main drag, and basements to rent out, and trailers you could lease and park on other peopleâs land for a price. So when Daniel decided to stay, he thought converting the garage would be the cheapest option. Ellison ConstructionâTylerâs fatherâs companyâwas going to do the job, but my dad and Daniel would help out to defray some of the cost.
They built a carport between the garage and the house before starting, and they got as far as laying a new concrete layer over the unfinished garage floor, leaving space for the pipes. But they never got to the insulation or the plumbing. Corinne disappeared, and the world halted. Daniel changed his mind about how to spend that money, opting to live with Dad until years later, when he purchased his own place with Laura.
I was guessing Annaleise knew better than to put down permanent roots in Cooley Ridge. She left once, after all. She left and came back, and I bet she and Cooley Ridge didnât know what to do with each other anymore. This apartment was hers now, but next it could belong to her brother, who was in high school. Just for now, I could imagine her saying any time it came up. Just until the right opportunity comes along. Just until I find my way.
A driveway snaked from the road to the side wall, from when it was a garage. Annaleiseâs car and two others were lined up under the extra-wide carport beside the main house.
I kept my flashlight off as I ran the remaining distance to her back door, the teeth of the key cutting into my palm. I took a breathand guided the key into the lock, each groove falling into place. My palm shook against the door as I turned the lock, the bolt sliding effortlessly open.
My whole body tingled with anxiety when I stepped inside. I shouldnât be here.
I turned the flashlight back on, keeping it low, away from the windows. The place looked a little like my apartment, with half-walls to partition the rooms but no doors. There was a queen bed with a white duvet in front of me, and an art desk pushed against the other wall, the supplies organized in containers, lined up in a perfectly straight row.
Through the partition, I saw a couch across from a television attached to the wall. The whole place was sparsely furnished but expertly done. Everything was understated and minimalistic except the walls themselves. They were covered in art, in sketches, but even those looked like they were done in pencil or charcoal, the whole place completely devoid of color.
I ran the flashlight from picture to picture. Framed sketchesâAnnaleiseâs, I assumedâthough some of them appeared to be replicas of famous pictures. Marilyn Monroe, looking down and off to the side, standing against a brick wall. A little girl, her scraggly hair blowing across her face. I had seen this somewhere, but I couldnât place it. And there were some I didnât recognize at all. Didnât know whether they were copies or originals created by Annaleise.
Oh, but there was a theme: Girls, all alone, all of them. Girls looking exposed and sad and full of some longing. Girls passed over, passed by, staring out from the walls: Look. Look at us.
Girls, like Annaleise on the telephone poles, silent and silenced.
Annaleise had gone to some well-known art school, which wasnât surprising. Back in middle school sheâd won a statewide photography competition, and that had made the local news. She looked the partâthe girl on the other side of the camera. Timidand fine-boned, with too-wide eyes, every move tentative, careful, deliberate. The one creating, seeing, but never seen. The opposite of Corinne.
I knew the cops had been here, but the place looked completely undisturbed.
There obviously hadnât been a struggle in the apartment. Besides, we know she went out walking. If she had been hurt, it hadnât happened here. Her purse was gone, but that couldâve been because she had it with her when she left. Her car
They built a carport between the garage and the house before starting, and they got as far as laying a new concrete layer over the unfinished garage floor, leaving space for the pipes. But they never got to the insulation or the plumbing. Corinne disappeared, and the world halted. Daniel changed his mind about how to spend that money, opting to live with Dad until years later, when he purchased his own place with Laura.
I was guessing Annaleise knew better than to put down permanent roots in Cooley Ridge. She left once, after all. She left and came back, and I bet she and Cooley Ridge didnât know what to do with each other anymore. This apartment was hers now, but next it could belong to her brother, who was in high school. Just for now, I could imagine her saying any time it came up. Just until the right opportunity comes along. Just until I find my way.
A driveway snaked from the road to the side wall, from when it was a garage. Annaleiseâs car and two others were lined up under the extra-wide carport beside the main house.
I kept my flashlight off as I ran the remaining distance to her back door, the teeth of the key cutting into my palm. I took a breathand guided the key into the lock, each groove falling into place. My palm shook against the door as I turned the lock, the bolt sliding effortlessly open.
My whole body tingled with anxiety when I stepped inside. I shouldnât be here.
I turned the flashlight back on, keeping it low, away from the windows. The place looked a little like my apartment, with half-walls to partition the rooms but no doors. There was a queen bed with a white duvet in front of me, and an art desk pushed against the other wall, the supplies organized in containers, lined up in a perfectly straight row.
Through the partition, I saw a couch across from a television attached to the wall. The whole place was sparsely furnished but expertly done. Everything was understated and minimalistic except the walls themselves. They were covered in art, in sketches, but even those looked like they were done in pencil or charcoal, the whole place completely devoid of color.
I ran the flashlight from picture to picture. Framed sketchesâAnnaleiseâs, I assumedâthough some of them appeared to be replicas of famous pictures. Marilyn Monroe, looking down and off to the side, standing against a brick wall. A little girl, her scraggly hair blowing across her face. I had seen this somewhere, but I couldnât place it. And there were some I didnât recognize at all. Didnât know whether they were copies or originals created by Annaleise.
Oh, but there was a theme: Girls, all alone, all of them. Girls looking exposed and sad and full of some longing. Girls passed over, passed by, staring out from the walls: Look. Look at us.
Girls, like Annaleise on the telephone poles, silent and silenced.
Annaleise had gone to some well-known art school, which wasnât surprising. Back in middle school sheâd won a statewide photography competition, and that had made the local news. She looked the partâthe girl on the other side of the camera. Timidand fine-boned, with too-wide eyes, every move tentative, careful, deliberate. The one creating, seeing, but never seen. The opposite of Corinne.
I knew the cops had been here, but the place looked completely undisturbed.
There obviously hadnât been a struggle in the apartment. Besides, we know she went out walking. If she had been hurt, it hadnât happened here. Her purse was gone, but that couldâve been because she had it with her when she left. Her car
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