Author: Laurie Faria Stolarz
Category: Suspense
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“What does that mean?” I shouted, getting up from the bed.
Dad got up too, as though to stop me, but I was already in the doorway. The nurse stood at the desk.
“Do you know something?” I asked her. “Why won’t you tell me?”
Dad reached out to touch my bandaged arm, but I snatched it away. “Bring the detectives back!” I shouted.
“It’s going to be okay,” Dad said. “You just need to get some rest.”
“I’ve been gone for seven months. How would you know what I need?”
Dad took a step back like I’d just slapped him in the face. I went out into the hall, searching for one of the agents.
Another nurse trailed me. “You need to go back to your room.”
I needed to get out.
I pushed open an exit door. A buzzer sounded. Someone grabbed me from behind, wrapped his hand around my bicep.
Fingers pressed into my wrist.
Was that an elbow at my spine? A needle in my skin?
“If only you were sneezing when that asshole took you, right?” Mason’s voice.
“So much for happy reunions.” An unfamiliar voice.
“Scratch, Daddy, scratch.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. At least I said it inside my head. I’m not sure if the words actually hit the air. I was sorry for feeling suffocated, for not thanking God too, and for breaking the embrace after licorice-lace fairy tales and poison sumac dreams.
NOW
54
I sit up in bed, unable to sleep. I keep tossing and turning. My legs won’t stop itching. I pull up on the length of my pajama bottoms. The hair on the front of my legs is a few inches long now. I run my palms over the skin, creating a sensation of déjà vu.
When have I felt this before? The tugging of calf hair as I stroke toward my knees? The tingling of nerves as I continue over my thighs? A mix of pain and pleasure that feels eerily familiar.
It takes a few moments before I notice what I’ve done: scratched bright red track marks across my skin. They’re littered with bloodred pinpoints. No razors necessary. When one is this broken, the blood just comes. The memories seep in.
I go down the hall, step into the bathroom, and grab my razor on a mission to forget. I run the faucet and moisten every millimeter of skin, from ankle to knee, because this hair has to go.
My foot propped on the toilet seat, I shave it away in rows, imagining a tractor in a field, on a farm with chickens and baby lambs. The hair collects in the bowl, floats at the surface. I flush three times, eliminating the evidence.
There’s no proof now.
Nothing to be remembered.
But still when I close my eyes, I picture a hand on my leg, stroking my calf. I see fingers making spirals over the kneecap. I feel a swell of heat spread across my thighs.
I look in the mirror and see the image of a victim. But a victim of what, exactly? Do I even want to know?
I grab a pair of scissors from inside the medicine cabinet and start to cut—first just a strand of hair, by my ear, then a solid chunk, enough to make a ponytail.
But it isn’t enough. I still look the same.
I grab a fistful at the crown of my head and go to cut just as I hear the floorboards crack.
“Jane?” Mom’s voice. She’s standing in the doorway. Her gaze falls to the floor—to the clumps of hair that’ve fallen at my feet.
“Is everything okay?” she asks. The same stupid question.
“It’s fine,” I say, an equally stupid answer. Is the fire on my face visible to the eye? Didn’t I close the door? Don’t I remember turning the lock?
She takes a step closer. Her eyes go squinty as though it’s too hard to look. “What are you doing?”
“Just giving myself a trim.”
“You used to go to a salon.”
I set the scissors down. “Could I go to one now?” I pull at my hair, eager to continue ridding.
“Anything you want.” Mom smiles, just “happy” to make me “happy.”
I ask if we can go to a place an hour away—as if miles make a difference when one is national news. Mom agrees, also playing along with my idea of making up stage names (since she’s getting her hair done too) and paying in cash. And so, while I’m Jane Lane (because, why not), she’s Veronica Lake, an old movie actress whose hair she envies.
I like Plum Salon from the moment I open the door. Everything inside is purple—walls, floors, ceilings, furniture—right down to the curling wands. While Mom gets whisked away for hair washing, I get seated with Maven, a stylist with ear spacers the size of quarters. A tall purple Mohawk divides her head in two.
She grabs the ends of the hair I hacked, where it’s at least five inches shorter than all the rest. “What happened here? You lookin’ to edge out, trying to self-start? Glad you thought twice and came to Ms. Maven. So what’s your flavor?”
“My flavor?”
“You in the mood for the traditional chocolate or strawberry? Or something a bit more exotic, like peppermint stick or salted caramel pretzel?”
“Um, what?”
“Well, you’ve got this major mane.” She holds the bulk of my hair in a ponytail. “Might as well pig out on it, right? Except, on second thought”—she gives my hair an extra feel—“we may have to err on the side of vanilla, at least a little … unless you’re open to some serious deep conditioning, because, holy hemlocks, honey. I mean, no offense or anything, but what happened here? Your hair used to be in dreads or something? Is that what urged you to self-start?”
Maven makes no sense, but it doesn’t even matter. What matters is that she doesn’t know me—doesn’t recognize me from the news or give a shit about how much time I spend in my room. To Maven, I’m nothing more than hair on a cone.
“So what’s the verdict?” she asks.
