Chapter Seven

"ELLIE." CHELSEY STRIDES FORWARD, GRAVELcrunching under her shoes. Ellie is wearing an oversized jacket, and her face is pale. Jimmy doesn't appear much better. Chelsey has interrupted something. "Everything okay?" Her voice arches with the question.

Ellie's cheeks redden, and she shoves her hands into her pockets. "How'd you know I was here?" Defensiveness caps her tone.

"I stopped by the house. Kat let me know." Chelsey keeps her voice neutral. She places her hands on her hips and stares out at the sea. Noah is terrified of most natural disasters—earthquakes, volcano eruptions, tsunamis. She never much liked the ocean either. Panic inches up her spine every time she peers at the endless horizon. But Lydia… Lydia had loved the sea. Chelsey's sister was giddy imagining all the life under the water. Giant squids. Blue whales. Bright coral. Her sister fantasized about worlds beyond her own. Of escaping.

"Chelsey." Jimmy holds out a hand.

Chelsey clasps Jimmy's hand. "Hey, Jimmy. How are you doing?" The morning is damp and cold, skulking. The sky gray, the color of wet newspaper.

"I could do without a bunch of reporters on my lawn and people leaving shit on our porch," Jimmy says. Chelsey nods in acknowledgment; she had to wade through pink teddy bears, candles, and bouquets of flowers to knock on the Blacks' door. Not to mention the news vans. "But other than that, I'm all right. Happy to have my girl home."

Chelsey eyes Ellie. Her dark hair like a curtain as it hangs down her face. "Yeah, Kat said the media showed bright and early this morning. I'll get a few more units to drive by and try to discourage them."

"That'd be appreciated." Jimmy nods and stares expectantly at her.

"I was hoping I might speak with Ellie," Chelsey says evenly with a hint of a smile. A seagull lands nearby with stringy bits of fish in its beak, then gulps it down.

"I don't know, Chelsey." Jimmy scratches the back of his head. There are blood spots on his hands. "But I guess it's up to you," he says to Ellie.

Ellie presses her lips together, and Chelsey sees the no forming. "We can chat wherever you'd like. Your house, or I can take you two out for some donuts and coffee. What's more comfortable?" She looks at them, feeling bad, refusing to take no for an answer.

Ellie winces but finally says, "My house."

Seventeen minutes later, Chelsey sits across from Ellie in the Blacks' living room. Chelsey expected Ellie to choose her home turf, a place she feels in control. She once interviewed a victim in their bedroom under a pile of comforters. If Ellie were a suspect, Chelsey might bring her to the station. Have Ellie sit in a windowless room for a while, maybe even turn up the heat. Then she'd bring in a bottle of water, slide it across the table, and make small talk while slipping in the suspect's Miranda rights.

Chelsey sits on the edge of a worn-out recliner—the same chair she sat in while taking Kat's and Jimmy's statements the day Ellie disappeared. Despite her lack of sleep, Chelsey's never felt lighter, more present. It's the adrenaline. A high. She is most alert when she's solving a case. Kat and Jimmy are in the backyard. Cigarette smoke drifts through a cracked window mixing with mandarin candles. The murmur of reporters filters through the thin glass.

Chelsey removes an audio recorder from her pocket. "I'd like to record this. You mind?"

Ellie shakes her head and fingers her left wrist. She's still wearing the oversized jacket, like a blanket covering her from neck to knees. "It's fine, I guess."

Chelsey clicks on the recorder and sets it on the nicked coffee table. Quickly, she lists off the basics. Her name. Ellie's name. The location, date, and time of the interview. "Now," she says to Ellie. "Tell me what you remember. We could start with the night you disappeared?"

It's quiet for a moment. A faucet drips in the kitchen. Ellie's eyes flick to Chelsey, then away. "I was so dumb," she says. Chelsey remains silent. Waits. Ellie swipes under her nose. "I shouldn't have ever left the party," she says, meek.

Chelsey nods. Blaming yourself is common in these scenarios. People are conditioned to believe girls plus bad choices equals bad things. It's a type of inoculation. Lead a good life, and nothing heinous will befall you. But no one is invulnerable. No one untouched.

"The party?" Chelsey inserts.

Ellie gives an angry chin jerk, and her voice is taut. "I had to pee. Someone was hooking up in the bathroom. I'd been drinking." She offers up the detail like a challenge.

Chelsey waves a hand. She remembers picking through Ellie's room, finding joints and booze. Secrets. Every teenage girl is hiding something. The contraband didn't amount to much for Chelsey. It did not condemn Ellie. "You had a few drinks. It's not your fault."

Ellie's arms loosen. She relaxes a bit. "I was going to go to a gas station, but the parking lot was closer… I, uh, really had to go."

Chelsey nods. Will Gunner, Ellie's ex-boyfriend, corroborated this story two years ago when Chelsey interviewed everyone at the party. Ellie had to use the bathroom. That's it. "What happened next?"

