Page 12 of Another Girl Lost

Re-creations of Della’s face had been literal at first, but after years and multiple drafts, Della’s face took on different incarnations. Queens. Fairies. Aliens. Sirens. No matter the form, the face and especially the eyes were the same.

“That’s her,” I said.

“Della never mentioned Sandra by name?”

“No. But she spoke about another girl.”

“What did Della tell you about the other girl?”

He didn’t believe in Della and must have thought my poor mind had broken and my personality split. “Della told me there’d been another girl in the house. Della said she vanished suddenly.”

“Did Della tell you anything else about this other girl?”

The air palpitated with a dizzying energy. “We talked about a lot of things. We didn’t talk about the Other Girl much. We both feared we’d end up like her.”

“Why do you think Della was never found?”

“I don’t know. Tanner’s house burned to the ground after my rescue. Maybe she set off all the bombs he’d planted before she ran.” I stood silent, staring at him, hoping to peel back a layer or two so I could discern what he was after. People rarely meant what they said. There was always a hidden agenda.

His brown eyes watched me closely. “Sandra Taylor’s phone was found with her body. It’s old and the techs are hoping to breathe life into it. Will I find any call exchanges between you two on it?”

I couldn’t determine whether he was sincere. Cops weren’t bound by truth when conducting an interview. All’s fair in love and war, in a manner of speaking. “I never talked to Sandra Taylor. Ever.”

“The house where we found her body is around the corner from your mother’s, which I believe you now own.”

“Tanner did several renovation projects in our neighborhood. He was working a job across the street from our house when I first sawhim.” On a bad day, bitterness would have dripped from those words. Today, my anger was in check.

“Did Tanner approach you, or you him?” Dawson asked.

I almost appreciated the brisk, efficient question. He wasn’t dancing around my past. “I was sitting on the front porch of my mother’s house and sketching. He asked to see the drawing. He said it was nice.”

“Did he ask you out on a date?”

“No.” But he’d been so charming, and for the first time in a long time, I’d felt seen. I’d have said yes to a date.

“How soon after that conversation did he take you?”

“Three days. It was a hot Friday. June 6. I was outside the Naro theater on Colley Avenue.”

“You were selling your art.”

“Trying to. I’d had no takers. And then Della walked up to me. That was the first time I ever saw her.”

“She lured you to Tanner’s van?”

“Yes.”

“You got in willingly?”

The noose of his suspicions tightened around my neck. “I approached it willingly.”

“After your run-in with Tanner, you were arrested multiple times.”

Run-in.Eighty-eight days of torture and sexual abuse. Detective Dawson made it sound so simple. No mention of chains, isolation, or starvation. “You don’t strike me as the clueless type, Detective.”

“I’m not,” he said.

“Then why are you trying to get under my skin?”

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