I came to a halt.
Loose items—a soda can, a handful of coins—tossed inside the car, rattled against the windows. Something hard pelted the side of my head.
I took a deep breath, trying to get my bearings. The car was gone now. I heard its screech from down the street. I stepped on the gas pedal, eager to keep moving.
At last I’d found it.
A tiny town.
I blinked hard, but still the town remained. This wasn’t just a dream or mirage. Two streetlamps shone over a mini-mart, a post office, and a police station. If it weren’t for the illuminated P of the police sign, I’d have sworn it was a ghost town.
I pulled up beneath the P, flung open the Jeep door, and headed inside.
NOW
49
After a couple of weeks of visiting Brave, I take her on a walk around the shelter building, inside the gate. I could just as easily let her off the leash and give her free rein inside the yard, since no other dogs are out right now, but she needs to learn to walk with others. This is part of the process, not so much unlike mine.
She has to learn to trust people too. Up until now, she probably hasn’t had much reason to trust, but I’ve been trying to change that with routine visits, where I bring her treats and listen to her barking.
She’s listens to me too. I’ve been starting most of my sessions by sitting outside her cage and telling her about Mason—about his visits to the wall and how much I relied on them. “Sometimes I imagine I can still hear his voice,” I tell her. “Inside my head, when I’m deep in sleep, I can hear him telling me it’ll all be okay, that I’m stronger than I think, and that he cares about me too.”
I let Brave lead me around the shelter property, wondering what would happen if I didn’t show up for days. Would she eventually get sick, just as I did? Would she lie awake, anticipating the clank of the dog wing door, the way I did Mason’s knock? And wait to hear my footsteps approaching her cage, only to be disappointed when it wasn’t me? The possibility of that dependency is just one of the things that keeps me coming back.
Brave and I do several laps before I bring her back inside. The dog lounge is empty—the perfect time to go in. She isn’t ready for socialization yet, but she still can get used to the space by smelling the scents of the other dogs.
I unhook her leash and let her roam free just as my phone vibrates with a text from Jack.
Jack: Any chance you’re free today?
Me: I’m at the shelter.
Jack: Until when? It’ll just take a bit.
Me: What will?
Jack: Can I meet you somewhere after your shift? I have something I want to give you.
I watch Brave lick the corner of a pull toy—slowly, cautiously, and from different angles—as though testing to see if it might spontaneously combust. When she’s sure it won’t, she takes the toy into her mouth and carries it to a corner of the room, where she gnaws on the rubberized handle.
A series of question marks appear on the chat screen. Jack is waiting for my reply. I know he means well, but, like Brave, I don’t feel ready for socialization either.
Me: Maybe some other time.
Jack: Please. I promise, it won’t take long.
Me: OK.
Me: How about 4?
Jack: Perfect. Anyplace you want.
Me: Hilltop Park?
Jack: Perfect again. I’ll see you then.
The park is just a block from the shelter and is usually bustling with power walkers, track team runners, baby strollers, coffee drinkers … We can sit on one of the benches, apart from the action, but still be surrounded by people.
With my phone gripped firmly in my hand, I count the steps all the way there (eighty-four). Jack is already sitting and waiting on the bench by the swings. He waves when he sees me. I wave back, wanting to feel excitement, but overwhelmed with trepidation.
“Hey,” he says, standing as I approach. His gaze goes to my shoulders, and he inclines slightly forward as though he wants to hug me (because we used to hug all the time). But then he backs away, knowing better, wanting to make me comfortable.
I take a seat. He does too, leaving about eighteen inches between us.
“Thanks for coming to meet me,” he says. “How are you doing?”
I open my mouth to give him my stock answer: fine, not bad.
But then: “I’m sorry,” he says. “That’s an obnoxious question, isn’t it? A better one would be: How was your lunch?”
“My lunch?”
“Yeah, isn’t that a much more interesting question? What did you have?”
“A bagel with avocado.”
“And was it good?”
“Delicious.” I smile—a genuine one.
“See that?”
“Maybe you should be my therapist. Between good questions and amazing letters…”
“Do you need a therapist?”
“My mother insists, but personally, I think they all suck.”
“It’s true. I’ll bet that if you lined up ten shrinks, only one or two of them would be any good. I speak from experience; I went through six before finally finding my lucky number seven. You should’ve met number four. The guy actually fell asleep, mid-session.”
