Page 2 of The Lake of Lost Girls

We had been called down to the police station not long after my father laid into the new lead detective, Lieutenant Jane Higgins. But once Dad’s anger had run its course, he was back to being calm and charming, jovial even. Dad in control made me feel a lot better.

The lieutenant was full of apologies. She explained they normally wouldn’t speak to a victim’s family until they had confirmation of who the remains belonged to, but that the press had gotten a hold of the story and things had spiraledbefore she could put the brakes on. She sounded angry about it too, which went a long way toward settling both my parents down. There was nothing, at the moment, that indicated it was Jess and that the media were simply jumping to conclusions.

Mom had asked to see the body, but she’d been denied this request immediately. Dad had been up in arms, once more, about how badly the case had been originally handled and how, this time, we needed to be kept in the loop about what was happening. We’d been promised we’d be the first to know once they got the tests back, though it wouldn’t be for a few weeks. They were still searching the area and had called a dive team in from a nearby city to search Doll’s Eye Lake again.

Doll’s Eye Lake. Just hearing the name unsettled me.

Officially, it was called Baneberry Lake, but over the years, the kids began to call it Dolls’ Eye Lake for the nickname given to the pretty, yet creepy flowers that bloomed around the large body of water. They definitely looked like tiny eyes growing on bright green stalks. So, of course, generations of children used them as a way to scare each other.

It was a favorite spot for those that lived in Mt. Randall. During the summer, local kids flocked to its cold depths, even though their parents warned them not to swim there. Doll’s Eye Lake was a man-made reservoir and no one really knew how deep it was. It had been created over a hundred years ago as a secondary water supply for the county to use during a drought.

But, eventually, it simply became a place to hang out. A place to make out. A place you went to when you wanted to be alone. There were decades old rumors that an old town had been flooded when it was made. Families displaced, memories forgotten. And townsfolk say that on a clear day, you can see the rooftops of houses far below the surface. Proof of that old, lost town lingering at the bottom.

Twenty-four years ago Mom had been convinced that’s where they would find Jess. My sister spent so much time there over the years, that Mom swore that’s where she was.

Dad tried to reason with her, arguing that it didn’t make any sense.

She claimed it was a mother’s intuition and against his wishes, she had demanded police search the area. Clearly investigators had been appeasing a hysterical mother when they gave the lake a barely cursory look. Because now, decades later, a body had been found and police were searching for more. If they had done their job properly in the first place, perhaps we would have had answers years ago.

We were told that attempts to identify the body through dental records were inconclusive, so they would have to submit DNA to compare to the remains and it was agreed I’d provide the sample, which I was more than happy to give.

It was a nightmare, but one that I desperately hoped would have an ending soon.

My office door creaked open, the noise viciously loud in the enveloping quiet.

“Sorry to bother you, but we have an issue with a booking.” Marnie winced apologetically. She, like everyone else, knew why I wasn’t in the best mood. How could I be when it was possible my sister’s bones were lying on a cold table in a forensic lab waiting to be tested? I had caught a couple of my employees talking about it last week. I recognized the quick hush that descended when I walked into the break room. I had been the focus of enough gossip over the years to know the signs.

I wasn’t mad though. The story had been dominating the news for weeks. Everyone was talking about it. I barely remembered what it had been like before, in 1999. Back then, I had been too young to grasp the severity of the situation. Even being the last person to technically see my sister, it didn’t register that she was gone. Not until months went by and I started asking when Jess was coming back and my mom, overwrought, screamed ‘never.’

Childhood trauma, table for one, please.

But the news was different today. With social media, fact and fiction became tangled up and the stories being floated around were somewhere between sort of accurate and absolutely ridiculous. Pair that with the new podcast—a podcast using my own words from a police interview as its title—andpeople were going nuts dissecting a case that had grown cold a long time ago.

I listened to the first episode. I couldn’t help myself. When it came to Jess, and what happened to her, I became as obsessed as any amateur internet sleuth lurking in the dark corners of the internet.

I hated it. It was exploitative and downright disrespectful. It was two women, with no connection to my sister, glugging wine and giggling over hottie boyfriends and nineties fashion. It made me sick to my stomach. Yet, I had listened to it three more times, digesting the details.

Some of it was new, even to me. I had no idea that my sister had been a pledge at a sorority. It was something my parents never mentioned. I knew Jess was close to her roommate, but I didn’t know the girl’s name was Daisy Molina. It was strange, learning facts about my sister from people who never actually knew her.

My parents rarely spoke about Jess and if they did, it was by accident. I knew they grieved for her, that they missed her, and I also knew talking about her was off limits. So as a result, I had grown up never really knowing anything about Jess except for my own hazy childish memories and whatever I happened to discover along the way.

The hosts of the podcast talked a little about the remains and whether they were Jess’s. They couldn’t be sure, as the authorities hadn’t yet made an official statement, but they believed that it was most likely my sister. They had done their research and dug up old newspaper articles about the original investigation at the lake. And like me, they expressed disgusted disbelief at how shoddy it had been. But now, according to the podcast, this was much bigger than Jessica Fadley. And it wasn’t only one missing girl’s story anymore.

I had always wondered about the other missing women, but had been too consumed with my sister’s case to pay them much attention. But these two random podcasters, with their laughter and off color comments, were connecting dots I—and apparently the police—had never thought of.

“Sorry,” Marnie apologized again as I walked with her out of my office.

“It’s fine,” I assured her, my voice calmer than I actually felt. I smiled to put her at ease.

Marnie was a worrier. She was younger than me by a handful of years, and was sensible, considerate and a great employee. Plus, being annoyed with her felt a lot like kicking a puppy.

At the front desk, the line was now snaked around to the bar. Never a good sign, but easily managed once I knew what was going on. Bellhops pulled luggage carts through the lobby towards the bank of elevators, dodging a pair of kids running around unchecked by their exasperated parents.

Yet it wasn’t chaotic. The Bronze Monarch Hotel didn’t do chaos. It was luxury and refined taste. It catered to the rich and those looking to impress. I loved every overpriced inch of the place and, despite it not having been a part of my life plan, I was glad I was there. As the newly promoted front desk manager, I knew that the inner workings of a hotel, especially a hotel of the Bronze Monarch’s size and reputation, were like cogs in a clock. Every part had to work perfectly to ensure it chimed on the hour.

The Bronze Monarch was comprised of tall windows with a dramatic arched entrance. It had marbled floors and a lobby filled with red leather furniture. The front desk was made of ornate, hand carved wood imported all the way from somewhere in Europe. We had been renovating for the past year and a half and the front desk had been the most recent, and most ostentatious, addition.

“Hello, I’m the front desk manager. How can I help you?” I greeted the man waiting by the computer. He was good looking in an easy going way and was clearly quite a bit older than me, probably in his late thirties or early forties. He had dark hair swept across his forehead, but he had a baby-faced appeal about him. I didn’t typically notice attractive men, I saw enough of them at the hotel, but there was something about this guy that drew my attention.

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