Chapter Eleven
Lucas had been missing for over a month. I tried calling him every day, sending messages like, "Where are you?"—"Lucas, please, answer me!"—"Lucas, the police are looking for you!"
But not a single response came back. The texts weren’t even marked as delivered.
The longer he was gone, the harder it got. Every day, I stared at his name in my contacts, my heart racing, willing myself to press the call button.
What if he answered? What would I even say?
I stood outside the University of Minnesota’s main building, too restless with anxiety to sit on the cold stone benches.
Students bustled to and fro, hurrying from class to class.
I felt like everyone was staring at me. I had ditched track practice for the first time ever, and was now waiting for my soon-to-be-ex-best-friend, Sarah, my mind racing with thoughts of the podcast episode I’d heard earlier.
Some crappy local true crime show that somehow had actual listeners.
"The Vanishing" was the title of the episode. The specificity of the content left me reeling; the fights that I had only shared with my closest friend over tears and stuffed animals. The hosts quoted things I’d thrown out in rage, like "I hate him" and "I’m so done with him," and even quoted intimate texts.
They claimed Lucas had been cheating on me, which I was already aware of, but no one else knew about my fights with him in such detail. Only Sarah.
She snaked out into the brisk fall air, tugging her collar up over her mouth like it could hold her tongue.
With her was another girl, someone I didn’t know but had seen around, with long black hair twisted into a messy bun.
They were talking and laughing, distracted, like they didn’t have a care in the world. It made my blood boil.
"Hey!" My voice was thick with venom as I strode toward her. I hadn’t planned what to say, hoping my gut was wrong and this was all a big misunderstanding. Her deer-eyes told me it wasn’t.
"What the fuck, Sarah?"
Sarah jumped, hand flying to her chest. "Nell, jeez, you scared the daylight out of me. What’s wrong?"
I was rattled by her feigned innocence. Every movement, every gesture, every blink seemed insincere. Faker. Liar.
"What did you tell people about me and Lucas?"
"What are you talking about? I didn’t tell anybody anything!"
"You’re a fucking liar!" If people hadn’t been staring before, they were now.
Her friend took a small step back, eyeing me with exaggerated concern as if I were holding a bloodied knife. She gently tugged at Sarah’s elbow in a silent let’s go gesture.
Sarah folded her arms. "You need to calm down."
"You need to stop telling people lies about me!" The finger I pointed at her could have pierced the ether.
"You’re a fucking nutcase, and you need to back away from me!" Sarah spat.
Before I knew it, my fist connected with her face. I’d always been a good runner, but apparently, I also had a pretty powerful right hook. And, as it turned out, low impulse control.
Sarah stumbled back, clutching her bloody nose. I winced when she landed on her butt with a panicked wail. People began to gather around, drawn in by the commotion.
"Sarah, I’m so sorry!" I offered a hand to help her up, but she shoved me away.
"Don’t touch me! Everything they say about you is true."
September, 2020
This part of town seemed neglected, with houses that were little more than weathered trailers pressed like corpses into tiny graves.
Duane’s house, a dingy green structure that sagged on one side, stood at the end of the street, alongside a similarly rundown piss-yellow house with a tarp-covered roof. The address was spray-painted onto a scrap of drywall leaning against the flimsy fence.
As always, Mitchell stepped onto the porch first. We waited with bated breath when he rapped on the door, but there was no response. From the place next door, a dog yapped, children yelled, and a woman shouted over the hum of a TV, but Duane’s house remained quiet.
Dead quiet.
"Maybe he’s sleeping?" June suggested.
Mitchell knocked louder.
The neighbor’s door swung open, and a disheveled woman wearing a dirty, worn bathrobe peered outside.
"What’s all this racket, for cryin’ out loud?" Her voice was a rusty gate. "Can’t you see he ain’t home?"
"Excuse us, ma’am, we’re looking for Duane Conley. Does he live here?"
"Prob’ly down at the bar, gettin’ liquored up like his old man. Apple don’t fall far from the tree, and them two’s as alike as peas in a pod." She slammed the door shut, and the yelling continued.
Mitchell looked slightly annoyed, but remained composed, and immediately began issuing instructions. "June, get on your phone and find out what bars are in town."