“You’re lying.”
“No joke. The guy snored so loud; it sounded like a vacuum.”
“That’s horrible.”
“For him or me? But then, three shrinks later, I met Dr. Jim, who really helped me figure
stuff out. Plus, he never fell asleep and didn’t constantly scratch his groin like therapist number two.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Who’d kid about that? I didn’t know where to look.”
“Lately, I’ve been using writing as my main therapy source.”
“Writing what?”
“My story, what happened—the during, the after…”
“The after?”
I nod. “It’s not all ice cream and roses. It’s scary and confusing, and sometimes even more isolating … Anyway, writing it all down—chronicling ‘the then’ and ‘the now’ … It’s just my way of trying to process everything and make sense of it somehow.”
“And how’s it going?”
“Depends on the day—like everything else, I guess.”
“Do you plan to ever share your writing?”
“Maybe one day.”
“Well, I’ll be first in line if and when you do.” His gaze falls to my hand resting in my lap.
I look down at it too, noticing how pronounced my scars look in the sunlight. I pull my sleeve down over them.
“So I have something for you,” he segues, reaching into his backpack. He hands me a brown paper lunch bag.
“You brought me food,” I say, peeking inside. I pull out a square wrapped package, but it isn’t food. It’s a music CD: Gigi Garvey.
“From her concert tour,” Jack says.
“The concert tour I missed.”
“The one we both missed. But no big deal; we’ll just catch the next one. And in the meantime, you have this.” He flips the CD over. Gigi Garvey’s signature is scribbled across the front, along with the words Stay brave, Sweet Jane. Love, Gigi.
I clasp my hand over my mouth.
“Do you have a CD player?” he asks. “I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t pass it up, even if you didn’t. I figured you’d be able to play it somehow.”
“I’m sure my parents have one somewhere.”
“Well, then, good.” He smiles. “Because you’re seriously going to love it.”
I run my fingers over the inscription, wondering if Jack told her what to write, or if she heard about my story. “How did you even do this?” I ask him.
“I have my ways.”
“This is so unbelievably…” I shake my head, too overwhelmed to even process what this feels like: glee, regret, self-pity, gratitude …
“You’re welcome,” he says. “And it wasn’t unbelievably anything. It was just necessary. Those are some classic tunes on there. You need them. It’s not a choice.”
Words of thanks swim inside my mind but never make it to my mouth. Instead, a surge of blood rushes from my head, and I clench the edge of the bench.
“Jane? Are you okay?”
Not okay. I take a moment to breathe. It’s all too much. And I have no idea why. My face flashes hot, but my insides are shivering.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, feeling like a complete and utter flake.
“Do you want some water?” He fishes for his wallet. “There’s a vendor by the basketball court.”
“No. I should be fine.” I rise from the bench. The ground feels slightly tilted. “Thank you for the CD, but I have to go.”
“I’ll walk you.” He stands up too.
“I’ll be okay,” I tell him, turning away, exiting the park, hating myself every single step, especially when I realize that I didn’t take the CD. I left it on the bench as though I don’t even want it, when, in reality, there’s nothing I want more.
NOW
50
Hours later, cuddled up in bed, I send Jack a text. Luckily, he responds right away.
Me: I’m really sorry about earlier.
Jack: No need to apologize.
Me: Yes, there is. I freaked out, and I’m not even sure why.
Jack: Trust me. It’s OK.
Me: And on top of acting freakish, I left the CD, like a complete idiot!
Jack: It’s fine. No worries.
Me: You’re way too nice.
Jack: I can drop the CD off in your mailbox sometime soon, OK?
Me: Thank you so much again.
Me: Seriously …
Jack: No problem.
Jack: Good night, Jane.
Me: Night.
THEN
51
The walls of the police station were lined with flyers—for no smoking, town meetings, voter registration, and rules for dog licensing …
I hobbled toward the front desk. To my complete and utter shock, Ms. Romer, my health teacher, was seated behind it. She didn’t see me at first—too busy typing away on a laptop. I approached her slowly, as though she were an apparition and going too fast might scare her away.
Her head snapped up. I noticed the red glasses first, then the wrinkled skin and the sunken cheeks. It wasn’t Ms. Romer. I took a step back.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Help me? A mental block formed inside my brain. It wasn’t a trick question. “I need to talk to someone…” My voice sounded hoarse. “A police officer. A friend is in trouble.”
