searched in the days following her disappearance, the Herron Mills PD did return the laptop to the Spanos family, which serves as a strong indication that they didn’t find anything relevant in her search history or files. If Zoe was devising an elaborate escape plan from her room in the days after Christmas, she left no trace of it on her laptop.
ASTER SPANOS: If I’m being really honest, I hope the police are right. I hope Zoe did run away.
MARTINA GREEN: Why’s that?
ASTER SPANOS: Maybe she has a whole new life, somewhere amazing. Like, Buenos Aires or Monte Carlo. Don’t get me wrong, I’d give her hell for doing this to us if she ever comes home. But consider the alternatives. If she didn’t run away …
MARTINA GREEN: Aster and I concluded our conversation there. The point she raises is an interesting one. I’ve spent this entire podcast series pushing against the police’s runaway theory. And I think that’s warranted—my thinking hasn’t changed. But in a strange way, like Aster, I hope I’m wrong. I hope the police are right, and Zoe did simply, however implausibly, run away. That she has a fabulous new life now, and wherever she is, she’s listening to this and laughing at all of us.
But I really don’t think so.
If you have any information about Zoe Spanos, no matter how insignificant it may seem, please contact the tip line that has been set up by the Spanos family: 631-958-2757.
As for me, there are more interviews I’d like to conduct. More angles to this story that I’d like to explore. I’m not sure when our next episode will air, but you can be certain I haven’t stopped digging. Until next time, I’m Martina Green, and this is Missing Zoe.
[CODA TO MISSING ZOE INSTRUMENTAL THEME]
12 THEN
July
Herron Mills, NY
JUNE MELTS INTO July without warning. The week unspools, each day a glistening pearl on an invisible thread: sunny and bright, but not too hot. Perfect. On Wednesday, we post up at our usual spot at the beach. While Paisley collects shells, my mind travels back to the night before with Caden in the Windermere stable. Before I made my way back to Clovelly Cottage, we exchanged numbers. Those ten little digits burn in my phone. I stretch out under the umbrella and think about texting him, but I can’t come up with anything good to say.
By Thursday, Paisley’s itching to go somewhere new, so we drive to a giant water park not too far from the aquarium. Emilia grants us permission to miss family dinner, so we stay at the park all day and fill up on popcorn chicken strips and cheesy fries on the boardwalk before dragging ourselves back to the car, exhausted, when the park closes at six.
I’m in my pj’s and about to open the book I’ve been reading at the beach—a story that’s set half in New York City and half in the world of a dark, ruthless fairy tale—when my phone chimes.
Movie night?
I entered him into my phone as CT. Not Caden, or something cute like Boy Next Door. Just CT. As if a part of me knows he shouldn’t be there. Not when his heart belongs to Zoe, and with Zoe still missing.
You want to go into town? What’s playing?
I’ve seen the little Herron Mills movie theater, but haven’t yet been inside. The temperatures are sure to spike into the nineties before long, and then Paisley and I will find our way there for whatever Disney and Pixar are offering up this summer.
More like stay in than go out.
My fingers hover over my phone screen. I’m sure Caden assumes I have a laptop, but I don’t. A computer for college is at the top of the list of things I’m saving up for this summer. I’m trying to figure out what to say when his next message appears.
There’s a film room downstairs at Windermere. Come over same way as last time and I’ll meet you around back.
Ten minutes later, I’m dressed and stomping through the trees again. Tonight, there are no cryptic visions of girls in white dresses or clutching fingers of panic. It’s not even dark yet; the sky beneath the branches is laced with shadow, but the last dregs of sunshine still filter through. My brain is focused on more mundane concerns: If this is a date. If I want it to be.
Caden meets me at the edge of the trees with a sheepish grin.
“Sorry about the uninspired destination,” he says.