Chapter Two #2
‘Health insurance? Are you hearing yourself? You had a dream, Margot! You wanted to find love and open a coffee shop that employed victims of domestic abuse! You wanted to make a difference in the world. And instead you’ve given up dating in favor of this little true crime obsession, which is tacky as hell by the way, and you’re answering the phones for an ancient, cranky-ass dentist! ’
‘Why can’t you give me the space to figure out my life?’
‘This isn’t you!’ she snapped. ‘This is the scared little girl your parents raised who doesn’t want to stand out and doesn’t have the guts to go after what she wants!’
‘Well you wanted to be a big-time artist, but you’re playing the victim of “the art machine” and working reception at a funeral home!’ I said, an unusual cruelty entering my tone. ‘From one receptionist to another, how’s that going for you?’
‘I am a victim of the art machine,’ she snarled back.
‘They wouldn’t know innovation if it kicked them in the balls.
I’ve been a victim my entire life, Margot, from my religious asshole parents to the shitty men I’ve dated, all the way to the stick-up-its-ass art world. How dare you throw that in my face?’
We spiraled from there.
I hate that we left on that note. If that had to be our last moment, I wish we could’ve left each other with me blowing her a kiss or offering her the use of that jean jacket she liked or … something. Anything. Instead, my last words to her were awful. It feels like you’re running away from me.
And hers. If you’d stop breathing down my neck and trying to force me into a little box, maybe I wouldn’t have to run!
Back in the living room, I settle on the couch with my feet up, take a bite of lasagna before setting it down and reach for my laptop.
I take a few seconds of cleansing breaths to disperse the memory of our last fight.
Yes, it sucks that we went out that way.
But we loved each other. And I’ve proved it, because I’m the only person in the world who hasn’t moved on from her disappearance.
Who loves her enough to keep trying to find her – or rather, her body.
Maybe no one else sees it, but I feel certain she’s the serial killer’s third victim – a profound irony, since she was literally mocking my so-called ‘obsession’ right before leaving the apartment.
And who knows – maybe it is just an obsession.
But the timelines match, with six months between each disappearance.
All three women are from the North Side.
All three women were unmarried. And unfortunately, based on the timeline of the other two women’s deaths, it’s been too long for Zoe to still be alive.
Either way, I owe it to her to find out what happened.
I flip open my laptop. First, email. I have Google alerts set for Zoe’s name, as well as the names of the other two victims. Unfortunately, none of the alerts have been triggered.
And there are no responses from the YouTubers, podcasters and local TV shows I’ve reached out to, trying to get them to feature the story.
I grind my teeth in frustration as I send a couple follow ups, my fingers clacking furiously.
Hi! Just checking in to make sure you saw my message …
I figure, if I can just get more people to see Zoe’s face, hear her story, it increases the chances of someone remembering her and calling in a tip.
In moments like these, I have to wonder about her parents.
Did they get my messages? Do they care? Zoe’s dad was a pastor at some North Shore Baptist church.
I couldn’t remember which one, but the internet being what it is, how hard could it be to figure out?
Turns out, very. I couldn’t find him in any online directories.
Still, I sent emails and left voicemails at every single Baptist church in the area, asking him to get in touch.
But after months of nothing, I gave up. Her parents had already proven they didn’t care to be involved in their daughter’s life. I had to let it go.
Next, I check the Cook County Medical Examiner’s website. I scroll through the Unidentified Persons page. Oh, shit. There’s one new entry – and new entries only pop up at the rate of maybe two to three per month.
I scan the information.
ME2026-05689, 1830 West Webster Avenue, Chicago; wooded area underneath overpass; Female/White, 25–35 years, Hair: Red.
Immediately, my heart starts thundering. The age is right. The hair color is right.
Zoe. A profound feeling of hope and dread squeezes me. This is what I want, right? Closure, even if it means looking at her corpse on my computer screen?
Fuck. Am I ready for this?
I click on the photo.
I feel my face contort in anticipation. I’ve looked at a lot of photos, and they’re awful.
The image takes a second to load, and suddenly – there it is.
She’s on her back. Her face is not the right color. Oh God, and her chest … It’s pretty much a gaping cavity.
It’s the wrong hair, though. Too orange.
Not Zoe. That’s what’s important. Not my friend.
I exhale. Lean back on the couch. Briefly close my eyes, as if that could cleanse me from these images.
It’s strange, trying to find the answers the police have been unable to find. Of course I want them. But if I find them, if I find her, it’s going to be devastating in a whole new way.
It’s not a stretch to assume the guy Zoe was meeting that night for a date had something to do with her disappearance.
But, according to Detective Barnett, though they issued a legal order and pulled cell phone records, her text history yielded no leads.
Her cell phone has also been off since that night, making it impossible to trace her location, which Barnett admitted was concerning, a word choice that nearly sent me. Concerning!? It’s proof of foul play!
I told them to look into the dating apps she was always on, but I couldn’t remember which one she favored. And there were just so many of them. I doubt they ever looked into it. Without a body to prove she’s dead, I feel like they’re not taking her disappearance seriously enough.
With a sigh, I push my food away – I’m no longer hungry anyway. I’d honestly love to go to bed right now, but Future Margot can sleep. Present Margot has to hustle. I focus back on my laptop.
My next stop is the Unclaimed Persons page. There are a few new entries.
Calvin Kuzemczak, 82, Male, White.
Martell Amoroso, 70, Male, Black.
I’ve been on this page enough times to have noticed that the list of unclaimed bodies are almost all men. It’s sad.
Then again, if they’re like Brian, Paul, Sean, etc … maybe not so sad.
Reddit is next. I scroll through the True Crime subreddit to see if any new entries about crime in Chicago catch my eye. Nothing new.
I click over to my Reddit thread next. Oooh – a few new comments. My original entry is four months old, but it still gets plenty of engagement.
A Serial Killer is Targeting North-Side Women in Chicago. Is Zoe Dawson the Third Victim?