"A bit early for a bar, isn’t it?" Nick asked, wincing at the pale sun still burning our retinas between breaks in the clouds.
"Early bird gets the worm," Mitchell said, and we all walked back to the car.
It started to rain, and I studied how the windshield gathered tiny drops of water, like small scratches on the glass. Nick turned the wipers on. I loved September, but the weather could never seem to make up its mind.
After striking out with Lucas’s parents and missing Duane at home, it felt like nothing was going our way.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how much we pushed, it would all lead to the same dead end, that maybe there weren’t any deeper layers to this disappearance.
Maybe we were just wasting time, avoiding reality.
Mitchell turned to face me and June in the backseat.
"Do you want to sit this one out?" he asked, making eye contact with me. The slight nod of his head told me he was asking me to play along for his sister’s safety. June was only nineteen, and he didn’t want her in a bar. "We can drop you and June off somewhere."
I frowned. Mitchell’s command to stay behind without consulting me grated on my nerves.
I understood that his priority was protecting June, but I wished he’d considered my perspective.
Thankfully, his sister interfered, freeing me of the need to construct a polite argument for why I had to come too. After all, Duane was Lucas’s friend.
"I’m coming with you," June insisted, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
There was only one bar in town. Back in Minneapolis, I’d wear makeup and dress up to go out. Here, though, jeans, a tank top, and a plaid shirt over it seemed to make me fit right in.
The "Borehole Tavern" was a worn, wooden building that seemed to lean inward, as if withholding a secret.
The parking lot in front of it was unpaved, with only dust and mud covering the ground, but the cars were plentiful.
The neon "Open" sign blinked above the door.
As we entered, we were met with a thick weave of smells: stale beer, sweat, and smoke.
It was barely noon, but the place was already packed. Our quartet drew some surprised looks, but patrons quickly lost interest. I noticed, though, that June and I were getting some attention from the locals, and I promised myself not to let her go to the bathroom alone.
I was a bit worried Duane might not be there, but I quickly recognized him sitting at the bar.
I signaled everyone to stay behind and sat next to him.
He looked even shorter in person, perhaps because of his slouched shoulders. His face was bloated and weary, with dark circles under his eyes. His clothes were grimy, as if he’d been wearing them for days without a second thought.
"Duane?" I said softly, and briefly, he looked startled, his eyes wide with a flash of fear, as if he’d been expecting someone else, someone who might bring harm. But when his bleary eyes finally focused on me, his tense expression softened, though not into warmth or recognition, but into a faint, guarded relief that it was only me sitting there, and not the person he’d been dreading.
His breath hit me before he spoke, sour and thick.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked, slurring his words, and then took a sip of whatever cheap bourbon he was drinking. He swayed slightly, his movements sluggish.
"My name is Nellie. I’m Lucas’s girlfriend."
With a struggle, his eyes landed on my face again. "What do you want?"
"I need to talk to you about Lucas." I didn’t bother with small talk—Duane was in no shape for it—and cut straight to the point. "He went home before he disappeared. Did you see him then? Did he say anything?"
Duane laughed, but it wasn’t a funny laugh.
It was a scary one, threatening. He wasn’t tall, and his build was quite skinny, so he didn’t seem dangerous.
But something about Duane felt off. His laugh grew slower and eventually ended with a sob that he hid with a loud snort.
He took another sip of his drink, spilling some of it on the counter.
"Duane?" I tried getting him to focus again.
He ignored me and waved for another round.
The bartender glanced at me warily, then turned back to Duane. "Pay for this one first."
"I’ll cover it," I said, intervening. "How much does he owe?"
A check appeared in front of me. I glanced down, shrugged, and handed over my card. Duane didn’t even acknowledge me. The bartender served him another drink, which he promptly downed.
I tried again. "It’s not just about Lucas. We think more people might have disappeared in the same way."
"We?" he asked.
"My friends," I shot a careful look towards them. They sat at one of the tables, staring at us. "They’re looking for their sister, Amanda. Please, talk to us."
Duane sadly shook his head, slamming the glass on the counter. Then, he got up from the stool, underestimated how drunk he was, and immediately fell. I jumped and tried to get him up. Mitchell and Nick came over and hooked Duane’s limp arms over their shoulders to walk him out.
"Who are ya, and what’re ya doin’ with this poor sumbitch?"