The Good Girl Read online

  Detective Hoffman wants to know everything he possibly can about Mia. I rummage through old photographs in the basement. I come across old Halloween costumes, and size-four clothes, roller skates and Barbie dolls. I know there are other cases, other missing girls like Mia. I picture their mothers. I know there are girls who never come home.

  The detective reminds me that no news is good news. Sometimes he calls to tell me nothing at all, no information, in case I was wondering, which I always am. He humors me. He promises to do everything he can to find Mia. I can see it in his eyes when he looks at me, or when he lingers just a moment longer than he should, to make certain I’m not about to crumble.

  But I think of it all the time, about how hard it has become to stand and walk, about how impossible it’s becoming to function and live in a world that still thinks of politics and entertainment and sports and the economy when all I think about is Mia.

  I was certainly not the best mother. That goes without saying. I didn’t set out to be a bad mother, however. It just happened. As it was, being a bad mother was child’s play compared to being a good mother, which was an incessant struggle, a lose-lose situation 24 hours a day; long after the kids were in bed the torment of what I did or didn’t do during those hours we were trapped together would scourge my soul. Why did I allow Grace to make Mia cry? Why did I snap at Mia to stop just to silence the noise? Why did I sneak to a quiet place, whenever I could? Why did I rush the days—will them to hurry by—so I could be alone? Other mothers took their children to museums, the gardens, the beach. I kept mine indoors, as much as I could, so we wouldn’t cause a scene.

  I lie awake at night wondering: what if I never have a chance to make it up to Mia? What if I’m never able to show her the kind of mother I always longed to be? The kind who played endless hours of hide-and-seek, who gossiped side by side on their daughters’ beds about which boys in the junior high were cute. I always envisioned a friendship between my daughters and me. I imagined shopping together and sharing secrets, rather than the formal, obligatory relationship that now exists between myself and Grace and Mia. I list in my head all the things that I would tell Mia if I could. That I chose the name Mia for my great-grandmother, Amelia, vetoing James’s alternative: Abigail. That the Christmas she turned four, James stayed up until 3:00 a.m. assembling the dollhouse of her dreams. That even though her memories of her father are filled with nothing but malaise, there were split seconds of goodness: James teaching her how to swim, James helping her prepare for a fourth-grade spelling test. That I mourn each and every time I turned down an extra book before bed, desperate now for just five more minutes of laughing at Harry the Dirty Dog. That I go to the bookstore and purchase a copy after unsuccessfully ransacking the basement for the one that used to be hers. That I sit on the floor of her old bedroom and read it again and again and again. That I love her. That I’m sorry.

  Colin

  Before

  She hides in the bedroom all day. She won’t come out. I won’t let her close the door and so she sits on the bed. She sits and thinks. About what, I don’t know. I don’t give a shit.

  She cries, tears spreading across the pillowcase until it’s probably soaking wet. Her face, when she comes out to pee, is red and swollen. She tries to be quiet about it, as if she thinks I can’t hear. But the cabin is small and made of wood. There’s nothing to absorb the sound.

  Her body aches. I can see in the way she walks. She can’t put weight on the left leg, an injury sustained when she fell down the cabin steps and into the woods. She limps, holding on to the wall as she staggers to the bathroom. In the bathroom she runs a finger across a bruise, which is now engorged and black.

  She hears me in the other room. I pace. I chop firewood, enough to keep us warm for the winter. But it’s never really warm. I’m sure she’s cold all the time, though she dresses in long johns and gets under the quilt. The heat from the stove doesn’t reach the bedroom. But she refuses to be out here where it’s warm.

  I imagine the sound of my footsteps scare the shit out of her. She listens to nothing but the footsteps, waiting for the worst to come.

  I try to keep busy. I clean up the cabin. I wipe away the cobwebs and pick up the dead beetles. I toss them into the trash. I unpack the things we bought in town: canned food and coffee, sweats and soap and duct tape. I fix the front door. I wipe down the countertops with paper towels and water. It’s all just to waste time. I pick up the girl’s clothes from the bathroom floor. I’m about to yell at her for being a slob and leaving her dirty clothes lying around. But then I hear her cry.

