I Know You Remember Page 5

  Marcus sits back down. The kids all seem too shell-shocked to answer, but Ms. Yi seems to take that as a tacit agreement. She hurries into the hall after Tabitha, and we’re all quiet for a half second before the room breaks out into a rumble of conversation.

  I finally take a few heavy steps toward the table and sit down. I do it partly because I’m suddenly so exhausted, and my bones feel so heavy. And partly because I want to stay close to these boys who know my best friend, who saw her just a few days before. Who might have some kind of information.

  “I bet she’s just embarrassed,” Marcus is saying. There’s a note of bravado to his voice, like he’s trying to convince himself. “Everyone saw that fight. So maybe she’s just off somewhere hiding.”

  Jeremy doesn’t answer. He’s frowning down at his hands, long and pale against the table.

  Marcus’s voice goes on, more urgently this time. “Remember last year on the Fairbanks trip, when they had that dumb fight and Zahra woke Tabitha up at two in the morning and made her drive her all the way back to Anchorage?”

  Fairbanks to Anchorage is a seven-hour drive. He’s making it sound like some little spat, but the Zahra I knew wouldn’t have flounced off like that for something minor.

  “What did they fight about?” I ask. They both look up, just now noticing me listening. “When they fought last Saturday, I mean?”

  Marcus shifts his weight in his chair. “I don’t know. I just caught the tail end. It was at Tabitha’s house. There was a party, and we all kind of . . . we all went out on the deck to listen in when word got out they were fighting. She was crying and he was pissed. He told her it was over. Then he left, and she went back in the house.”

  “They didn’t leave together?” I ask, looking from Jeremy to Marcus and back again.

  Jeremy shakes his head. “Nope. He got in his truck and peeled out of there after the fight. She sat in the yard crying for a while and then came back in.”

  “And proceeded to get fucked up,” Marcus says. “She was already drunk when they fought, but she doubled down after that.”

  I frown. “But when did she leave the party? Why did everyone assume she was with Ben?”

  Marcus gives a little shrug. “I don’t know. After the fight I lost track of her. She was with Tabitha most of the night, and then she just kind of disappeared. It was a big party.”

  I glance at Jeremy, and he looks uncomfortable. “I left at one and she was still there,” Jeremy says. “I saw her in the line to the bathroom.”

  “But she and Ben fight and break up and then get back together all the time. It’s kind of their whole thing,” Marcus insists.

  So an emotional, obviously drunk Zahra vanished from a party full of kids after a fight with her boyfriend and hasn’t been seen for two days. And somehow, it didn’t raise alarm bells for anyone. It seems odd. But then this is a Zahra that seems odd to me, too—one I don’t recognize, anyway. Maybe this is her new normal.

  I close my eyes. The words are still ping-ponging around inside me—Zahra’s missing. Zahra’s missing. But she’s already been missing for years now. At least, she has been to me. What happened to the sun-kissed, smiling girl I knew? What happened to change everything?

  I remember the first time I ever talked to her. It was March—just a few short weeks after I’d moved to the trailer court. I’d been keeping to myself, hiding in my room—I was pretty shut down back then. But a watery sun warmed the air that day. The winters in Alaska are long and dark and claustrophobic, and when the light comes back it’s like a blanket being lifted up off your head. I couldn’t resist; I sat on the rickety steps to our mudroom with my book, wiggling my bare toes.

  “Whatcha reading?”

  I looked up to see a brown-skinned girl with corkscrew curls, standing just beyond the uneven fence. For a second I wasn’t sure how to answer; most people only ever asked that question so they could tease me about it. But she leaned her forearms on the fence, eyes wide with curiosity.

  Behind her hovered another girl, shorter, with tangled blonde hair and raw-looking pink skin. She shifted her weight, a basketball against her hip. Where Zahra’s gaze was even and interested, the other girl’s darted wildly, like a woodland creature looking for a direction to run.

  I finally just held up my book, since I didn’t know what else to do. My cheeks went hot as she squinted to make out the title. I fought the urge to hide my face.

  “Is it any good?” she asked.

