Which way did you run, Kaycee Mitchell?

—

There are four porn stores and six strip clubs named Temptations in Indiana, three of them in Gary alone. Luckily, only one is in Barrens.

I count the rings by primes. One. Three. Five.

Kaycee’s mom ran off even before I became friends with her, back in first grade—that was a bad time for crank in Indiana, and her mom was a user. Her dad, a notorious drinker, owned the 99-cent store. I never liked being at Kaycee’s house when her dad was home, and I got the sense that she didn’t, either. That’s why we were so close when we were kids: we met in the woods, and we practically lived there, toeing the edge of the reservoir, pretending the water was a mirror that would slip us into a different world.

When we were in middle school, Frank Mitchell opened a porn shop—the same one I passed on my way into town. Everybody was sure he sold weed there, too, and six-packs from a cooler concealed behind a wall of old Playboy magazines.

I’m about to hang up when he answers.

“Mitchell’s.” The site gives the official name of the store as Temptations, but we always called it Mitchell’s, plain and simple. I guess he’s picked up the habit.

“Hi, yes. Mr. Mitchell.” That uneasy feeling hits me right in my chest. He’s one of those men with a face like a caution sign, always on the edge of a bad mood, like he could snap at any moment.

His voice is harsh over the phone, like he just swallowed a handful of gravel. Still, I keep my voice sunny. “My name is Abby, and I’m an old friend of Kaycee’s.” As soon as I mention her name, his breathing hitches, then starts again. “I’m back in town for a bit and was just wondering if you knew how I could reach her? I would love to connect with her.”

“No.” The word is a short, explosive burst. Then silence for so long I check to see if he’s hung up. “No idea where that girl is. Haven’t talked to her in almost a decade.”

“You don’t have a number? An e-mail?”

“She ran off because she wanted to be alone, so I left her alone,” he says—sharply, like he’s daring me to say he did wrong. “If you were such good friends with Kaycee, why don’t you know how to get ahold of her?”

“Mr. Mitchell, wait,” I say, before he can hang up. I squint into the lowering sun. “Do you remember when Kaycee got sick, when she was in high school? Can you talk to me a little about that time?”

Another pause, and my pulse begins to climb. Nothing from the end of the line.

“What are you,” he said, “some kinda journalist?”

“No,” I say. “Just a friend.”

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Abigail.” I don’t give my last name. “I’m from Barrens, like I said. I just had a few questions for Kaycee. I was hoping she’d be willing to talk to me.”