Unbreakable. Elizabeth Norris
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But everyone was affected. No one—no matter who they were or where they lived or what they believed in—was spared.
The first thing the acting president did was suspend habeas corpus and declare martial law. Since then he’s passed temporary acts to give the military the power to absorb every able-bodied member of local law-enforcement agencies in order to keep peace and maintain some sort of structure.
Struz looks at me and says, “False alarm?” There’s hope on his face, like every time he’s asked, but I don’t think it’s as real as it used to be. He’s still hoping but he doesn’t believe in it anymore.
I shake my head.
“You should go to bed. Early day tomorrow. I’ll check out your report in the morning.”
“What about you?” I ask, because now he’s as bad as my dad was. He hardly ever sleeps, and when he does, it’s sitting up with his walkie next to him in case something happens.
“It’s going to be a long night,” he says with a shake of his head.
I know better than to argue so I turn to go back inside. As I open the door, I hear a grainy voice over the walkie-talkie say, “Hey, Struz, we’ve got reports of another one out in Poway. I’ve got a team en route.”
Another one. I don’t need anyone to spell out what that means. It’s always the same thing—more abductions.
More people missing.
I light the candle on the nightstand and peel off my jeans and change my T-shirt, then reach under the bed for a manila folder before crawling under the covers. The file is worn and a little frayed from overhandling, but that doesn’t stop me. It was already overhandled before it was passed to me.
Lying back on my pillow, I look at her name—Emily Bauer. The blue ink is faded, as if time is trying to erase her existence completely. For a minute, I imagine what Emily was like, if she was anything like I am now. I wonder where she’d be and what she’d be like if she hadn’t gone missing seventeen years ago.
Then I open it up—the one case file of my father’s that I refused to throw away.
I don’t even need to read it—every word has been burned in my memory at this point.
The file is an unsolved case from 1995, from one of my dad’s first years on the job, back when he worked missing persons—ironically, the same job I’m working right now.
A seventeen-year-old girl—captain of the swim team, with an academic scholarship to USC, a boyfriend, friends, the perfect family with a dog and a white picket fence—went missing from her bedroom. All her possessions were untouched and in their rightful place. No forced entry, no signs of a break-in, no one who heard or saw anything unusual—it was like she just disappeared.
Except for a bloody partial handprint on her wall.
I know the case is cold now; it’s been cold for the past seventeen years while it sat on my dad’s desk, and now that the world is changed, I know there isn’t any hope of solving it. But this case isn’t that different from the ones we have now. Maybe something will help me solve them. Besides, if my dad were still here, he would still be looking over the file every night, still looking for something he missed.
Once, when we were twelve, Alex asked my dad why he held on to the case. He said, “Why haven’t you given up?”
It was a Saturday in the summer. We’d just played in one of those coed Little League softball games, and we were sweaty and starving, and my dad was pulling pizza leftovers from the fridge. But when Alex asked that, he stopped and turned around. His face was so serious that, even then, I knew whatever he said would be something I never forgot.
And I haven’t.
He said, “Giving up on something is like admitting you never wanted it in the first place. I won’t ever give up on that girl. I’ll always be looking for her. Even if everyone else in her life has moved on, I won’t rest until I figure out what we missed and we’ve gotten her back. Until she’s safe.”
He’s not here to look for her anymore, but I am, and I’m not going to give up on her either.
Who knows—maybe something will help me with the people going missing right now.
Or that’s what I tell myself. The other reason I reread this file every night is because I need something to focus on right before I go to sleep—something to think about—because that’s the moment when my mind is at its worst, when if left to its own devices, it won’t stop remembering.
The gunshot, Reid’s and Alex’s hands on the gun, blood pouring from the hole in Alex’s neck, his eyes glassy, my hands covered in blood.
I can’t shake these images. I see them every time I close my eyes. I dream about that night almost every time I fall asleep. In the dreams, I try to make different choices, but the end result is always the same.
My dad is still dead. There won’t be any more X-Files marathons or bad Syfy movies. Alex is still dead—his blood still staining the ground just outside Park Village—and he’s never going to drag me to another terrible action movie with no plot. He’ll never have the chance to defy his mother and go to West Point instead of Stanford. He’s never going to follow his dreams.
And Ben is still gone.
Like my body knows something bad is about to happen.
“Dude, if you’re not going to listen to me …”
“Jared, I’m sorry, I spaced out.”
I look at my brother—he’s got Monopoly set up, and he’s playing against himself. He sees me looking and says, “I set it up so you could play with me when you got back, and then I got bored. But we can set it up again.”
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