makes me wonder about not just what Erica told her but what Ingrid discovered afterward. Unfortunately, neither of them is around to provide an answer.
I put down Erica’s phone and pick up my own. I then text Ingrid, even though I already know she’s not going to respond. I do it out of desperation, on the unlikely chance that, of the dozens of texts I’ve sent in the past few days, this will finally be the one she sees and replies to.
If you’re out there and can see this, PLEASE respond. I need to talk to you about the Bartholomew and Erica and what you know about both. It’s important.
I set my phone facedown on the coffee table, lean back on the crimson sofa, and stare at the wall. Unlike Greta, I can’t choose what I see in the patterned wallpaper. They’re faces, whether I like it or not.
Right now, they watch me passively, their dark mouths dropped open, as if they’re trying to talk, laugh, or sing. Shifting nervously in their gaze, I close my eyes. Silly, I know. Just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean they can’t see me.
My eyes snap open when my phone buzzes on the coffee table.
A text has arrived.
I pick it up, shock turning my body cold when I see who it’s from.
Ingrid.
Hi, Jules. Please don’t be worried. I’m fine.
Relief rushes through me. It starts at my hands and feet before coursing into my limbs, warm and glorious.
I was wrong. About everything. Ingrid isn’t dead or kidnapped. And if there’s a logical explanation for her absence, then there are possibly ones for what happened to Erica and Megan.
What I need to know now, though, is what that explanation is.
I send three texts in response, my still-warm fingers flying over the screen.
Where are you?
Are you OK?
What is going on?
A minute passes with no response. After two more go by, I start to pace back and forth across the sitting room. I occupy myself by counting my steps. I get to sixty-seven before three blue dots appear on the phone’s screen, rippling like a tiny wave. Ingrid typing her reply.
In Pennsylvania. A friend hooked me up with a waitressing job.
I’ve been worried, I write. Why didn’t you call or text back?
This time, a reply comes immediately.
I left my phone on the bus. It took days to get it back.
I wait for more, expecting a flurry of texts as exuberantly descriptive as the way Ingrid talked. But when her response arrives, it’s the opposite. Staid, almost dull.
Sorry for any confusion.
Why did you leave without telling me?
I didn’t have time, Ingrid texts back. Short notice.
But that makes no sense. I was at Ingrid’s door literally minutes before she left. All she did was simply confirm our plans to meet in the park.
Then it hits me—this isn’t Ingrid.
All the relief I felt minutes ago is gone, replaced with a sharp-edged chill that sends pinpricks of dread across my skin.
I’m communicating with the person who made Ingrid disappear.
My first thought is to call the police and let them sort everything out. But Dylan and I have both already gone to the police, with disappointing results. In order for them to get involved, I need more than a hunch that this isn’t Ingrid.
I need proof.
Call me, I type.
The reply is instantaneous. Can’t.
Why not?
Too noisy here.
I need to be careful. My suspicion is starting to show. Rather than reply, I grip the phone, my thumbs poised just above the screen. I need to think of a way to get whoever this is to definitively reveal they’re not Ingrid—without realizing they’re doing it.
What’s my nickname? I finally type.
On the screen, the blue dots appear, disappear, then appear again. Ingrid-but-not-Ingrid is thinking. I watch the dots come and go while hoping against hope that when an answer does appear, it will be the correct one.
Juju.
The nickname Ingrid gave me in the park that day.
I want this to be the truth instead of the dreadful-but-likely scenario that’s been in my thoughts ever since talking to Dylan.
The answer finally arrives, announcing itself with a buzz.
Trick question. You don’t have a nickname. Jules is your real name.
I yelp and throw the phone. A quick, frantic toss. Like a firecracker. The phone hits the floor and does a single flip before landing facedown on the sitting room carpet. I collapse onto the crimson sofa, my heart dripping like hot candle wax into the pit of my stomach.