Chapter Three
Romy
I t’s been three maddening days. Three days of unread texts, unanswered calls, and voicemails that will no doubt also go ignored.
Is that what this is?
Is Megan ghosting me?
No.
No matter how much I want to put this on me, I can’t. It’s not about me. I’m making it about me because my obsessive, anxious thoughts always go there, but deep down, I know the truth.
Something happened.
Megan disappeared from my life and it’s strange.
So why doesn’t anyone else think so?
That part is what keeps me up at night. Teachers, counselors, and even her roommate all seem to be unbothered by her disappearance.
She’s a nobody to them.
The thought is a punch to the gut. Megan mentioned that to me once. That nobody notices her. I laughed it off, but it was a truth she wholeheartedly felt. It pains me to realize she was right. No one but me seems to notice or care.
“Miss Langston. Detective Bryant will see you now.”
I jolt at the intrusion of the maze my mind is currently navigating. With a polite smile, I rise to my feet and follow the short woman to a tiny office that reeks of stale coffee and mothballs. Detective Bryant, a man in his late fifties or early sixties, with a protruding gut and dark rings under his eyes, doesn’t bother looking up from his phone when I enter.
As I take a seat, I quickly scan the messy space. Folders and papers are stacked haphazardly all over his desk and back credenza. There’s no rhyme or reason to the mess. He also has an impressive collection of McDonald’s to-go cups crowding the area behind his computer monitor. I become fixated on the swollen, bubbled side of one of the cups that looks seconds from bursting all over the important-looking documents beneath it.
“You’re here to report a missing person?” Detective Bryant says, voice monotone and uninterested.
“Yep,” I say, straightening and forcing my gaze away from the disaster waiting to happen. “Her name is Megan Benson. She’s a student at USC and was in my government class. Her roommate said—”
Riiiip!
The detective tearing off a form from a pad drowns out my words. He slaps it down in front of me on top of other papers.
“There’s a spot for all that,” he says, motioning a meaty finger at the form. “Just put it there.”
I swallow down my irritation and scan the atrocious desk for a pen. He’s already gone back to scrolling on his phone, not even bothering to feign interest in this case. When I notice a pen poking out from beneath a folder, I reach over and pluck it out.
It takes me a good five minutes to fill out the form. I write down in precise detail every single thing I know about Megan, every conversation had about her disappearance, and even a few of my theories about where she could have gone. My main worry is that she’s been kidnapped.
When I finally finish writing the last detail on the back of the form in the margins on the side, I find Detective Bryant staring at me with narrowed eyes. Ignoring his annoyed expression, I hand the completed form over to him.
“Your number’s on here?” he asks, squinting to read my tiny writing on the form. “Ah, there it is. We’ll be in touch.”
My eye twitches at his response. “When?”
“When we have something to report.”
“That’s it?”
“What were you expecting, ma’am?”
I gape at him, disgusted by his rudeness. “To do your job. To immediately start working on the case!”
“My job is to input this into the computer and if I get any hits, I’ll follow up and let you know. That’s me working on the case, kid.”
Unbelievable.
I’m tempted to call Dad and get him involved, but I quickly push that thought away. The whole reason I moved out here was to get away from his influence, not bring it with me. Yes, Dad would get this sloth cop to do something, but it’d come at a cost. He’d want to know why I was getting involved in all this and it wouldn’t take long for him to see how frayed I am over it. Then he’d think I wasn’t hacking it out on my own and would want me to come back home.
Ugh.
Not doing that.
“Fine,” I grunt out, rising to my feet. “Please hurry. She’s probably in danger.”
He doesn’t appear to be moved by my fear-inducing words. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, miss. Most missing adults are missing on purpose. They can’t deal with life, so they run from it.”
I try not to grimace at his words that parallel my own life.
“At least try to get in touch with her family,” I mutter. “And if you learn that she’s safe, please let me know so I can stop worrying.”
He forces a smile. “Sure thing.”
I wait for a few long seconds to see if he’ll get to working on inputting the form into the computer right away, but instead, he goes back to scrolling on his phone, the paper discarded on his chaotic desk, probably forgotten.
This is ridiculous.
I’m going to have to find her myself.
I hurry out of the police station, eager to get away from the filthy detective. Once I’m seated in my car that smells of vanilla sugar cookies, I relax and continue my hunt on Instagram to see if she’s responded to me or posted anything.
Still nothing.
I painstakingly look through each and every account she follows—all four thousand two hundred and fifty-three of them. The one account that gives me pause is a name I’ve seen before.
Crowne Unity Project.
The aesthetic for their page is crisp navy and shiny gold—an extension of their pamphlet I’d found. It’s overly curated to show perfectly captured humanitarian efforts, educational program benefits, environmental projects, and celebrity endorsements or collaborations. Everything about it screams fake to me.