I picture my old self, BIWM, with smooth, dark tresses and caramel-colored highlights. “I think we need to start fresh.”
“As in losing some of this weight? How much are you feeling?”
“Can you cut off all the deadness?”
Maven’s barbell-pierced eyebrow shoots straight up. “You sure? Because that’s going to leave you short—like pixie short.”
I nod, beyond ready to look like someone else—not the old me, but maybe a newer version of me, whoever that is, whatever that means.
“Okay, this could be fun.” Maven cracks her knuckles. Her fingers are loaded with rubber rainbow rings that remind me of Life Savers. “We could do something totally ’rageous with color to funk it up. How bold are you feeling? Red, blue, pink, jet black?”
“Platinum,” I say, nodding to a poster on the wall—a woman with her fists raised high, as though to fight. She looks as fierce as fuck. I suddenly want to be her.
“Hot,” Maven agrees.
Once my hair is washed, I sit back in the chair and avoid looking at my face. Instead, I focus on the twelve inches of dead weight that gets severed from my head. In the end, my hair is about a half-inch all around, plus the palest shade of blond I’ve ever seen.
“Like it?” Maven asks.
I run my hand over the short, glowy layers. “Love it,” I say, relieved to look like someone other than a victim. I get up and move toward the seating area, anxious to show my mom, and to see her hair as well. But I’m intercepted en route.
“Excuse me,” a woman says. Ten-inch foil tentacles branch out from her scalp like a sci-fi version of Medusa. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I’ve been watching you for a bit and … Are you that girl?”
“That girl?” I ask, knowing fully well what she means.
“Sorry.” She laughs. “I’ve been wanting to ask if you were that girl from the moment I sat down.”
I shake my head. A gut reaction, not the smartest response.
“The one on TV,” she persists. “The girl that was taken…”
I shake my head some more. The room seems loud. Why is everyone staring? It takes me a beat to realize I’ve got
my hands cupped over my ears.
The woman takes a step back as though to give me space. “I don’t mean to … I just couldn’t not come over here and tell you how brave I think you are. I followed your case; it was on all of the news channels…” She continues to blather on—something about her sister—but I only catch a few words: “—truly an inspiration.”
If only she knew.
Or actually saw.
Or really listened.
Or thought before speaking.
“Jane?” My mother’s voice. She’s standing at my side now. Her hand slides over mine. I flinch at the sensation—like skin to fire.
Mom releases her grip and encircles my wrist instead. The next thing I know, she’s leading me out the door onto the sidewalk; stone pavement rather than purple tile is suddenly beneath my feet.
We walk four full blocks as I count all my steps, imagining plucking tissues for each one.
One hundred ten tissues.
Collected on the ground.
Paving my way to normal breath.
Finally, I stop in front of a store. The exterior is shiny, with a mirror finish. I go right up, able to see my reflection. The birthmark on my neck is more visible now with this shorter cut. It’s the size of a bumblebee and a perfect match to my dad’s.
I search my face for more familiar features: my tiny earlobes, my pointed chin, and the pale blond freckles across the bridge of my nose. The scar below my eye is new, but so is my hair.
“Are you okay?” Mom asks. Her hair is suddenly the color of nutmeg.
“I will be,” I mutter, almost believing it’s the truth. A new cut, color, and blowout obviously aren’t the cure-alls, but maybe they’re a start. Like a symbolic shedding of skin, maybe they’ll help me emerge into the person I’m supposed to become.
Or maybe not.
THEN
55
A long-legged spider slid down from the ceiling on its silken thread, stopping just inches above my chest. Lying in bed, I admired the spider’s shimmering legs; they glistened in the air, reminding me of Christmas tree tinsel.
I couldn’t help but wonder if the spider was Tiger, if he’d somehow followed me here to the hospital—crawled inside the hood of my sweatshirt to watch over me like a guardian angel.
“Tiger?” I asked, noting his shimmering brown stripes. I held out my finger to see if he would crawl onto my hand.
Tiger landed on my thumb, crept into the center of my palm, and wove a heart-shaped web.
“Jane?” Tiger asked, staring at me with his pearly black eyes. “Are you awake?”
“Tiger?” I repeated, excited he could talk.
“Jane?” A different voice—a female one.
“I think she’s still sleeping,” Tiger said.
A banging noise throttled my heart. A slamming trunk? I startled awake. My eyes snapped open.
Hovering over me were Special Agents Thomas and Brody—not Tiger the spider. There was no car trunk.
Special Agent Thomas sat down beside my bed. “Do you always talk in your sleep?”
Brody assumed his usual position at the door with a notebook.
I sat up, struggling to catch my breath. What had made that sound? “Did you find Mason?” I asked.
“That’s why we’re here.”
“You found him?”
“Unfortunately, no. There’s no sign of him.”
“What do you mean no sign? Did you search inside the air ducts? Did you knock down walls?”
“We found a body,” she said.
“What?” I blinked hard, digesting the word. “Whose body? Where was it?”
“We have reason to believe it’s the body of the man who abducted you. It appears he shot himself. The wound looks self-inflicted.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t have said anything if I wasn’t sure. His fingerprints are all over the house—they’re on all of the cups and bowls in your room, on the food trays, the doorknobs; they’re all over the rooms upstairs … Plus, he matches your description.”