"I don't know, really. I was grabbed. Drugged with something, I think. After that, it's a blank." Ellie bows her head. "I woke up in the dark." When she looks up, her eyes shine wet.

"Tell me about the dark. What did it smell like? Feel like?"

Ellie trembles and wipes her tears, leaving wet slashes in the wake of her fingers. "It was cold and smelled like mildew, like plastic. Like my vinyl records. I could hear birds, an owl sometimes, dogs howling." She abruptly stops and grips her left wrist.

"You keep touching your wrist. Is there a reason why?"

Ellie jerks and places her hands under her thighs. "No reason."

A lie, Chelsey thinks. She waits a beat, an infinite pause for Ellie to fill in more. But Ellie stays mute, chin trembling. "All right. Let's go back to the dark. How did you feel?"

"I hurt all over, and I was hungry. I was scared." The words come out choppy. Serrated.

"Yes. Of course you were." A short pause. "Were you alone?"

"No. I mean, yes, for a while. I think a few days."

"Then what happened?" Chelsey edges forward.

"I was so hungry. I thought I was dying. Then he came."

Chelsey swallows. "Tell me about him."

Ellie's eyes flutter closed. "I didn't see his face. It was too bright. He wore a bandana that covered his mouth and nose."

"Okay. What color was the bandana?" Chelsey asks. Sometimes details lead to other details. An angry voice to a furrowed brow with a scar running through it.

"Red. It was red. It hurt staring up at him." Underground. Ellie was kept somewhere underground, Chelsey realizes.

Ellie's eyes open suddenly. "I don't want to do this anymore."

A sudden sting of disappointment. "That's okay." She forces a smile. "Perfectly fine. We can pick it up again tomorrow or the next day. We'll take our time."

"No." Ellie's nostrils flare. "I don't want to do this at all."

"I'm not sure I understand," Chelsey says, though she does. Sometimes victims decline to participate in the investigation. It's their right. To move on. To not relive the painful memories.

"I don't want to talk anymore. I mean, ever again."

"No. Ellie, please," she says. Breathless with a bit of panic. "We don't need to plan another time to speak. But let's not go through the formality of ending the investigation, of making anything official, until we're absolutely sure that's what you want."

Without Ellie's participation, the ADA won't touch the case. There'd be no prosecution. Chelsey cannot stand the thought. To have come this close to catching whoever did this and have it all slip away as easy as a body in the tide.

"Take all the time you need, Ellie," she says, and it's a defensive move. A tunnel opens inside Chelsey's mind, and she slides backward fifteen years.

She'd heard Lydia's door open that night and swung hers wide right after. Where are you going? Chelsey had asked, rubbing a bare foot against her shin. Her toes were painted a dark purple color called Boris and Natasha.

Nowhere.Lydia's hair was crisp and curled, her lips maroon, and she wore a cropped cardigan, a lacy camisole underneath—dressed older but looking young, wide eyed, and fresh, like a mermaid breaking the surface and seeing land for the first time. It had been a harvest moon, and shimmering orange light filled the house. Chelsey didn't budge. Lydia rolled her eyes, and an excited smile lit her face. I'm going to a party at Oscar's house.

Oscar Swann was a senior. Lydia was a sophomore, and Chelsey was a freshman. The girls were not allowed to date yet. Their father was a sit-on-the-porch-with-a-shotgun-to-scare-off-boys type.

Can I come?Chelsey had asked. She worshipped Lydia. Had followed her around like a lovesick puppy. Copying her mannerisms. Wearing her clothes. Offering her the last Kudos bar.

No, Lydia replied, sharp and smug. You should see Oscar. He's like obsessed with me. She sobered. Don't tell Mom and Dad.

Chelsey had been more fragile then, much needier. She desperately wanted her sister's approval. Wanted to be liked, so she'd answered, Of course not.

Lydia smiled. Good, because I'd hate you forever if you did. Then she stuck out her pinkie. Chelsey had stuck hers out, too. Swear, they'd said, hooking their pinkies together and shaking.

Lydia scooted away, pausing at the top of the stairs and pressing a finger to her lips. Shh. Don't tell. Off Lydia went, wild in love.

If only Chelsey had held on to Lydia. Begged her not to go. Or begged to go with her. Maybe Lydia would still be here. Chelsey had waited to tell her parents. Two whole days passed before Chelsey fessed up. She knew where Lydia had gone. Two whole days, Chelsey watched her mother weep. Two whole days, police trudged in and out of her house. Two whole days before Chelsey's family learned what really happened—that Oscar and Lydia were dead.

As a final thought, Chelsey drops her voice and adds, "If you're afraid, we can protect you. There are measures we can take to keep you safe." It is knife-edged in a promise: No one will hurt you as long as you're with me.

Ellie gives a short, mirthless laugh, and Chelsey feels its weight. The heavy message inside of it, the looming threat. No one can help me. No one can keep me safe.