  “Yeah. If you like fantasy, I mean.” My body was tense, waiting for her to make a face, to snort, but she just nodded.

  “Have you read the Abhorsen books? Those are my favorites,” she asked.

  I almost thought I was imagining it for a moment—it seemed too miraculous, too remarkable, that she might love something I did.

  “I love Garth Nix,” I said. My voice came out strangely high, and I cleared my throat.

  “I couldn’t read the last one. My library card got suspended.” She grinned then, revealing teeth with a small gap between them. I was almost relieved to see it—otherwise, she was almost too beautiful to be standing here face to face with me.

  “I’ve got it in my room,” I said. I gestured stupidly to the trailer. “If you want to borrow it.”

  Later on I’d question the wisdom of offering to loan a book to a stranger who’d just admitted to a library account in arrears—and for good reason, because every book I ever loaned her came back dog-eared and stained—but at the time, I was blindsided by this fascinating girl who liked to read, and who wanted to talk to me.

  The other girl, the one behind her, scowled. She moved the basketball from left arm to right.

  “Come on, Zahra, I thought we were gonna play.”

  “All right, all right,” Zahra said, waving her hand at the girl. She turned back to me with that same unapologetic grin. “Bailey likes some guy who hangs out at the park. We gotta go. See ya.”

  And then she was gone, and I spent the rest of the day trying to figure out how to find her again. Could I just sit out there with a book, like a fisherman trolling, hoping she’d bite? But I didn’t have to go looking for her. She showed up at my door the next day, as if we were already friends. As if all the awkwardness and strain of getting to know someone could magically be bypassed. “Hey, you got Clariel for me to borrow?”

  She made it so easy to like her. She made it easy to step down off the steps of the porch and back out in the world, because her courage made me brave, too. She wasn’t afraid of the other, bigger kids in the trailer park. She wasn’t afraid of the woods across the street, the place with all the stories about murders and homeless camps and ghosts. She wasn’t afraid to paint on her bedroom walls, to write in a library book, to cut up a T-shirt, to argue with her parents. When I was with her, I felt like anything could happen.

  So what, exactly, has changed?

  And if I figure it out—will I be able to help bring her home?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I PULL UP OUTSIDE the Gaines’s trailer, right next to the blue-and-white cop car parked on the street.

  It’s just after noon. By lunchtime it was obvious I wasn’t going to make it through the day. And I wasn’t the only one. The news cut across all the social strata, shaking everyone. There were kids crying in the hallway. The teachers kept telling us that the counselors were on standby, if anyone needed to talk. So I just slipped out after fourth period, got in my car, and drove straight to the trailer park.

  Malik’s sitting on the steps outside the trailer, his jaw jutting forward tough-guy style. His legs are long and skinny under the basketball shorts a certain kind of Alaskan boy wears year-round. I pause at the base of the steps and try to meet his eye, but he won’t look at me.

  “What’s going on?”

  He gives a wordless shrug.

  Two years ago, Malik was a wisecracking sixth grader with
a loud and easy laugh. But like his sister, he’s changed. Become unrecognizable to me. Has something happened to them, to their family? Or is this just how time passing looks?

  “Are your parents inside?” I ask. He nods.

  I walk up the steps and pat his shoulder a little as I walk past.

  I hear their voices in the kitchen and linger in the doorway, not wanting to barge in.

  Charity sits at the big round table, her face in her hands. Ron is behind her. There’s an officer sitting across from them, a youngish Samoan American guy with close-cropped hair. His nameplate says SAPOLU. He has an untouched mug in front of him. I get an earthy whiff of one of Charity’s weird hippie teas.

  And at a fourth chair, between Ron and Sapolu, is Tabitha.

  She sits there silently, looking miserable. In the classroom her body had been an athletic sprawl, but now it looks oddly small, like she’s retracted back into herself. She picks at a spot on the oilcloth cover while she listens.

  “Does Zahra have a history of any drug abuse that you know of?” Sapolu asks, looking up from a notepad.

