Page 16 of The Missing Half

Through the windshield, we watch McLean cross the parking lot, unlock his car, and sink into the driver’s seat. My heartbeat quickens. It’s one thing to talk through a theory from the comfort of Jenna’s living room. It’s another to follow Steve McLean home. I feel better with Jenna by my side, and she’s put her pepper spray in the top pocket of her purse, but seeking out the presence of the man who may have taken Kasey feels like lighting a match to test the heat of its flame.

Jenna waits as he pulls out of the parking lot, then turns her key in the ignition. Grape Road is almost empty, and she follows at a distance. We’re anticipating the trip to his house to take at least fifteen minutes, but after only traveling a few blocks south, he turns. Not into a residential area but into the parking lot of O’Reilly’s, an Irish pub off Grape Road. Jenna pulls into a spot a few down from his, and we look at each other.

“What d’you think?” I say.

She shrugs. “It’s definitely safer to do it in public.”

“Yeah, but will he talk?” My hesitation is half-hearted. We’ve come this far. I want to see it through.

We give McLean a few minutes’ head start to curb any unlikely suspicions he may have that someone is following him, then we headin.

The bar is dark and bustling. There’s a muffled roar of voices and the clinking sounds of the bartender making drinks.

“Hey,” Jenna says beside me. Her eyes are locked on the far end of the bar. I follow her gaze to find McLean, sitting alone in a booth, an already half-empty glass of beer in front of him.

We walk over, my heartbeat thumping in my stomach, my ears, my armpits. When McLean’s eyes catch on us, he looks surprised, then a grin spreads across his face. “Well, well,” he says. “If it isn’t you two.”

“Hi.” Jenna’s voice is friendly. She’s a much better actor than I am. “Mind if we join you?”

He can’t believe his luck. “By all means.” He waves a hand to the seat across from him and we slide in. I’m on the inside, between Jenna and the wall. It makes me itchy, claustrophobic.

“I’m Jenna.” When I don’t say anything, she adds, “This is my friend Nic.”

McLean looks from her to me, and I see him clock my standoffishness, but it doesn’t seem to faze him. He’s clearly pleased with the turn his night has taken.

“Steve. You ladies want something to drink?” He waves at a waiter who’s already walking our way.

I order a club soda with lime and Jenna orders a glass of white wine. I know she’s doing it for the pretense. One sober woman is a coincidence, two looks fishy. McLean orders another beer. My loathing for this guy is so strong that it’s reorienting his features into something deformed and monstrous. But up close, even I can see an objective sort of attractiveness in his face. He has a sharp jaw, bright blue eyes. I can see how he’s lured women in. But there’s something else just beneath the surface that gives him away, a too-eager glint in his eyes. Would Kasey have pulled over if she recognized him on the road? I like to think she wouldn’t have, but that feels wishful.

“Actually,” I say as the waiter turns to leave. “Make mine a red wine.”

Jenna’s eyes flick over my face, but she stays quiet. “You know, Steve,” she says, “you look so familiar to me. I feel like I’ve seen you before tonight.”

“Oh yeah?” He seems to be interpreting her easy tone for flirting, and maybe that’s what she’s going for.

“Yeah. How long have you worked at the restaurant?”

“Long fucking time. Maybe I’ve made you a drink before.”

“Maybe. Have you always been the bartender?”

“Used to be the manager, but it wasn’t my bag. Making drinks is just so much sexier.”

I force myself not to roll my eyes.

“Wasn’t it called something else back in the day?” Jenna says. “The restaurant, I mean. Something like—” She snaps her fingers. “Oh, I can’t remember.”

“Famous Jake’s,” McLean says.

“That’s right! You know, my baby sister actually used to work there.” She’s never used the word baby to describe Jules, and it crawls up my skin even though I know she’s baiting the hook for him. Again, I realize just how good Jenna is at talking her way into getting what she wants.

“No shit?”

“Her name was Jules.” She uses the past tense. We’re not hiding anymore. “Jules Connor.”