  I fill the bathtub with water. I clean the shirt and pants with the bar of soap and hang them outside to dry. We can’t do this forever. This cabin is only a temporary thing. I’m wracking my brain to come up with next steps, wishing I would’ve thought this through before I decided to grab the girl and flee.

  She shuffles by me to use the bathroom. She’s beaten up and limping. I’m not one to feel guilt, but I know that I’m the one who did it to her, out there, in the woods, when she tried to run. I tell myself that she asked for it. I tell myself that at least now she’s quiet, not so certain anymore.

  Now she knows who’s in charge. Me.

  I drink coffee because the tap water tastes like shit. I’ve offered her some. I’ve offered her water but she’s refused. She still won’t eat a thing. Pretty soon I’m going to pin her down and jam the damn food into her mouth. I won’t let her starve herself to death. Not after all this.

  The next morning, I invite myself into the bedroom. “What do you want for breakfast?” I ask.

  She’s lying on the bed, her back to the door. She’s half-asleep when she hears me come in. The unexpected sound of my feet, the explosion of words in the middle of silence, force her from the bed.

  This is it, she thinks, too disoriented to hear what I’m saying.

  Her legs get tangled in the sheets. Her feet are lost though her body runs away from the sound. She falls to the hardwood floor. Her feet fight the sheet to find the floors. Her body thrusts itself as far away from me as she can. She backs herself into the wall, the bedding clutched in a shaking hand.

  I’m standing in the doorway, dressed in the same clothes I’ve worn for nearly a week.

  She’s staring at me with panic in her distended eyes, her eyebrows raised and mouth hanging open. She looks at me like I’m a monster, a cannibal waiting to eat her for breakfast.

  “What do you want?” she cries.

  “It’s time to eat.”

  She swallows hard. “I’m not hungry,” she says.

  “Too bad.”

  I tell her she doesn’t have a choice.

  She follows me into the other room and watches as I pour what are called eggs—but look and smell like shit from a box—into the skillet. I watch them brown. The smell is enough to make me gag.

  She hates everything about me. I know it. I see it in her eyes. She hates the way I stand. She hates my dirty hair and the stubble that now coats my chin. She hates my hands, watching the way they stir the eggs in the skillet. She hates the way I look at her. She hates the tone of my voice and the way my mouth forms the words.

  Most of all, she hates seeing the gun in my pocket. All the time, making sure she behaves.

  I tell her she’s not allowed in the bedroom anymore. Only to sleep. That’s it. The rest of the day she has to stay out here where I can keep an eye on her. Make sure she eats, drinks, pees. It’s like I’m caring for a damn infant.

  She eats about as much as a baby—a couple bites here, a couple bites there. She says that she’s not hungry, but she eats enough to survive. That’s all that matters.

  I keep an eye on her so she doesn’t try to run, like last time. When we go to sleep, I slide a heavier table in front of the door so that I’ll hear if she tries to escape. I’m a light sleeper. I sleep with
the gun nestled beside me. I ransacked the kitchen drawers and made sure there were no knives. Just my own pocketknife that I carry all the time.

  She doesn’t have a damn thing to say to me, and I don’t try. Why bother? I can’t stay here forever. In the spring there will be tourists. Soon we need to go. Screw the girl, I think. Soon I need to go. Ditch the girl and get on a plane and go. Before the cops find me. Before Dalmar finds me. I need to go.

  But of course there’s something holding me back, something that stops me from getting on that plane and going.

  Gabe

  Before

  I’m standing in the midst of the Dennetts’ kitchen. Mrs. Dennett hovers over the sink, scraping away the remains of a pork dinner. I see the judge’s plate licked clean, and hers still sports a tenderloin and a pile of peas. The woman is wasting away before my very eyes. The water runs hot, steam spewing forth into the room, though her hands are immersed in it and seem blind to the heat. She scrubs at the china with a ferocity I’ve never seen in a woman washing dishes.

