JOSIE
Trevor, Rika, and I talk about the case for hours.
I sift through the court records, read the testimonies—my grandmother’s, my mom’s, her best friend’s, the Hartzels’.
Everyone who worked at Ma Shirley’s at that time testified too.
Two of the girls left town afterward. One still lives in town, and the name hits me like a brick—Mallory Blain.
“Wait, the kidnapped woman?” I ask.
Trevor nods in confirmation. “Maybe it’s our guy’s way to get to Karen Boots again.”
“No wonder…” I don’t finish, but it’s no surprise Grandma went all white when she saw the guy’s picture on TV.
“How do we talk to Mallory Blain?” I ask. “The police won’t give me her address.”
“Pfft. It’s public record. She lives on the farm outside town that she inherited from her grandparents.”
“We should talk to her.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you.”
“Why?”
“For one,” Trevor says, “it’s sketchy. What if the guy is watching her? Two, he might be watching you.” He bulges his eyes at me. “What, you really think he’s not?”
“That’s—”
“Creepy?” Rika prompts.
“Right,” I say.
“In this story, you are the main piece,” Trevor says. “I don’t think the kidnapped girl matters. She was used to drag you into this mess. So I’d say, you should watch out.”
“I do carry pepper spray.” It’s true, though I haven’t been too mindful of it lately. But I’m not planning on any nighttime adventures on my own anymore.
It’s three in the morning when Trevor finally leaves. He resides upstairs in the same building. I get up to leave too, but Rika stops me. “Are you hungry?”
I halt in surprise. “Now?”
“I’m starving,” she says. “I’m going to make a noodle salad. If you want some.” She’s already walking to the kitchen. “By the way, you are welcome to crash on the couch. The weather is nasty outside. Kidnappers are out there. You can stay.”
She makes me smile. The girl definitely has a peculiar sense of humor.
I really do want to crash here, among the scent of incense and cool art and the red lampshade and soft music.
In a quiet gray town like Burnville, Rika is loud and full of color.
I used to be like that back in Pittsburgh, when I first moved there, took a chestful of air, looked at the people who had no idea who I was or what I came from, and thought to myself, “Now I can be who I truly am.”
But mostly, I’m curious about one thing. “What is a noodle salad?”
“My favorite since childhood,” Rika explains, pulling a bunch of ingredients from the fridge and putting a kettle on the stove. “I had a babysitter as a child who let me experiment with food.”
I sit in the kitchen bar chair while Rika hustles around.
The noodle salad is ramen noodles that are cooked, drained, and chilled.
“You add canned corn,” she explains as she prepares the dish, “chopped vegetables, like cucumbers or red peppers, optionally boiled eggs, anything else you want, then add the dressing. Mayo is my favorite.”
I might be biased or starving, but when I try the salad, it tastes delicious.
We talk more, but when I finish the salad, I’m suddenly so tired that while I lie on the couch, waiting for Rika to bring me a blanket, I actually fall asleep.
I wake up around six in the morning. There’s a throw covering my body, a clean towel on the coffee table. The music still trickles from the speakers, but it’s barely audible. The lamp with the red shade is still turned on.
I tiptoe out of the living room and toward the open next door, thinking it’s the bathroom.
It’s not. It’s the bedroom, and Rika is fast asleep, on her stomach, her blue braids splayed over the down blanket.
There are stacks of books in every corner and more artwork hanging on the walls.
I miss creative messes like this, miss my artsy friends back in Pittsburgh, their chaos.
Order is boring. I don’t want to leave this apartment, but I have to get home.
It’s cold outside when I leave the building, a thick folder of my family records tucked under my arm. It’s unusually cold for spring, but at least it’s not raining. God knows this town is tired of rain.
I check my phone as I start driving. No phone calls from Grandma.
No messages. Somehow it’s a relief, but the closer I get to the house, the more I start worrying.
What if something happened to Grandma? That thought is almost constant these days, in the mornings when I get up, before she’s up, and in the evenings, on the way from work before I step into the house and make sure she’s fine.
When I pull into the driveway of the house, my heart is in my throat. If anything happened to her, I will never forgive myself—the way I talked to her last night, the way I left, slamming the door like a spoiled child.
When I enter the kitchen, I halt.
Grandma sits at the kitchen table, fully dressed, her hands folded together in front of her.
The smell of coffee lingers in the air, but no pancakes. That’s odd.
She smiles at me, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes, which are sad and apologetic.
“Can we talk, Josie? Please?” she asks, her words almost like a plea.
I have a feeling that this will finally be the talk we should’ve had a long time ago.