Don’t chase rabbits that don’t exist, Romy.
I ignore a mantra Maura always tries to get me to say when she thinks my thoughts are running away from me and making up things that aren’t really there.
There’s something strange about CUP, though. I just can’t put my finger on it.
When my scrolling finally brings me to someone not smiling, I stop. The white-haired man is older, maybe in his late sixties, and sits at the end of a boardroom table, hands steepled, expression fierce. The description reads, “Orion Crowne carries humanity on his shoulders and he takes his job seriously. The world depends on him.” It’s littered with catchy hashtags like #CUPvision, #HopeForAll, and #CUPgivesback.
This man, Orion Crowne, seems to be the face of the organization. Based on CUP’s social media presence, probably ran by some intern around my age, he’s serious about making the world a better place.
I don’t remember Megan mentioning ever wanting to be involved in CUP. But she had a brochure and also follows them. With her sudden disappearance, I can’t rule it out. This feels like an important clue to me. I spend far too long searching through all the photos but don’t find anything of interest. I’m about to close out the app and head back to USC when a new post comes through.
The picture is of a well-known pop singer hugging a small child from a destitute foreign country. The caption says, “Looking forward to seeing Cazey Tee at tonight’s annual fundraiser where she’ll be speaking about her recent trip to Haiti!”
A quick Google search tells me this year’s fundraiser is located in San Francisco. Something deep in my gut urges me to find a way to go.
I need answers.
I know I’ll get them there.
Since the event is invite only, I’ll have to lean on my Langston resources if I want to get in. Not wasting a second, I tap out a text to Sarai.
Me: I don’t want to bother Dad, but I need to get into an event tonight. It’s for a school project.
After I shoot her a screenshot of the website and event details, I wait for a response. It only takes my dad’s assistant fifteen minutes to reply with what I need.
Sarai: I’ve booked a private jet for two hours from now and a room at the hotel of the event. You’ll have a dress, shoes, and accessories waiting in your room. Event ticket will come via email shortly. Shall I go ahead and also book your travel for Christmas?
Since I don’t want to make waves with Sarai, I confirm that she can proceed. Ignoring a chill that ripples down my spine, I can’t help but wonder if I’m chasing rabbits that don’t go anywhere.
There’s only one way to find out.
As promised, a teal-colored, sequined evening gown with matching shoes and purse was waiting in my room when I arrived earlier this evening. It’s strange to be in this “world” again. It was only a few months ago that I was dressed in something similar while attending a NYC gala with my family. When I came to LA for college, I didn’t pack one fancy item. I’d hoped for a change.
Until this week, USC was everything I’d hoped for. I like college and the change of scenery. The whole Megan fiasco, though, has put a wrench in everything.
My phone alarm pings with a reminder that the event starts in twenty minutes. I run the flat iron through my hair once more and then move my head from side to side. The golden-blond strands swish prettily. Normally, Eva would suggest I wear my hair up for a black-tie event, but Eva’s not here. I’m on my own and this emboldens me to do something for me—even something as simple as wearing my hair down.
I quickly finish my makeup, making sure my lash extensions look good framing my sky-blue eyes. My lips then get a quick pass of gloss before I smack them for good measure.
The teal, floor-length dress is flattering on my figure. I’m tall and a little on the thin side, but the dress accentuates my breasts and makes them perky.
Nice.
I’ll definitely fit in nicely at this party.
My stomach does a small flip when I imagine Megan seeing me dressed up like this. I wasn’t exactly a chatterbox when discussing my past. She was polite enough not to push. If she knew I could go from a messy, stressed college girl to a San Francisco elite party girl with the virtual snap of my fingers, she might lose her politeness and start asking questions.
I have to find her.
The way she randomly disappeared is suspicious, to say the least. And had we not become partners on our project, perhaps no one would be looking for her right now. I’d like to think that if the same happened to me, she’d be out there doing what she could to find me.
My phone pings again and I know I’ve run out of time. I hurry back into my ostentatious suite where I dumped my purse and bag. Quickly, I transfer all my needed items from my purse to my matching handbag. I make sure to include the crumpled pamphlet and a picture of Megan I printed from her Instagram just in case.
A sudden chill creeps its way down my spine as apprehension settles in the marrow of my bones. I’ve been nothing but a shiny trophy my entire life. A little golden-haired girl with a brilliant white grin to be paraded around by her influential father.
Now I’m about to walk into a lion’s den unaccompanied.
I’ll be choosing my own path tonight.
I’m no longer a child but instead a very capable adult who’ll stop at nothing to uncover the truth about a person the world is trying to forget.
Don’t worry, Megan.
I haven’t forgotten.