I pull out my laptop and Google her. “Martina Revelle” returns the online version of theReview-Journalarticle, and the same info rehashed by the other local news sites. A follow-up article says her car was found abandoned near Corn Creek, doors flung open, overrun by wildlife. I keep scrolling, keep clicking through the pages until they devolve into forum threads and those spam sites that copy articles but change every few words until they’re nonsense.
One of the Reddit threads catches my eye. It’s titled “Weird True Crime Stories—Las Vegas,” which seems kind of flippant, but it’s a true crime subreddit and I don’t really get that stuff. Half of a comment has caught in the Google search, a mention of Martina’s name and a long paragraph that cuts off midway through, so I open it up and scroll down until I find the full thing.
This happened near the end of my senior year and my friends and I became kind of obsessed with it. We placed bets about whether they’d find her body before graduation. Sorry, morbid.
We heard from my friend’s older brother that there were all these strange details that were never reported online. I don’t think it was because of her family’s wishes, it seemed like she didn’t have any family around, but if it was, sorry and no disrespect. Let’s be real though, we all know LVMPD. Way more likely it’s a cover-up lol.
Ok so, a couple days before she disappeared, Martina basically had a psychotic break. According tothis, she went from a reliable CVS cashier and all around pretty regular lady to completely paranoid, not sleeping, screaming at anyone who knocked on the door or came near her. Someone else in her building posted onFacebookthat they heard sounds of crying and glass breaking.
I try both links, one a blog and one a Facebook link, but both return an error. No one sharing information about Martina at the time cares enough now to still keep it public. The post continues:
When they found her car, there was blood all over the driver’s seat. But here’s the weird thing: it wasn’t her blood. Our guess was, if it was a criminal or a murderer the police would have said so, so they must not have known whose it was.
I kinda drifted away from those friends tbh, but I still think about Martina sometimes. She was born the same year as my mom. It’s sad to think that if she hasn’t turned up by now, she probably never will.
I try to swallow, but the movement gets stuck somewhere in my throat. Then I thumb back through my Notes app.
MR and RV both 2017
Martina Revelle disappeared from northern Las Vegas in the spring of 2017. She’s MR. Why keep tabs on her, though?
Maybe she was Uncle Bill’s girlfriend. Not like I know much about his dating life.
Or maybe she was one of us.
The Reddit post is four months old, but when I click through to the writer’s profile, they’re still active on various true crime subreddits. God, there are a lot of unsolved murders in Vegas. Still, that means there’s a chance they’ll respond to a message.
Uncle Bill was looking into these disappearances, so if I can learn more about Martina and figure out who RV is, I might be able to retrace his steps. It’s better than doing nothing and hoping he comes back.
I set up a profile and start typing.Hi there. I’m interested in Martina Revelle too. I saw her car was found near Corn Creek, but do you know exactly where?
I hit send and stretch into bed, phone on the pillow next to me, unable to close my eyes. I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until I’m jerked awake again by a demanding whistle. Brian’s texted back.
See you tomorrow.
I haven’t ruined anything. Not yet, at least.
I don’t bother to get up, just shove the Nokia under my pillow and turn over to get as much rest as the day will still allow me. Only when I’m already halfway there, my body grown numb and distant with sleep, do I wonder if there’s a reason he didn’t answer my question.
12
JOANNE LIVES IN THE APARTMENT DIRECTLY ABOVEours. I hear her sometimes, when I’m not at work, shuffling back and forth in the eye-watering hours of the morning. I don’t think she sleeps much. I have to knock four times before she unlocks the door, and then it’s only a crack, chain pulled tight, her face wedged out of the slice of darkness beyond.
“Oh,” she says. She smells like too much skin and not enough blood. “Hi, honey.”
She shuts the door again to unlatch the chain and swings it all the way open. Stale, frigid air rushes free. I fight the urge to cross my arms.
“Hey, Joanne.” I hope my smile spans both gratitude and desperation. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure, sure.” She inches forward to lean against the doorframe, her pupils dilating as the sun hits them. Her pity stinks of iron and bile. “How’s your mom?”
“She’s okay.” Then I remember that the last time Joanne saw her, she was brandishing a wooden spoon and spitting violent fury. “Better than when you came by.”
I think Joanne can tell it’s a lie, because the pity grows so strong I can almost taste it. Brussels sprouts and boiled cabbage. Plastic bags and cellophane wrap. Behind her, the TV sings a fast-food jingle, garbled by the buzz of the air conditioner.
“That’s good.” Her sympathy makes me feel like a puppet with its strings cut. “What can I do for you?”
I explain that I have to go out of town tomorrow. “Family thing,” I say, and she nods, because Mom’s told her stories about Uncle Bill, or at least cursed his name in front of her enough times that she’s familiar—and could she pop in tomorrow morning if it’s not too much trouble, just to make sure my mom’s okay and not too confused about where I’ve gone, and to make sure she gets her medicine.
