She tells Deveraux she’ll be right there, even as a part of her is convinced he’s gotten something wrong. Why would Jenna have been on the Batona Trail? That’s fifteen miles from her house and her car is still impounded. And Jenna of all people was never one to hike.
There’s something Deveraux isn’t telling her. She can hear it in his voice, or not so much in what he says, but the careful way he’s choosing his words. There’s nothing she can do but climb into her Jeep and make her way back to the station again.
She finds himin the interview room. The purse is indeed Jenna’s, an impractical straw bag with a fraying handle that belonged to Callie’s grandmother. Deveraux hands her a box of latex gloves. She slides apair on and removes the wallet. Inside she finds a twenty-dollar bill, a Stop and Shop card, Jenna’s invalid license behind the clear plastic pane. A tube of lip gloss in a frosty pink—Jenna gave up lipstick years ago, too hard to apply when you’ve got the shakes. A package of Tic Tacs. She places each item on the table and once the bag is nearly empty she understands why Deveraux was so hesitant on the phone.
She shuts her eyes for a second, steadies herself with a deep breath before she pinches the green glassine baggie between her fingers. There’s a scrim of white powder inside.
ANNABELLE
July 1990
You are walking back from the convenience store when the car slows at your side.
Your guts bottom out as he rolls down his window. A man. It’s always a man.
“What are you doing out this way?” he asks.
You ignore him, or try to. You can’t help but sneak a glance out of the corner of your eye. He’s an impression. Dark hair. White T-shirt. Blur of a face before you turn your gaze back to the road, your cheeks already burning with shame and interest.
You and Sabrinahave been stopped this way before. Twice, two different men. One slowed and in a gentle voice told you he was lost. Did they know if the parkway was this way or that way? Oh, weren’t they such sweet girls, such kind girls. You hadn’t even noticed his hand working up and down or his unzipped pants until Sabrina gripped your forearm so hard that her nails bit into your skin.
Pervert!Sabrina had screamed, and picked up a rock from the side of the road, threw it hard against the passenger’s side door.
You little bitch, the man said, his voice changing then. Deeper, ragged, as though something rough was caught in his throat.
Sabrina didn’t blink, just picked up another rock and sent it sailing, then a third, that dinged the man’s bumper as he sped away.
You had stood still the whole time, stupid and silent as a cow. Always finding the words for things at least a beat too late. You envythis about Sabrina, her scalding quickness, her castigating temper. Her ability to draw up the right words at the right time while you find yourself haunted for days, weeks, by the retorts you could have made, the slights you should have addressed.
The man isstill beside you, the smell of exhaust making you a little woozy. His car is creeping along so slowly that you can hear gravel pop under his tires, the creak of the rubber on the road.
“Hey. Come on now, don’t be like that,” he says. His voice sounds familiar, but there is no reason for a man who is not your father to be talking to you like this unless he is like the others. You steel yourself to use the words Sabrina did before—pervert, creep—and scan the shoulder of the road for suitable rocks but can’t make out anything bigger than a pebble.
“You giving me the cold shoulder? Really?” A tinge of annoyance in his voice this time.
You stop walking and look, really look. He’s handsome, so handsome that his anger makes sense. He’s a man used to getting what he wants. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, with a belt of stubble along his jaw. White T-shirt fitted to show off the muscles taut across his shoulders and chest. Despite yourself, you feel a flutter between your legs. The same one you felt the other times, with the other men who pulled over. You knew enough to be ashamed, to not tell Sabrina, but it didn’t stop the feeling from creeping in, a little fizzle in your veins that lingered even after the men sped away.
Your stupid, traitorous body. The same as Sabrina’s in every way, and yet, Sabrina crouched and gripped the rock. Sabrina found the right words, sharp as arrows.
And then, just in time, you understand. He thinks you are Sabrina. His voice is familiar because you’ve heard it on the other end of the phone, when you’ve picked up upstairs and tried to decipher your sister’s new life. The way Sabrina disappears around the curve of the driveway at night, her new habit of spending hours in front of the mirror, turning her face back and forth, her mouthringed with lipsticks nicked from the drug store or from other girls’ backpacks while they’re busy finishing their homework or gossiping on the bus.
It has been a long time since someone confused the two of you. You’ve gone to school with the same sixty kids since kindergarten, kids who know that Sabrina is left-handed, that you bite your nails down to nothing. Sabrina wears her hair down, loose and wild, while you can’t stand the feeling of it on the back of your neck. You look at the man again. Lock eyes with him. So much about your life just happens to you, the chime of the bells escorting you through your days at school, the obligations of homework and studying that rule your afternoons. You and Sabrina shopping for the cheapest cereals every week with the paltry stack of cash your father leaves you, while you eye mounds of fruit or read off flavors of popsicles you can never have. It occurs to you that you, for once in your life, have a decision to make.
“Okay now. There we go. Is this about last time? Come on, don’t pout.”
And you want to know. Want to know everything Sabrina has been keeping from you. Where she goes when she disappears down the driveway and waits out of view of the house. About what happens with this man when she gets into his car. What Sabrina does with him, who she is with him. You don’t even know his real name. Sabrina won’t tell. She calls him the Coyote and won’t even say why.
The decision was always about Sabrina.
“I’m not mad,” you say, trying to get the same lilt in your voice as Sabrina has on the phone, tilt your head a little for good measure.
“Good girl,” he says. “Now get in.”
In the beginningyou hadn’t believed that he existed. Sabrina said she met someone at the bait shop where she worked on the weekends. But then the phone rang at home a few weeks later and she lunged for it, and while she talked you tiptoed upstairs to your father’s room and picked up the other line.
“I’m not that young.” Sabrina’s voice high and fluty in a way you didn’t recognize.
“I bet you still have stuffed animals on your bed.”