  Ron shifts his weight. “We busted her with some of our weed last summer,” he says. I give a little start, then remember—just like Oregon, Alaska’s got legalized marijuana now. It’s still weird hearing someone talk casually about drugs to a cop. “We grounded her for two weeks. But that’s the only time I’ve ever caught her with anything.”

  “But she’s so secretive,” Charity says. Her voice comes out in a raspy sob, her eyes almost pleading. “It’s hard to say for sure.”

  Sapolu nods, makes a mark on the page. “Any mood swings, changes in behavior in recent months?”

  They’re both quiet for a long moment. I see Ron’s fingers twitch on the back of Charity’s chair.

  “Nothing new,” Charity finally says. “She’s always a deep feeler. But I haven’t noticed anything in particular going on with her lately.”

  “She’s in the middle of her running season. She’s been at practice a lot and we haven’t seen much of her,” Ron says.

  “But she’s seemed fine,” Charity says again. I wonder if she’s trying to convince Officer Sapolu or herself.

  Sapolu gives a little nod, checks something on his pad. “Okay. Well, the other thing is that we’re still trying to put together a timeline. We’ve gotta talk to the kids at the party, and that might take a little while. Tabitha, you said Zahra and Ben fought around nine, right?” Sapolu looks down at his notebook. “Mr. Peavy left in his truck after that and Zahra came back inside.”

  Tabitha’s voice is soft and small. “Yeah. Um. She got kind of drunk.” She looks desperately over at Charity and Ron.

  “It’s okay,” Charity says gently. “We need to know everything.”

  “She was upset. I sat with her for a while and tried to cheer her up but she was just . . . beating herself up. I don’t know what they fought about but she was blaming herself for it. Then she decided she wanted to go for a walk.”

  “At two in the morning?” Sapolu asks. His voice is mostly neutral but I can hear the faintest note of judgment.

  Tabitha shrugs. “My house is right by the Chester Creek trails. We walk and run out there all the time. She had her phone, and I thought she’d just go find a place to sit and cry and come back.”

  “But she didn’t come back,” Sapolu says. Charity gives a little sob.

  Tabitha’s eyes fall again.

  “No,” she says. “She didn’t.”

  “And when did that fact register with you?” Sapolu asks.

  Tabitha shakes her head. “I don’t know. I was kind of . . . it was a party, you know? I guess I got busy. I woke up around noon the next day and texted her. I texted Ben, too—I wanted to make sure he was okay. And neither one of them answered so I just kind of assumed they were together.”

  “I’ve never liked that kid,” Ron says. His mouth tugs downward. “Little hotshot thinks he can get away with whatever he wants.”

  “Ben’s fine,” Charity says. “Ron wouldn’t like any boy messing around with Zahra.”

  “I know the feeling,” Sapolu says with a smile. “My daughter just turned thirteen and I’ve been pricing all-girls schools. My wife tells me I’m crazy.” He looks at Ron, serious again. “But for real, is there anything about him that raises a red flag for you?”

  “Just a gut feeling,” Ron says. “What’d he say when you questioned him?”

  “Says he saw her Friday night like everyone else, and then he was camping for the rest of the weekend,” Sapolu answers. “He got back late last night. So far he’s cooperating.”

  “But no one saw him,” Ron says. “Camping. No one can back him up?”

  “We’re looking into everything we can, Mr. Gaines,” Sapolu says. Then he looks up and meets my eyes. “And who’s this?”

  The sudden attention takes me off guard. I didn’t realize that he’d noticed me.

  “Ruthie,” Ron says. He takes a step toward me, then stops, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. There’s a moment where his posture reminds me almost of my mother’s, so helpless and heavy, as she tumbled back over the side of the cliff. I sway on my feet for just a moment, feeling queasy, and then clutch at the doorjamb to steady myself.

  “Come sit down, baby,” Charity says, holding out her hands. I step into the kitchen and squeeze her fingers, then pull out a chair and sit. I can feel how closely Tabitha’s watching, her gaze suddenly hard.

  “You’re a friend of Zahra’s?” Sapolu asks, taking me in.