The woman’s gaze landed on my bandage job—the blood-splotched T-shirt. My fingers were bloody too—dried drips, encrusted nails. I flashed her the chunk of glass lodged into my palm.
The woman stood up and signaled to an officer in the cubicle behind her—an older, wiry guy who reminded me of Mr. Yeager, my old bio teacher. Why did everyone look familiar?
Even me.
My old face.
Tacked up on the wall.
I took a few steps closer to the flyer. The photo had been taken at the track banquet last spring, when I’d flat-ironed my hair. The words MISSING PERSON cut across my neck, stealing my breath.
“I’m going to have you speak with Officer Jones,” the woman said, buzzing me through a locked door behind the front desk.
Officer Jones introduced himself. His eyes searched my wounds—my face, my hands, my shoulders. And suddenly I wanted to hide. I followed him down a hallway into a tiny room.
“You can take a seat,” he said.
“My friend needs help,” I insisted, picturing Mason trapped somewhere—stuck inside an air duct or locked in a secret room.
“It looks like you could use some help yourself,” he said, nodding to my hands. The one with the glass absolutely throbbed. “We’ve already called a medic,” he continued.
“But there isn’t time.”
“This is just standard procedure. Have yourself a seat, and I’ll be right back.”
I stood with one leg out the door. A fake wood table and four metal folding chairs sat in the center of the room. A mirror was built into the wall; it was the two-way kind. I caught a glimpse of my reflection—of the dirt on my face, the cut below my eye, and the heap of hair on my head. When had I gotten the slash across my cheek? A six-inch red mark.
“Hello?” the officer asked. He was sitting at the table now. When had he come back? “The medic will be here shortly. Now, can you tell me your name?”
I sat down across from him. The tip of his pen angled against a notebook page, ready to write. He gazed back up when I didn’t answer right away.
“Jane Anonymous.”
His eyes locked on mine, and his upper lip twitched. “Can you please repeat that?”
“My name? It’s Jane Anonymous.”
He got up and darted from the room, returning a few moments later with a female cop. She looked too young to be an officer; maybe she’d just graduated from the police academy.
“My name is Sergeant Mercer,” she said. “And you are?”
“Jane Anonymous,” I repeated; hadn’t the Jones guy told her? “My friend Mason is in trouble.”
“Jane Anonymous from Suburban Town, New England State?”
“Yes.”
She slid out the chair beside mine. I didn’t want her to sit next to me, but she did it anyway, proceeding with questions that wasted my time and kept Mason in danger. “What are your parents’ na
mes?”
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“What are your parents’ names, Jane?”
I took a deep breath, hating this game, desperate to leave. Tick tock, tick tock. The feet of her chair scraped the floor, making a grating sound that sent shivers down my spine.
“Jane? Your parents’ names?”
“John and Mary.”
“And you’re a student at—”
“No Name High—at least that’s where I used to go.”
“What year are you in school?”
I peered down at the glass in my hand. My fingertips looked gray. Where was that medic? “I should be a senior. What month is it?”
“You don’t know the month?”
Why else would I ask? “Where am I, even?”
“It’s March,” she said. “And you’re in Berkshire Town, New England State.”
Three hours from home.
Seven months gone.
What time was it again?
“Where have you been for the past several months?” she asked.
“In a building, locked up in a room.”
“If it’s okay, I’d like to take you into one of our interview rooms.”
“It’s not okay. My friend needs help.” Why did I come here?
“Okay, let’s go to the interview room and get all of the details so that we can help your friend. In the meantime, would you like anything? Water, soda, something to eat? I know we’ve got someone coming to check out your wounds.”
“You aren’t hearing me.”
“I am,” she said, sticking her face in mine, overly confident I wouldn’t bite.
“Mason needs help,” I snapped. “He’s back there. I left without him.”
“Wait, who’s back there?” Jones asked.
“Mason!” I shouted. Why weren’t they listening? “He’s back at the building. I couldn’t find his room.”
“Which building? Where is it?”
“Let’s take a deep breath.” Sergeant Mercer breathed for me—in an out, a new form of torture.
I wanted to strangle her.
“There’s no need to rush,” she said.
The hell there wasn’t. “Mason’s still back there. You have to find him.”