The Vanishing Girls by Callie Browning (great novels of all time .txt) 📗

Holden’s lips pursed in the middle of blowing his Earl Grey, and he squinted at her. “Really? I don’t recall any appointments.”

“The victim from over the weekend, remember?”

“I was thinking to just give them a call. There’s an art to touting. Showing up at the crime scene — that’s official. Knocking on their door two days later — that’s creepy.”

Eileen gazed into the distance and sighed. “I just thought that since you quoted your father so often that you’d want to carry on his legacy. I guess you do wait for opportunity to knock on your door.” She shrugged and turned back to the typewriter, poising her fingers over the keys even though she knew full well she had nothing to type on the blank sheet of paper.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his jaw go slack and his hunched shoulders straighten. He gulped his tea in one swallow and fastened the buttons on his jacket. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 11

Suspicion

They made their way to a modest cookie-cutter housing development on the west coast. Dubbed “the Venezuelan houses” by locals, each was indistinguishable except for the toys or overturned tricycles left to rust on patches.

Michelle Jones’ house was painted an ugly green. Its mossy steps and unkept garden seemed ready to take over the property at any moment, and very much resembled a lost cottage waiting for the inevitable despair that would settle over it some day.

Holden rapped on the door. A few seconds later, a tall dark-skinned lady with uncombed hair and a tear-stained face opened the door. “Good morning, are you Lena Jones? I’m Holden Davis of Davis and Sons’ Funeral Home. Let me say how sorry I am for your loss. I know how difficult these situations can be and, as I was in the area, I decided to pay a visit to see if you need assistance with Michelle’s arrangements.”

Lena heaved a weary breath and turned away as though she was too tired to respond. She flopped down on the brown sofa, blinked her puffy eyes and stared at Holden and Eileen before she starting crying.

Holden and Eileen glanced at each other as they stood rooted to their spots just inside the door. Lena's head lolled back and then fell forward, as though the weight of the tears off-balanced her. The woman leaned over with vicious momentum to gather a handful of photos that had been splayed out on the coffee table and clutched them to her chest before her weight sank into the cushions once again. Eileen took a covert glimpse at the ones that remained. Yellow with age, they all showed the same light-skinned girl at different stages of life. In one fuzzy photo, she flashed a gap-toothed grin with her lucky dip prize at a school fair. In another, she showed off an unbroken row of white teeth as she clutched her graduation scroll. Now her mother rocked back and forth humming a hymn as though the photos were the only things capable of consoling her. Based on Holden's description, Eileen understood why he had assumed it might have been her instead of Michelle Jones in that field. But this girl had a heart-shaped face, thin lips and a rounded nose; Eileen’s skin tone was lighter and her oval face featured wide brown eyes and full lips. The only thing they had in common was their thick afros. Eileen’s heart sank. She didn’t think she was any relation to this girl. She glanced at the mother then, hoping to see something telling her they were kin, but given Lena's dark skin and sharp features, it was clear that Michelle took after her father. All that was left were memories cast in ink on photo paper that Lena held in her damp hands. Eileen felt sick: Lena's sobs were loud and her grief was fresh, her body not yet digested by fatigue and anguish like Ernesta’s body was. But Eileen knew it was only a matter of time.

Holden took a deep breath. “Ma’am, is there anything we can do? Maybe get you some water?”

“She’s good,” answered a gruff voice from behind a beaded curtain. A dark hand pushed aside the beads and a stocky man stepped into the light of the living room. “I’m Errol, Michelle’s stepfather. Lena ain’t taking this too good. Let we go outside and talk,” he said leading the way out the front door.

“Sir, we’re very sorry…”

Errol waved a dismissive hand at Holden and Eileen. “First things first: another fellow from Davis already talked to us yesterday. What sort of jack-leg place are you running that wunna that don’t talk to each other?”

Holden shot an annoyed glance at Eileen. “Well…we’re very thorough, you see. How are you holding up?”

Michelle’s stepfather shook his head. “It ain’t easy. Michelle split her time between here and her boyfriend’s house. She left a week ago to go there.” He shook his head bitterly. “We thought she was fine. Not once did that ignorant fool call to say she was missing.”

Errol's eyes grew steely. “If you ask me, I think he killed her. I told her not to get mixed up with fellows like that. Only when the police called did we find out that she was missing for two days.”

Eileen was taken aback by Errol’s candour but had to admit that he had a point. Over his shoulder, movement caught her eye. Standing behind the white lace curtain at the front door that slowly swayed to and fro was Lena. She looked like a ghost with her dead eyes and blank face as she watched them. A breath hitched in Eileen's chest.

Errol leaned in and said in a low voice, “I wouldn’t doubt that the boyfriend killed the other girls too. People like him are funny.”

“Would you say Michelle was afraid of him?” asked Eileen.

The man glared at her. “You’s the police? I thought wunna was from the funeral home.”

“We are,” said Eileen quickly. “But what you tell us can help