  We stand before the island in the center of the kitchen. No one offers me a seat. It’s a swank kitchen with walnut cabinets and granite countertops. The appliances are all stainless steel, including two ovens for which my Italian mother would give an arm and a leg. I imagine Thanksgiving without the drama of how to keep everything warm until dinnertime, no tears when my dad mentioned the potatoes were a tad bit cold.

  There’s an image of a man set on the island before the judge and me. It’s a forensic sketch, one that our artist down at the station constructed with the help of that waitress.

  “So this is the man? This is the man who has my daughter?” Eve Dennett had cried as I slipped the sketch from a manila folder. Already she was in tears. She turned her back on the conversation and tried to lose herself in washing the dishes, crying quietly over the sound of running water.

  “Mia was seen last Tuesday night with this man,” I respond, though by that time her back is facing my direction. The image before us is one of a rough man. His appearance makes him seem lowbred, but it’s not as though he resembles the masked men in horror films. He’s just not of Dennett stature. Neither am I.

  “And?” Judge Dennett implores.

  “And we think he might be involved in her disappearance.”

  He stands on the opposite side of the island, sporting a suit equal in value to two or three months’ worth my salary. His tie is undone and tossed over a shoulder. “Is there any proof Mia didn’t go willingly with this man?”

  “Well,” I say, “no.”

  The judge is drinking already. Tonight’s drink of choice: scotch on the rocks. I think he might be drunk. There’s a slight slur in his speech and he has the hiccups.

  “Suppose Mia is just off monkeying around with him. What then?”

  He talks to me like I’m an idiot. But I remind myself that I’m the one in charge. I’m the one with the shiny badge. I’m leading this investigation. Not him.

  “Judge Dennett, it’s been eight days since the investigation began,” I state. “Nine since Mia was last seen. According to co-workers, she rarely missed work. According to your wife, this behavior—shiftlessness, irresponsibility—is not in sync with Mia’s character.”

  He sips from the scotch and sets it down too quickly on the island. Eve jumps from the sound. “Of course, there’s the disorderly conduct. Trespassing and vandalism. Possession of marijuana,” he says and then, to piss me off, adds, “to name just a few.” The expression on his face is complacent, holier-than-thou. I stare at him, unable to comment. I despise his bravado.

  “I checked the police records,” I say. “There was nothing on Mia.” In fact her record was squeaky clean. Not even a speeding ticket.

  “Well, there wouldn’t be, now would there?” he asks and I understand: he made them disappear. He excuses himself long enough to get a refill. Mrs. Dennett is still scrubbing away at the dishes. I stray to the sink and nudge the faucet toward cold so the poor woman’s hands will no longer burn.

  She glances at me, taken aback, as if she just caught the first whiff of burning flesh and whispers, “I should have told you,” her eyes filling with sadness. Yes, I think, you should have told me, but I bite my tongue as she goes on. “I wish I could say he was in denial. I wish I could say he was so overcome with grief that he’s refusing to believe Mia is really gone.”

  Judge Dennett returns just in time to overhear the last few words of his wife’s confession. It’s quiet in the room and for a split second I brace myself for the wrath of God. But there’s none of it; it doesn’t come.

  “This behavior of Mia’s isn’t as unexpected as you’ve led the detective to believe, now is it, Eve?” he asks.

  “Oh, James,” she cries. She’s drying her hands on a tea towel when she says, “That was years ago. She was in high school. She made her fair share of mistakes. But that was years ago.”

  “And what do you know of this Mia, Eve? It’s been years since we’ve had a relationship with our daughter. We hardly know her anymore.”

