Page 36 of The Missing Half

Chapter Thirty-five

With one last glance around the yard, I slip my backpack on, step into the kitchen, and click the door shut behind me. Jenna’s house is quiet. The lights are off, but the midday sun is bright through the windows, and I can see that everything looks neat and tidy. The edges of the cereal boxes are aligned, the counters are clean, and the kitchen chairs are tucked beneath the table where, not long ago, I sat and told Jenna if she ever lied to me again, I’d make her regret it.

I move quickly through the kitchen. Now that I’m in, I can feel the clock ticking, and I don’t want to risk spending a single minute more than I have to here. But when I round the corner into the living room, I stop short.

The wall that used to be cluttered with articles and sticky notes and highlighted maps is empty. I turn dumbly in a circle, as if the collage of evidence will suddenly pop up somewhere else, but there’s no trace of it anywhere. I look in the console beneath the TV and riffle through the things on the coffee table. I even look beneath the couch and behind the chairs. Nothing.

The only reason I can think that Jenna would have taken down that research is if she believed she didn’t need it anymore. Is it possible she thinks she figured it all out? Is that what she’s hiding from me, the name of the man who took our sisters? But why? I stare at the blank wall where all that evidence used to be. I have to find it.

The living room bleeds into the entryway, and on the other side of that are two doorways, which are currently closed—Jenna’s bedroom and Jules’s old one. I don’t know which is which, so I head to the closest.

When I open it, it’s immediately apparent that I’m standing at thethreshold of the room where Jules used to live. The floor and bed are littered with things—old makeup, clothes, cardboard boxes—as if Jenna started packing up her sister’s life, then quit halfway. It’s an instinct I understand well. When all you have left of someone are the objects that made up their life, those things become precious.

Other than the brief interactions I had with Jules when I used to go to Harry’s Place, I never knew Jenna’s sister, but she comes alive now. The far wall is lined with dozens of drawings, their corners curling, overlapping, and I remember the time in Jenna’s truck when she told me her sister had started to pursue art. The drawings don’t seem technically accomplished, but there’s something about them that grabs me. There are a few cityscapes and landscapes, but mostly they’re of people. One is of a woman with a shaved head, her chin tilted up, hooded eyes locked on mine. Another shows a man lighting a cigarette in profile. Another is of a child, their knees to their chest, their face buried between them. Darkness crowds at the edges of the paper like a swarm of bats.

I scan the rest of the room for anything that might catch my eye, but I feel instinctively that Jenna doesn’t come in here often. If she found a piece of evidence that unlocked the answer of what happened to our sisters, I think she’d keep it somewhere closer. Quietly, I click the door shut.

The other room is Jenna’s. And just as her sister’s was so idiosyncratically Jules, this bedroom is the epitome of the woman I’ve come to know over the past month. The queen bed is made, its blue quilt smooth. A desk is pushed against one wall, an organized clutter of pens and sticky notes surrounding her laptop. A gallery wall of framed art hangs on the space above the bed, and the biggest piece is clearly a Jules original—a drawing of the two sisters, arms around each other’s necks, their faces animated with laughter.

I start with the desk, scanning the sticky notes, but they’re just scribbled reminders—to-dos, grocery lists, and what I’d guess to be a handful of unlabeled passwords. There’s a book beside her laptop with a title I don’t recognize. I flip through its pages, but the only thing that falls out is a bookmark. Just as I’m stepping forward to open her laptop, the toe of my shoe knocks into something tucked beneath the desk. I bend down to look and find a clear plastic box the size of a printer. Through the side, I can see it’s stuffed with papers, everything from newspaper clippings to computer printouts. This is it.

The box feels so final, the way it’s pushed under the desk, its yellow top closed tight, and I think back to the last time I was here, when Jenna told me she was taking a break to care for her mom. I remember this evidence was still up on her living room wall that night. I clocked it the moment I stepped into her house. So, what changed between then and now? What did she find that has her so convinced she’s done investigating? And, as all my questions have since yesterday, this one dovetails into my biggest point of confusion: Why is she hiding it from me?

I slip my arms out of my backpack and drop it to the floor. Then I pull out Jenna’s desk chair to sit and tug the box onto my lap, prying off the lid. The newspaper article on top is one I recognize. Its headline reads: “Missing Mishawaka Girls.” Beneath it is the picture of Kasey in her jean jacket. I place it on the laptop and move to the next, a printed Google map of the road where Jules went missing, the exact location marked with an X. I’ve seen this too.

Carefully, I go through it all, but with each subsequent piece of paper, my hope sinks a bit further in my chest. I already know everything in here. I check my phone and see that it’s almost noon. Jenna won’t be home for hours, yet with every passing minute I’m here, my anxiety kicks up a notch. I flip through the remaining documents quickly, but they’re all dead ends.

