Page 44 of Trapper Road

Rarely are there shots of genuine emotion, but that’s the point of social media. It isn’t about presenting the truth of yourself to the world, it’s about presenting an idealized portrait of who you wish you were.

Scrolling through the endless stream, I begin to notice a kind of pattern and I realize their weeks tended to follow a similar rhythm. Photos of school, of homework, of hanging around lunch tables during the week, and then the shift to pictures of sleepovers at each other’s houses on the weekends. Often these were shots of painting nails or showing up some new makeup technique.

And while there are photos of boys, there are none that stand out as regulars, especially in the more recent pictures. If Juliette had a boyfriend, he didn’t make an appearance in her social media. Which still leaves me with the mystery of who the boy in the truck was. Given how involved Mandy, Willa, and Juliette seemed in each other’s lives, it seems impossible Juliette was dating someone and didn’t share that information with her two best friends.

Why wouldn’t she want them to know? I drum my fingers on the table, trying to come up with a reason Juliette would keep his identity secret. My first thought is that he’s someone she would have no business dating — someone much older, perhaps, or someone like a teacher, or even a married man.

But the guy Willa and Mandy described as driving the truck that picked up Juliette was their age, maybe a year or two older. Which takes the possibility of him being an older man off the table. Ditto with him being a teacher or a friend’s father.

I’m suddenly startled by the sound of church bells — two sets of them chiming at the same time but at different and very discordant pitches. Valeria’s clearing a table nearby and laughs when she notices me flinch. “You get used to it.”

I pull a face. “What is that awful sound?”

“Methodists and Baptists fighting. Back in the day, one of the founders of the town died, leaving his estate to the Methodist church. They used the money to construct a new building, including a massive tower with bells. Not to be outdone, the Baptists embarked on a major fundraising spree to construct their own church across the square. Of course, they had to put in their own bells as well. They worked out an arrangement that the Methodist church would chime the even hours and the Baptists took the odd. But then a few decades back, the new Baptist minister got on a tear about how odd numbers were of the devil, etc etc etc. So they declared they’d take the even hours, but the Methodists weren’t interested in making a change.” She raises her hands in a sign of surrender. “And that’s where we are today.”

“It sounds like two cats eviscerating each other.”

“You get used to it.”

I shake my head as the clanging continues. “How has there not been some sort of town revolt to get it resolved?”

“Half the town, including the mayor, are Methodist, and the other half, including the chief of police, is Baptist. Neither feels much like budging. The rest of us get to reap the rewards.”

“Small town politics at its best.”

She grins. “Exactly.” She heaves a bin of dirty mugs and saucers and makes her way back inside while the bells finally play out their last chime.

I breathe a sigh of relief as the echo of the bells finally fades. Then something occurs to me. The chief of police mentioned going to church with Willa and Mandy’s family. I wonder which church Juliette Larson and her family attended. I do a quick online search and come up with the Gardenia United Methodist Church directory. Sure enough, it lists the Larson family as members. It’s the one difference I can find between Juliette and her friends, and while it isn’t necessarily promising, it’s a start.

12

CONNOR

When the girl outside sees me, she pushes herself up from the wall and comes to stand in front of me. “I’m Willa,” she says, sticking out her hand.

I blink at her, startled by her presence. Her name sounds familiar. It takes a moment for my brain to catch up, and I’m finally able to place her. She’s the missing girl’s friend — the one who was with Mandy when Juliette disappeared.

I’ve seen pictures of her in Mom’s file. None of them have done her justice, though. In photos she appears weird and awkward. Her hair is too frizzy, face too narrow, shoulders too slight. She seems out of proportion and out of place, almost as if she’s less physically substantial than those around her.

In person, however, she’s remarkable. The features that seem wrong in photos become quirky in person. She looks like some sort of tree sprite come to life, with a mane of frizzy thick golden hair that tumbles down her back and a narrow nose that turns slightly up at the tip. Her jaw is pointed, her eyes the lightest blue I’ve ever seen, and her skin is pale and covered in a riot of soft freckles. She’s wearing a white dress with capped sleeves that bells out around her hips, landing mid-thigh. Long enough to be decent, but just barely.

I’m already taken off guard at her sudden appearance, a feeling that’s only heightened by my complete inability to take my eyes off her.

I clear my throat self-consciously. “I’m Connor,” I say, taking her hand. Her skin is soft and dry, her handshake firmer than I would expect.

She grins. Her front two teeth are slightly crooked, but somehow even that enhances her charm. “I know.”

I wait for her to say something else but she doesn’t. My mind spins, trying to figure out what she’s doing here. I have no idea what to say to her, which only makes my awkwardness worse.

“Um, what are you doing here?” I worry that may come across as rude, so I add, “I mean, not that I mind. It’s just … it’s a weekday, shouldn’t you be in school?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you?”

I feel my cheeks heat. That’s a topic I don’t want to touch with a ten foot pole.

She laughs, a light high pitched musical sound. “We’re on fall break this week. Mandy told me she met y’all yesterday. I wanted to see for myself.”

“Oh.” I wait for a beat, but she says nothing more. I learned from my mom that one of the most successful interrogation techniques is to say nothing — most people dislike silence and will do anything to fill it, even if it means incriminating themselves.

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