Late night Gas Station

You always loved true crime. You have listened to all the podcasts and all the documentaries. You had a weird fascination with serial killers. You often would take notes and compare them to your own experience. 

Back in the summer of 2005, you were 15 years old. Emma was a friend of yours. She would often try to get you to break the rules and lie to your parents. On a Sunday afternoon is when your hang out took a turn for the worst. It’s something you would never forget. The two of you had been at the mall, sitting in the food court checking out guys like you’ve always done. 

“I am going to go to the restroom then order a slice. Do you want anything?” You tried to get her attention but she was too distracted. She had been staring at the same man for 20 minutes and it seemed he was finally returning the attention. He was older than you two, probably by at least 10 years. You didn’t understand why she seemed so interested. “Okay well, I will be right back I guess. Don’t talk to anyone until I get back.” She waved you off and continued to flirt with the man. You groan loudly and walk off to the bathroom. 

After a few minutes you make your way out of the bathroom and walk over to the Villa Fresh Italian Kitchen. You make an attempt to look for your friend but for some reason you can't get a good angle of the table. 

“She’s probably fine.” You mutter. You will come to regret that statement later. The pizza is ordered, 2 slices of pepperoni pizza and two soft drinks. Once you get your items you make your way to the table but you pause. Your friend isn’t at the table. Maybe she thought you were taking too long and went looking for you. So, you decide to sit down and pull out your Motorola Razr and send her a text saying:

“Girl, where’d you go? I'm at our table.”

 After a few minutes you get a text back. “Kelp” and that was that last you’d ever hear from her. Police had your description of the man pretty quickly but no one else at the mall was able to recall anything from that day. A few months later there was someone who claimed they saw her at a gas station a few states over screaming for help but by the time police got there, she was gone. Eventually after her disappearance everyone just declared it a cold case. 

Except you. You kept up on every disappearance. Anything that came remotely close to the same mo as Emma’s kidnapping. Everyone put this case to rest. But you, you felt some sort of obligation to be the one to find her. 

Two years after Emma’s disappearance, you finally find something worth looking into. You were listening to a true crime podcast one night after work. The podcast talked about a string of murders along the highway. What sparked your interest was the gas station. All these girls were last seen there. The same one Emma was last seen at. You convinced yourself at first that it was a coincidence, but when you heard the last text these girls sent was also ‘kelp’. You tried to get ahold of the podcast but no one ever responded to you. 

So now, here you are, alone at a gas station in the middle of the night. Miles away from your home and from people. You’ve sat in the gas station for hours, not really sure what you were looking for. All you had was a rough description of the guy and the car.

You sigh, making eye contact with the store clerk. He had been watching you for some time. You could feel it as you sat in the car. Anxiety, you tap the wheel as you look over, seeing a dark sedan pull up on the other side of the parking lot. You lean down in your car as you watch the man get out of his car and look around carefully. The description didn’t match but there were some similarities. You sigh, watching him walk in and talk to the clerk. You wondered if this was a waste of time. 

Tap.tap.

Someone was tapping on your window. Without looking you rolled down the window just a bit. 

“Sorry, I'll leave in a second. Got uh..lost and was looking at my GPS.” You prepare to roll up the window.

“What do we have here? You look familiar…” The deep voice paused as you finally looked up. “Oh! Right. Michelle I think? Emma would be very excited to see you.”

For a moment, you forget how to breathe.

The man's face is partially illuminated by the overhead light, revealing the deep lines around his mouth and the faint scar running along his jaw. He's smiling, but there's nothing friendly about it. His eyes move over your face as though he's searching through an old photograph, trying to make sure you've aged the way he expected.

You don't remember telling him your name.

You don't remember telling anyone your name.

"Sorry," you manage. "I think you've got the wrong person."

He laughs softly.

"Do I?"

Your fingers tighten around the steering wheel. Every true crime documentary you've ever watched seems to be playing inside your head at once. Don't get in the car with strangers. Don't reveal personal information. Don't let them know you're afraid. And, above all, don't assume you're smarter than the person standing outside your window.

You lower your eyes to his hands. No wedding ring. A pale band of skin circles his left ring finger, as though he'd worn one for years. His fingernails are short and clean. There's a small, dark stain on the cuff of his jacket.

You tell yourself it could be anything.

"Emma talked about you," he says.

Your heart stumbles.

"What?"

"Michelle, right?" He tilts his head. "She used to tell me all sorts of things about you. How you were the responsible one. How you always wanted to go home early. How worried you are about getting caught."

You feel fifteen again, sitting in the food court with two slices of pizza growing cold on the table. You remember Emma laughing at you for checking the time. You remember her rolling her eyes whenever you mentioned your parents. You remember the way she looked at that man, the way she smiled when he finally approached her. You remember leaving her alone.

"Where is she?" you whisper. The man's smile widens.

"You should be careful how you talk to me." You reach for the window controls, but your hand stops before you press the button. The door is locked. Your phone is on the passenger seat. Your keys are in the ignition. You have a car. You have a phone. You have every opportunity to leave.

So why aren't you moving?

Because he's said Emma's name. Because for two years, you've searched for a ghost. Because the possibility that she's alive has become more important than your own safety.

"Is she here?" you ask.

He looks toward the store.

"Why would she be?" The answer is so casual that it makes your stomach turn. You reach for your phone. His expression changes. It's subtle, barely more than a tightening around his eyes, but you recognize it immediately. You've seen that look in interviews with survivors, in reenactments of abductions, in grainy footage played over a narrator's ominous voice.

You've spent years studying men like him. And you've made the mistake of thinking that knowing what they look like means you'll recognize them in time.

"Careful," he says.

You freeze.

"Why?" He leans closer to the narrow opening in your window.

"Because the last girl who tried to call someone made a real mess of things." Your phone feels impossibly heavy in your hand. You stare at him, searching his face for some hint that this is a sick joke. That he knows nothing about Emma, that he's just a stranger who overheard your conversation with the clerk or saw you sitting here for hours.

Then he says something that makes every excuse collapse.

"She was wearing a blue shirt that day, wasn't she?"

Your throat closes.

Emma wore a blue shirt to the mall. You remember because you'd teased her about it, telling her the color made her look washed out. She'd stuck her tongue out at you and told you to mind your own business. The police had asked what she was wearing. You'd told them. You'd told them everything you could remember. You never posted the details online. You never told strangers. You look at the man again.

"Who are you?" He straightens and glances toward the highway.

"Someone who thinks you should stop looking."

A truck roars past, shaking the windows. For a few seconds, the sound fills the parking lot. You watch the man's lips move, but you can't hear him. When the noise fades, he's standing farther away from the car.

"Go home, Michelle."

He turns toward the dark sedan. You don't start the engine. You don't even blink. You watch him cross the parking lot, pull open the driver's door, and sit behind the wheel. Before he starts the car, he looks back at you.

Then he lifts one hand and waves.

You watch the sedan disappear onto the highway. You remain in the parking lot, your hands shaking on the wheel.

Did this mean Emma was alive?