Chevy Stevens - Still Missing

“No, but I—”

“Then you know the answer.”

The rest of that day I wore deer blood. It made my skin crawl, but I tried not to think about it, I tried not to think about anything—not blood, dead deer, or murdered fathers. I just focused on the fire and watched the flames dance.

Later that night, as he drifted off to sleep, he said, “I like cats.” He liked cats? The murdering sadistic fuck liked cats ? A hysterical giggle fought to come out my throat, but I clamped my hand over my mouth in the dark.

Got to tell you, Doc, I feel like I’m doing pretty good these days. Yesterday afternoon I wanted to just crawl back into bed, but I grabbed Emma’s leash and took her down to the waterfront for a walk. As opposed to up in the woods for one of our usual jaunts designed to guarantee we won’t see a soul.

Instead, we were kind of social. Well, Emma was—she has a weakness for smaller dogs, has to stop and smooch all of them. She’s hit or miss with the big ones, but show her a poodle and she’s in puppy make-out heaven. I’d managed to avoid most human interactions by staring off into the distance, or at the dogs, or at my feet while jerking on her leash to hurry her by, but when she insisted on visiting with a cocker spaniel, I stopped and actually shot the breeze with the owners, an elderly couple. It was standard dog-owner drivel: What’s his name? Timber? And how old? But damn, Doc, a couple of weeks ago I’d rather have pushed them into the sea than communicate with them on any level.

When I first came back, I had to stay at my mom’s place for a while because my house was rented out, and man, was I relieved they hadn’t sold it—just another lie The Freak fed me. Fortunately I was so paranoid about ever losing my house that I’d just taken the entire commission from a house sale and placed it in a separate account so I’d have a year’s worth of mortgage payments banked. The mortgage company just kept taking their payments out, month after month, and I suppose when my bank account was drained they’d have foreclosed.

I asked Mom where my things were, and she said, “We had to sell it all, Annie. How do you think we came up with the money for your search? Most of the donations went for your reward. We had to use all the rental money too.” She sure wasn’t kidding—they sold everything . I keep expecting to see some chick walking around in my leather coat.

My car was a lease, and once the cops processed it, it went straight back to the dealership. Now I’m driving that piece of shit out there until I figure out what I want to do—a fancy car doesn’t seem that important anymore.

I had a lot of savings, but all my bills were on direct withdraw, so I don’t have much left. My office gave Mom my paychecks from some deals that closed after I was abducted. She tried to cash them so they could add to the reward money, which has now gone to charity, but they wouldn’t let her so she had to deposit them into my account—good thing, or my whole life would’ve folded.

A few days ago I was cuddling with Emma on the couch when my phone rang. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but I saw Mom’s number on the call display and knew if I didn’t answer, she’d just keep calling.

“How’s my Annie Bear today?”

“Fine.” I wanted to tell her I was tired because the night before—the fifth night in a row I slept in my bed—a branch scratched against my window, and I spent the rest of the night in my closet, wondering if I was ever going to feel safe again.

“Listen, I have some great news—Wayne has come up with an amazing business idea. I can’t tell you any details until it’s finalized, but he’s on to something big .”

You’d think eventually they’d realize the guy just doesn’t have the Midas touch. I almost feel sorry for Wayne sometimes. He’s not a bad man or even stupid, he’s just one of those guys who really wants to be something, but instead of putting the pedal to the metal and driving forward, he’s too busy trying to figure out the quickest route there and just ends up going in circles.

When I was a kid he took me with him a couple of times when he went to pitch a new investment idea. I was embarrassed for him—he stood right in people’s faces as he was speaking, and when they tried to lean away, he talked louder. For the first few days after a meeting he’d walk around the house all happy, checking his phone messages a million times, and he and Mom would stay up drinking and toasting themselves. Nothing ever came through.

Once in a while he did something that made me think he might not be a total loser. Like when I was fifteen there was a concert I really wanted to go to, and I spent a whole weekend collecting bottles around town. On Monday—the day the tickets had to be bought—I turned them in but I didn’t even have close to the amount I needed. I locked myself in my room and cried. After I finally surfaced, I found an envelope under my door with Wayne’s handwriting on the front and a ticket inside. When I tried to thank him, he just flushed and said, “Don’t worry about it.”

As soon as I started making good money in real estate I tried to help them out—new tires, new computer, new fridge, even just cash for bills and groceries. In the beginning it felt good to give them a hand, but then I realized it was like throwing money down a hole—a hole that drained right into the next dumbass business scheme. After I bought my house I couldn’t afford to help as much, so I sat them down and explained how they could set up a bud get. Mom just stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language. They must be getting by somehow, because their lifestyle sure hasn’t changed.

Mom noticed my lack of enthusiasm on the phone and broke into my thoughts. “You haven’t said anything.”

“Sorry, I hope it works out for him.”

“I have a good feeling about this one.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

She was silent for a moment, then said, “I really don’t appreciate your negative attitude, Annie. After everything that man did for you while you were missing—after everything we both did—the least you could do is show a little more interest.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just not in a very good mood right now.”

“Maybe if you left your house once in a while instead of moping around all day, you’d be more pleasant to talk to.”

“Not likely. Whenever I do try to leave, some dickhead reporter is jumping all over me, not to mention Hollywood agents with their bullshit offers.”

“They’re just trying to make a living, Annie. If it wasn’t for those reporters you hate so much paying you for interviews, you wouldn’t have anything to live on yourself, would you?”

Leave it to Mom to make me feel like I was the asshole. Especially when she was right—the vultures were funding my living expenses now that my savings were almost gone. But I still couldn’t get used to the process, or seeing myself in print and on-screen. Mom saved every newspaper clipping from every interview—finally her chance to have a scrap-book for me—and taped every show. She gave me copies, but I watched only two of them and shoved the rest in a drawer.

“Your fifteen minutes are almost over, Annie. What are you going to do for money then? How are you going to keep your house?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Like what?”

“Something, Mom, I’ll think of something.” What was I going to do? My stomach twisted into knots.

“You know, an agent isn’t such a bad idea. They might be able to get you some up-front money.”

“You mean get themselves some money. One I talked to wanted me to sign away all my rights—if I’d listened to him the movie people could’ve done whatever they wanted.”