I was so sure.

I pack everything back up and put the box where it was, then turn to the laptop, closed on the desk. I open it and tap the power button, chanting a silent prayer that it isn’t locked. But it is, the empty password box staring back at me like a challenge. I hesitate for a moment before remembering the sticky notes. I sort through them again, finding all the slips of paper with the random lines of writing—letters, numbers, and punctuation combined. Total, there are what appear to be five passwords, but maddeningly, not a single one is labeled. I flip over the pieces of paper. All blank. I wonder how manyfailed attempts I have before the computer locks me out.

I type in the first one, a long line of meaningless characters. I double-check it before hitting the sign-in button, but when I do, the password box shakes back and forth. A technological chastisement. I grab the next sticky note, type the digits into the little box, but again, it shakes its disapproval. The next one is the same. There’s the obvious possibility that none of these are right, but there’s nothing I can think to do but keep trying.

Finally, on my fourth attempt, the screen suddenly brightens. I let out a sigh of relief.

Jenna’s desktop photo, one of those default images of a waterfall, is the backdrop to an internet window with a handful of open tabs. One is for her email, and I skim through the recent messages, though nothing catches my eye. Another is the website of some car repair shop, another is her Facebook page. I scan her profile, but don’t see any unusual-looking posts, and when I click on her message inbox and glance over the last few exchanges, there’s nothing out of the ordinary.

I run a frustrated, jittery hand through my hair. It has to be here.

I look around the screen for any other open tabs and find a little minimized one in the bottom right corner. I click on it, and when it expands, the first thing I see, to my utter surprise, is my name.

Slowly, the rest of the box’s content registers: On the left is a list of phone contacts. On the right is a message thread—Jenna’s texts. My name is the second on the list, sandwiched between two I don’t recognize, Shawna Jackson and Amy Miller, then Mom. Beneath each of these is a preview of the text thread in smaller, lighter font. What’s going on? the line under my name reads. Are you okay?? It’s from the night she didn’t show up at my dad’s, a little over a week, and a lifetime, ago.

I’m about to read her most recent conversation with Shawna when I spot two words beneath Amy Miller’s name, and my heart jumps into my throat. I click on their thread and it appears on theright. I skim the last message to Jenna from Amy, but out of context it makes no sense, so I scroll to the top of the conversation. The whole thread is relatively short, and I’m at the start within seconds.

Wed, Aug 14 at 10:09 a.m.

Jenna: Hey Amy, this is Jenna Connor. Just wanted to reach out via text like you asked. Do you have any time to meet up this week to talk about Jules? I’d really appreciate it.

Amy: Lemme get back to you

Thu, Aug 15 at 1:14 p.m.

Jenna: Hi, checking back in. Do you have any time to meet up this week? Can talk over the phone if it’s easier.

Amy: Sorry. Been super busy. Yes, phone’s better.

Jenna: No problem. Can you talk now?

Amy: Nows not great

Jenna: Name a day and time and I’ll make it work.

Fri, Aug 16 at 9:58 a.m.

Jenna: Hey, Amy, I’m sorry to keep bugging you, but this is my sister and I know you guys were close for a while when you were working together at Harry’s. I just have a few questions. It would mean so much to me if we could talk.

Amy: Sorry sorry! Lifes been crazy. Maybe you could text me your questions? At work and can’t talk on phone

I imagine Jenna flaring with frustration as she read this. But she wouldn’t let on. She’d take what she could get.

Jenna: Sure, np

Jenna: Before she started at Harry’s, Jules went through a weird spell. She got quiet, stopped going out, quit her job and moved across town. Did she ever mention any of that to you?

Amy: Yes. Not at first, but when we got close she did

Jenna: Did she tell you why?

Jenna: Amy? You there?

Amy: Sorry. I assumed you knew

Jenna: Knew what?

Jenna: ???

Jenna: Amy, please. If you know what happened, just tell me.

Amy: Jules told me she was raped

Everything in me contracts, sorrow and grief crushing against my body from all angles. And yet, at the same time, it somehow doesn’t feel like a surprise. It feels as if the truth has been obscured behind a veil, just out of sight. Jenna and I could feel its presence, sense it, but we never wanted to look at it head-on.

Even though I already know what they’re going to say, I read the last few texts, and all my sadness calcifies into rage.

Amy: I’m sorry

Amy: I thought you knew

Jenna: Did she tell you who did it? Did she give you a name?

Amy: She said it was someone she used to work with. I’m not sure if she ever told me his full name. We just used to call him Skeevy Steve