“With the tree tattoo on his arms?”
“Except the tattoo,” she said. “It isn’t so uncommon for a perpetrator to fake a tattoo, a scar, or some other distinguishable marking.”
“Like a wig, colored contacts, or glasses…,” Brody adds.
“Exactly,” Agent Thomas says. “They do it to trick the victim.”
“To trick them into what?” I grabbed at the throb in my head. I needed a moment to process.
“Let’s replay the scenario,” she said. “You escaped, came to us, described your abductor as having those tattoos. What if we held on to that detail? We’d only be looking for suspects with tattoos, regardless of whether or not the tattoo in question was fake. Thankfully, we now have scientific evidence: DNA. We don’t have to rely on details that may or may not have been fabricated.”
“And Mason’s DNA?” Could it reveal some clue as to his whereabouts?
She fished in her pocket for a phone. “There’s something I want to show you.” She searched for a photo and then flashed me the screen: a picture of a note (a torn spiral notebook page with black block lettering).
PLEASE FORGIVE ME.
I NEVER MEANT TO HURT ANYONE.
“What do you think of this?” she asked.
“Where did you find it?”
“On a table, in the study—the one with the pocket door, almost concealed in the wall…”
“Did you find any signs of Mason in that room?”
“As I said, we didn’t uncover any signs of Mason anywhere, which brings me to my next question. You mentioned before being in a building … a warehouse. What made you think that?”
“Because of how spread apart we all sounded.”
“By ‘we all,’ do you mean those you believed were also being kept captive?”
I nodded. “Our voices sounded far apart—like on different floors. Plus, Mason said he’d gotten to the third floor of the building. He told me about a window with bars. Did you find it?”
“A barred window? No. The house is a traditional split-entry ranch. It consists of a main floor and a basement. A drop-down ladder leads to a small attic space for storage.”
“Is there a window up there?”
“Yes, but not with bars.”
Had Mason even said there were bars? Or was that something I made up? I’d been so out of it at the time—when he was telling me about the window. “Did you search the heating vents?” I asked yet again.
“There are no vents big enough to accommodate a full-sized person. Did you happen to notice the baseboard heating unit in your room … how tiny it was?”
“You must not have looked thoroughly. What about air filtration vents? In the drop-down ceiling…?”
“Jane…”
“What?” My skin itched. Had someone cranked the heat?
“There are no traces of anyone else at that house—no fingerprints, no DNA, no articles of clothing or other personal belongings—other than the homeowner (the man who shot himself) and you.”
My head fuzzed. “What does that mean?” What happened to the others? “Maybe they all escaped together—Mason and the others, I mean.” But how would that explain the lack of fingerprints or DNA?
“We should take a break.” She pocketed her phone. “Can I get you something to eat?”
“I don’t need a break.”
“I think you probably do.” She stood up and nodded to Brody. He got up as well, tucked his notebook inside his pocket.
“Tell me,” I insisted, picturing Mason in the house, balled up in the corner of some hidden room, completely unconscious, unable to answer anyone’s call.
“We’ll be back tomorrow,” she said.
Tomorrow? What day was it? How long had I slept? “I want to talk now.”
Agent Thomas grabbed the call switch and buzzed the nurse.
Some guy came in not two seconds later, wearing blue scrubs and a hospital name tag. “Is
everything okay in here?”
Agent Thomas whispered to him as she left the room—something about the victim.
“Just relax,” the guy said, checking my monitor. “How are you feeling? Would you like some hot tea?”
I slunk down on my pillow. My heart wouldn’t stop palpitating. Behind my eyes was a steel cage, locking me in, keeping me out.
A few seconds later, my dad came into the room. I could hear his voice—could hear him and the nurse talking as though I weren’t even there:
“I’ll get her an extra blanket. Would you like something too? Water? Tea?”
“Thank you. Tea would be great.”
“She could probably use some rest.”
“Couldn’t we all. I haven’t slept in days.”
“Tell me about it. This is a double for me. Oh, and FYI: Her last dose was a couple of hours ago, so she may still be a little groggy.”
“I’ll just sit and keep her company.”
“Lucky girl.”
Lucky.
Girl.
She, her, the victim.
Where was I?
No one asked.
THEN
56
When I woke up again, my parents were sitting on opposite corners of the hospital bed. The expressions on their faces made me think that someone had died.
“Did something happen?” I asked them.
“We should call the woman,” Mom said.
“Call who?” I asked.
Mom’s face wilted into a balled-up tissue.
Dad angled away from me. “We have to tell her.”
Tell me what? I squeezed my eyes shut, picturing anchors strapped to my feet, pulling me underwater. Mason was down there too, beneath the surface. He swam to me. I wove my fingers with his.
It’s going to be okay, Mason said. You were always okay. That’s what drew me to you. He cradled my face in his hands and kissed my mouth, giving me his last breath.
I sat up with a jolt.
Special Agent Thomas was standing at the foot of my bed, a dark red folder tucked beneath her arm. “Good morning, or afternoon, I should say.” She checked her watch.