  “Yes. But I’ve been living in Oregon until last week. I haven’t seen her since I got home.” I look around the table at everyone. “I don’t know that I’ll be much help. Zahra only texts or emails every so often, so I don’t really know what’s been happening with her.”

  “When was the last time you heard from her?” asks Sapolu.

  “August twenty-third,” I say, without hesitation.

  Sapolu gives me an odd look, like he’d expected me to have to look it up. I pick up my phone and scroll through the messages.

  “I remember because I checked when I heard the news,” I say. “It was just a short message. ‘Senior year about to start. Good luck.’”

  Reading it out loud, I hear how empty it is. It’s the most superficial text—nothing about her feelings, her fears, her boyfriend, her family. Nothing personal. Nothing intimate.

  Was she hiding something? Or was she truly that busy?

  Or had we grown apart more than I’d realized?

  I’m braced for more questions—more questions I can’t answer—but then Sapolu turns back to the Gaineses.

  “Now, are there any other relatives she might reach out to? Friends of the family, cousins, whatever?”

  “My family’s all in Texas,” Ron says. He glances at Charity. “And Charity’s sister lives in Nepal.”

  “Nepal?” Sapolu looks a little surprised. “Huh.”

  “She’s a missionary.” Charity’s voice sounds strangely muffled. The faintest hint of a smirk hovers around her mouth. “She’s doing the Lord’s work.”

  Sapolu gives Ron an uncertain look. Ron takes a deep breath. “Charity’s family’s pretty involved in the church,” he says carefully. “We don’t have much contact with them.”

  “Dale Worthen is my dad,” Charity says flatly.

  Sapolu and I both do a double take at that.

  “Dale Worthen?” I say. “From Victory Evangelical? Zahra never . . .”

  “Like I said, we don’t have much contact,” Ron says shortly.

  “Zahra tried living with him and my mom for a little while a few years ago,” Charity says. Her voice is still strangely hollow. “I don’t know why. Something got in her head and she thought she wanted to be born again. It didn’t last. She was home with us heathens inside a month.”

  Sapo
lu nods, writes something down. “Okay. Well, I’m working on a list of people to check with, so if anything occurs to you just give me a call or send an email. I just want to make sure we look into all our options.”

  My mind scrambles to sort out the new information. It’s hard to imagine Charity in the same room as Dale Worthen, much less related to him. I remember catching parts of his big multimedia Christmas pageant (with live animals! And angels flying over the audience!) on the television as a kid, before I’d inevitably get bored and start searching for cartoons. He was a short man, built like a fireplug with broad shoulders and a square-shaped face flushed red. Even on a day like Christmas he yelled and slammed the pulpit, stern and charismatic all at once. Charity, warm and messy and scattered, is nothing like her firebrand of a father.

  But even as I think that, I can see the resemblance. Something in the shape of her jaw. A hard, stubborn line in the middle of an otherwise round face. Something unbending in both of them.

  “So, what’s next? What can we do?” Ron asks.

  “Well, we’ll work on retracing her steps,” Sapolu says. “We’re already talking to the phone company to see if we can ping her location. And we’re looking around the neighborhood of the party to see if there’s any security footage that might show her leaving. The Morgan family doesn’t have a system, but a neighbor might.” He stands up from the table and puts his hat back on his head. “As for what you can do . . . keep getting the word out. Someone knows something. We’ve just gotta track that someone down.”

  Ron gives a helpless nod and rubs Charity’s shoulders. I’m suddenly aware how cold it is. I left my jacket at school, and there are goosebumps up and down my arms.

  The officer is almost to the door when Charity speaks again, her voice soft and almost distracted.

  “I can’t stop thinking about that little girl that went missing a few years ago,” she says. “Bailey Sellers. Remember, Ron?”

  The memory of her floats up: the malnourished, grimy girl who used to follow me and Zahra around. She was a year ahead of us but tiny, and it was easy to treat her like she was younger. Mom didn’t like me going to her place, but she didn’t have to warn me off it; the one time I went inside, it smelled like cat pee and unwashed laundry.