Direct Message

“Can I uh- use the bathroom?” bouncing a closed fist on the cold counter. 

The attendant locks the glass window, raised eyebrows at my jittery nerves or wearing shades indoors. 

Loudly she yells to a woman entering with three hampers of dirty clothes. “Linda, your back!” 

“Unfortunalty.”

The attendant reminds me of my grandmother. Short but confident. The type to never turn the cheek. To never back down to save face to themselves. I’ve admired these types of forages, my beloved sister being one of them. Her disappearance cleaved a hole in my heart so large it seemed impossible. Yet all things are possible hence the infamous saying exists, except the worst hope for the best. The worse has happened, the best has not come. 

“Go on,” the attendant brows have rested but irritation creases the corners of her mouth. 

Mumbling my thanks one black boot after the other steps in the threshold. The earpiece crammed in my left lobe crackles static before Lt. Benjamin Cook’s voice beats through: 

“What are you doing?” 

The mission was deemed too precarious to employ body cameras. The team either heard my request or can see from across the street in a plain clad utility van through the tall floor to ceiling windows that line the building. Either way, his scolding is late. 

“Is it a crime to take a piss?” I hiss through gritted teeth, attempting to manage my voice low. The door doesn’t seem to be sound proof. “The suspect doesn't usually come until seven.” 

Berkley, the red head know it all and my partner who completed four weeks of stakeout to catalog routine suggests:

“She could come early today. My charts attest to the possible outcome due to two outliers.”

My belt clicks out of lock and I hover over the toilet that reeks of ammonia. Dried muddy shoe prints patterning in circles on the tan title floor. 

I flush twice hoping the team hears it. The mirror over the sink is fingerprinted and cracked, the soap dispenser cracked in two, as if struck by lightning. From the reflection I can see in the mirror shadowy eyes, chapped pale lips and round face. These characteristics got me the job. I was “regular” and “nothing worth remembering” as I overheard Lt. Ben and Berkley gossiping. I had requested to use the bathroom and upon leaving the office door across was ajar. 

The bathroom door slammed, causing both heads to swivel to me, guilt non-existent in their expressions. Later, Berkeley cornered me more than once, boasting of her “direct comment policy.” 

If only all in this world was direct. 

If all was direct my mom would have told dad to pick up Nina, she hinted. Planted clues hoping he’d put it together.

But that was dangerous. That caused a wonderful life to be snuffed out. 

Not all clues lead to the same conclusion. Almost like Easter, some eggs are found, others aren’t. As not all roads lead to Rome. Rome is a place, one of many destinations. A landmark of greatness, vastness, and opportunity. 

Dad, oblivious, misunderstood context. At bedtime he’d chide my sister and I, who were great readers, when he stumbled over words, Learn how to read! Never telling us we were excellent readers. Never saying he could get better by practice. 

As an adult I learned you can read well, yet be unable to comprehend. And that’s what happened on August 13. Nina’s lucky number -and also her unlucky day. 

The day she vanished I was ten. She was eight. Now I’m twenty-six searching for answers I don’t have the questions to. 

“Kristi!” 

My eyes snap open at my name. The reflection is startled. Unclapping my whiteness knuckles from the sink I hadn’t realized I grasped to. 

“Yes?” 

“Time is now.” At Lt. Benjamin’s proclamation my face contorted to disgust. Time is now but is now the time? Flicking the knob with sleeve pulled over hand I shoulder the door open. Dyers hum in off beat melody. The air is punctuated by citrus and fresh linen. 

I loved laundromats growing up. But now I’ve grown up and the love has been cherished as flowers plucked from the stem. Nina was last seen at one of these places 

“She can’t handle it.” Berkeley whispers. 

Kevin, our resident tech savvy guy and newest hire, “she can hear you.” 

“And?” 

Slipping onto my stool I check the time. Eyes roaming from the kids seated to my left scrolling on phones. The mom threw clothes in the biggest front loader. And the attendant mopping the floor where blue detergent spread on the floor. 

The team knows about Nina’s story. Lt. Ben hired me anyway. Nina was finished with school. Two hours had passed and her ride hadn’t come. Dad was at his business meeting. Mom text: Nine will be out of school in thirty minutes, dismissed. 

And Nina being Nina decided to walk herself home. Also neglecting the news of two months ago that a serial killer was on the loose. His victims hadn’t been found for two months. People moved on. People brushed aside the headlines and articles. People, even my confidant Nina, thought they were safe. She took the ten bucks and handful of quarters I gave her to buy a soda. The liquor store was by a laundromat. The cameras show her coming inside to use the bathrooms and leaving. Never to be seen again. 

For the longest I thought it was the ten bucks that never brought her home. My stomach flips at the sight of ten bucks or quarters, which is all the washer machines except for payment. Flipping my wrist the clock tells me, 6:54. 

My load was six minutes until needing to be swapped into a dryer. As undercover it was debated whether bringing a bag of clothes to wash was necessary. Kevin argued it made the story plausible. Just another person with dirty clothes and dirty secrets. 

Berkeley said it was extra work. 

Lt. Ben left the decision to me. 

I brought a load, a pile of clothes that had sat in a pile in my closet for the last six months. At that time I was hired by Undercover Seekers, their website bragging of “finding the lost and uplifting the weak.” I wasn’t sure whether I was lost or weak at that time, being in law enforcement kind of fell in my lap. Referenced to the program by my communications professor. 

Being undercover at first drew out my anger. But working in law is straightforward, mostly. There are facts and evidence. Camera shot and gun powder. The rest is a guess. What could have happened? A life and death, punishment or freedom version of fill-in-the-blanks. 

Slowly, I found the love of the game. This risky assignment. 

I saw the holes, the missing spots in my sister's disappearance. It’s a cold case, stuffed in a manila folder at the bottom of a cardboard box in the basement of some archives building. The wonderful memories, the joy I had playing with my sister and that day faded. 

Until today. 

The biggest, blackest, hole in her case? Where did she go? Or better, who took her? 

“Suspect is approaching!” Berkely yells in my ear, my body jolts. From my seat I see the front doors swing open and the top of a blonde hair. 

Our suspect is being tagged for money laundering, identity theft, and possible car theft. Going by the name of Nianna Smith, except the real Nianna Smith fifteen years ago. The pictures from CCTV Kevin has collected are blurry at best and hard to decipher details. She seems to be of medium height, wide build, potentially wearing tank tops, black pants, and wide shades, as if being a yoga instructor was her full-time job. 

The figure turns the corner headed my way. Lifting her glasses to the top of her head causing long bangs to spurt in all directions. 

I get up from my seat, approaching, slowly, as a predator to prey. It can’t be. She sees me and pauses. The world is hazing to a stop until it’s only her and I. 

“Kristi?”

“Nina?” 

It was a terrible joke my mom found funny. Together we were Kristi-nina, which is what grandmother named her. 

“I-”

“So much has happened.” She states. “I have so much to tell you.”

“You are alive.” 

“Well,duh.” 

As an undercover I’m supposed to find the clues and fill-in-the-blanks. But as the evidence and suspect warms my body I have no intention of letting the direct message pass from my grasp. 

Sirens wire in the distance, but she’s in my arms and that's all I care for.