“Huh.” He leans back into the booth, gazing at his beer as he makes lines in the condensation with his fingertips. “I don’t know. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Really? She worked there for a few years.”

“Nah, can’t seem to place her.”

“You don’t even recognize the name?” I say. “It was pretty well-known there for a while.”

McLean doesn’t respond.

“Back in 2012, she was all over the news. Jules Connor was one of the girls who went missing from the side of the road. Not far from here, actually.”

He pulls his phone from his back pocket, glances at the screen. “Shoot. Ladies, I’m sorry, but I have to get this.” He slides out of the booth.

Jenna and I lock eyes. It’s a phony call, it has to be, and we can’t lose him now. But just as I’m turning around in the booth to make sure McLean doesn’t walk out on us, he’s back. He sits, tucking his phone into his back pocket, and takes a sip of beer. When he puts it down, it seems he’s found his footing, like he knows how he’s going to play this.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “Now, where were we? Oh, that’s right, the Missing Mishawaka Girls. I remember that story.” He looks at Jenna. “One of those girls was your sister? I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.” Jenna pulls her phone out of her bag, taps the screen, and holds it out over the table. “This is her.”

McLean shoots the screen a fleeting glance. “Huh.”

“Do you remember her now? You were probably her manager when she was there, right?”

“How long ago are we talking?”

“Ten years,” Jenna says. “She worked there for three years and left in 2009.”

“Ah, Jesus.” He chuckles. “I can’t remember what I had for breakfast today let alone some girl I worked with a decade ago.”

I know he’s lying. I can see it in every line on his face. I want to hurl myself across the table at him, use my fingernails as claws. “It’s weird, because women you work with definitely remember you.”

I expect him to bristle at this, but instead he barks out a laugh. “Oh, I get it. You two got my name from some touchy little chick I used to work with and you tracked me down, huh? You fancy yourselves a couple of Nancy Drews.” He has the bravado of a man who’s gotten away with a lot over his life, and it’s unnerving to sit across from him. Pepper spray or not, Jenna and I can’t force him to tell us the truth if he doesn’t want to. We can’t force him to do anything. “Who did you talk to?” he says. “What is this said woman’s name?”

Jenna and I are quiet. Our drinks finally arrive, and the moment my wine touches the table, I grab it and gulp half of it down.

“Ah, come on, Nancy Drew,” McLean says when the waiter walks away. “You’re not gonna tell me who I made such a lasting impression on?”

“I can’t remember,” I say. “But I do have another name for you.”

He lifts his eyebrows, his mouth quirking upward. “Consider me intrigued.”

“Kasey Monroe.”

“Kasey Monroe…Kasey Monroe…Oh shit! Yeah, I do remember her.” I’m expecting him to say he remembers her from the news, the other missing girl, but he doesn’t. “She used to work at that little record store by the restaurant. Oh my god, yeah. That name is like a goddamn bell in my head.”

I feel Jenna look over at me. “What do you mean?” I say.

“That name, Kasey, Kasey, Kasey.”

I’m enraged by the flippant way he’s saying my sister’s name, but more than anything, I’m confused.

“I used to work with this uptight little bitch, right? And this chick would not shut up about Kasey Monroe. Name was always in her mouth.” He takes a sip of beer, clearly enjoying the rapt audience. “Those two were—oh, what do you call them nowadays?—frenemies! That’s it. Best friends who hate each other. She would just talk and talk about how she was so sick of her friend, Kasey. How Kasey was ruining her life. How annoyed she was by Kasey. My god, it went on and on. Finally, I had to bring her into the office and tell her nobody gave a shit.”

I open my mouth, close it again.

“Who was this?” Jenna says.

He cocks his head. “You know what? I can’t actually remember her name. She wasn’t bad to look at though. Petite little thing. Long blond hair she always wore in a ponytail. Freckles on her nose and cheeks. Cute, you know, but uptight. Not very fuckable.”

My stomach twists even though I’d seen it coming. He’s describing Lauren Tate née Perkins. Kasey’s best friend.