  “And you, Your Honor,” I say, to take Mrs. Dennett off the hot seat. I hate the way he stares at her, his eyes making her feel stupid. “What do you know of this Mia? Any misdemeanors that have recently been expunged from her record?” I ask. “Traffic citations? Prostitution? Public intoxication?” I don’t have to think twice as to why her youthful transgressions disappeared from the record. “That wouldn’t look good for the Dennett name, now would it? And this whole thing—if Mia is out there screwing around at the end of the investigation, if she’s perfectly fine and just out for a good time, that doesn’t look good, either, does it?”

  I watch the news; I’m generally up on politics. This November Judge Dennett is up for reelection.

  And yet I find myself wondering if Mia’s misconduct is limited to her youth alone, or if there’s more to it than that.

  “You’d better watch yourself,” the judge warns, but in the background, Eve whimpers, “Prostitution? James?” Though it was never anything more than a hypothetical.

  He ignores her. I suppose we both do.

  “I’m just trying to find your daughter,” I say. “Because maybe she is off doing something stupid. But consider for a minute that maybe she’s not. Just think about it. What then? I’m certain you’ll be asking for my badge if she winds up dead.”

  “James,” his wife hisses. She’s nearly in tears from my use of daughter and dead in the same sentence.

  “Let me get this straight, Hoffman,” he says to me. “You find my daughter and you bring her home. Alive. You just make sure you cover your bases because there’s more to Mia than meets the eye,” he concludes and, with that, takes his scotch and walks out of the room.

  Colin

  Before

  I catch her staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. She doesn’t recognize the reflection: the wiry hair and dowdy skin, the bruises that are beginning to heal. They’re yellow now with gaps between instead of bulging and purple.

  When she comes from the bathroom, I’m waiting for her. I’m leaned against the frame of the door. She steps out and bumps into me, staring at me, like some beast hovering over her, stealing her air. “I wasn’t going to hit you,” I say, reading her thoughts, but she doesn’t speak.

  I brush a cold hand across her cheek. She winces and pulls back, away from my touch. “It’s better,” I say about the bruises.

  She moves past me and walks away.

  I don’t know how many days we do this. I’ve lost track. I tried to remember when it was Monday and when it was Tuesday. Eventually the days began to blur. Every day is the same. She lies in bed until I make her get up. We force down breakfast. Then she sits on a chair she pulls up to the window. She stares outside. Thinks. Daydreams. Longs to be anywhere but here.

  I’m thinking all
the time about how to get out of here. I’ve got enough cash to catch a flight somewhere and then it will be gone. But of course I don’t have a passport on me, so the farthest I can go is Tecate or Calexico, California, but the only way I’m getting out of the country is if I hire a coyote or swim across the Rio Grande. But getting myself out of the country is only half the problem. It’s everything else I can’t quite figure out. I pace the cabin, wondering how in the hell I’m gonna get myself out of this mess, knowing I’m safe here, for now, but the longer we hide out, the longer I hide out, the worse it’s gonna be.

  We have rules, spoken and unspoken. She’s not to touch my shit. We use only one square of toilet paper at a time. We air-dry when at all possible. We use as little soap as possible so we don’t reek of B.O. We can’t let things go to waste. We don’t open windows. Not that we can anyway. If we run into someone around the cabin, she’s Chloe, I tell her. Never Mia. In fact she might as well forget that was ever her name.

  She gets her period and we learn the literal interpretation for being on the rag. I see the blood in a garbage bag and ask, “What the fuck is this?” I’m sorry I ask. We collect our garbage in some white plastic bags that got left behind. From time to time we drive and drop them off in a Dumpster behind some lodge, late at night when we’re certain no one will see. She asks why we don’t just leave them outside. I ask if she wants to be eaten by a fucking bear.

  There’s a chill from the window, but the heat from the stove helps keep us warm. The days are getting shorter. Night falls earlier and earlier until darkness takes over the cabin. There is electricity, but I don’t want to draw attention to us. I only turn on a small lamp at night. The bedroom becomes nothing but blackness. At night, she lays and listens to the silence. She waits for me to appear from the shadows and end her life.