His first thought, after he can properly put a thought together is: who sent that text? Because it’s got to be a prank. Some sick fucker heard the story of Tooley Starks and got Toom’s number and texted him just to see how he’d react. He’s got everyone’s number that he cares about, and there’s that anonymous text.

His second thought, once the anger burns through him from the first, is: what if it’s not a prank? They never found Tooley’s body. They never, technically, found anything. That’s the thing. That’s the problem, because everyone leaves a trail. People who run away leave a trail. People who die leave a trail. Someone’s always seen something, there’s always evidence.

But Tooley fucking vanished. No one remembers seeing her last. No footprints, no credit cards, no nothing. No suicide note. No goodbye note. She didn’t have a car or money or really anything but good grades and a sweet personality.

And Toomey was close as hell to his sister. If something had changed in her life, he knew about it. So he was harassed by the police and neighbors alike. His mom still thinks he’s hiding something, and he wishes to high heaven he was, or that he knew where his seventeen year old sister vanished to, but he didn’t. For ten years he held that personal shame: he should have known where she was. He should have been smarter.

He’s been down this goddamn road paved with What Ifs. And then this text. This. Fucking. Text. Because if she’s not dead, and she’s back, that means she left of her own accord and Toomey didn’t know her at all.

He realizes he’s gripping the phone in his hands still. So he responds to the text. "Who is this?" Waits. Waits. Beep beep.

"no one important."

Oh, fuck them. He dials the damn number. No voicemail box set up. He starts getting angry again, feels that familiar rage boil through him, cooking his insides. He wants to throw the phone again and again at a cement wall. Who is this fucker?! Is this some sick joke?

Celia’s voice in his mind: "Toomey calm your tits. Breathe, baby. What will kicking anything solve?" He puts the phone down on the floor, where he’s still sitting, and lies back, smacking his head on the chair. He grips his skull and breathes. In. Out.

In: Tooley could be alive.

Out: Tooley could still be gone, and dead.

In: Tooley could be alive, and back. And here, in Nettle.

Out: It could be a trick.

In: Tooley could be alive.

He reaches out for the phone and brings it up to his face. He types, "Where?"

This answer is quicker: "at the strip." The Strip is what passes for a mall in Nettle. A strip of stores off the interstate, in the nicer part of town. Where the tourists go. Where Tooley used to window shop, dreaming of a life where she could afford silk and cashmere.

He fires off a text to Dason: "someone saw Tooley at the strip." Dason’s response is immediate and relief washes through him: "meet you there in 10."

Ten minutes later and Toomey’s parking his Mazda at the Strip, the orange parking lights casting everything in weird silhouettes. His heart jackhammers in his chest, and he’s sweaty and nervous and paranoid that the anonymous person is watching him, laughing. What if it’s all a prank?

What if it isn’t, though?

Dason runs over from where he was chaining up his bike. "So. Tooley, huh?"

Toomey slams the car door behind him and walks towards the shops proper. "Yeah." He hands Dason his phone, showing him the texts. He doesn’t want to explain it out loud. That would make it real.

"Hoooooly shit." Dason hands the phone back. "So...what? She’s alive? She was kidnapped or some shit and escaped?"

He didn’t even think of that, of kidnapping. But then why didn’t she come home? Don’t escaped victims return home? He puts the phone in his back pocket and wipes his hands on his jeans. God. He’s sweating like a virgin on a blind date.

Dason Mire (the height of a twelve-year-old despite being twenty-five, and chubby for someone who bikes literally everywhere), follows him to the center of the strip. "So? What? We just going to look for her? In every shop? What if she’s not even still here?"

What if I don’t recognize her? It’s been ten years, Toomey panics. What if she’s here but I walk right past her?

"Your mom know?" Dason asks.

"Fuck no. I’m not going to dangle this piece of information in front of that woman without evidence. You know Mama. She’d flip her shit and tear the town apart again."

"Yeah, truth. She’s like a terrier with a ham. So what’s the game plan?"

"I don’t even fucking know. I didn’t...I couldn’t think. But if she’s here? I’ll wait all fucking night."

"Yeah," Dason sits down on a nearby bench. The Strip’s all lit up for the summer night. Fancy streetlights and planted trees bejeweld with lights. Some of the shops are closing soon, but most beckon window shoppers inside with cozy lighting and the slight breeze beneath the door that promises the coldest air conditioning you can stand.

The night is humid and oppressive, and fireflies wink at them occasionally like dying sparks. It’s too dark to see anyone’s faces, but not a lot of people are even out right now. She’s probably not even here. A ghost, or a lie.

But he can’t keep sitting here, stewing in his nihilism. He stands up and starts walking towards the other end of the strip. Towards Tool’s favorite store. It’s as good a place as any to start the search. Dason just follows him, blessedly silent. If he thinks this is a dumb idea, he doesn’t say it, and for that, Tooms is grateful.

When they get to their destination, Canal (the high-end boutique that Tooley could never afford), is just closing their doors. All the hope rushes out of Toomey like a blown tire. In its place is a bone-deep exhaustion.

"Well." Dason finally says. "Back to the car?"

Toomey turns to him and starts to nod, only--

Wait. Wait just a fucking second.

A car is pulling out of the parking lot. A high-end SUV, headlights making Toomey squint. But the passenger window is down, and there’s a woman there. And it could be a trick of the light or some goddamn awful trick of his own fucked-up mind, but Toomey swears it’s her. It’s his sister.

It’s Tooley. All grown-up but still just the same. Posher clothes, hair curling softly in the warm night air. He doesn’t know if she sees him or if he’s actually hallucinating, but the car pulls out of the parking lot and then that’s it. He watches it until even the brake lights are gone. Until he realizes his hand is gripping Dason’s shoulder so tightly that when he lets go, he nearly falls.

"Toom?" Dason’s voice is soft. "Was it...?"

Toomey just nods. Shakes his head. Covers his face. He’s crying. He’s fucking crying he can’t handle this shit, not after ten goddamn years. He’s pulled instantly back to that day she was declared missing. The hole in his chest where she lived once throbs painfully. He mumbles, "Maybe. I don’t know, Dase, I don’t even know."

Dason pats his shoulder and just walks away. Toomey doesn’t care. He doesn’t want anyone near him right now, anyway. He wants darkness and a punching bag and a 40 of whiskey. He wants to scream and cry and burn shit. Fuck this. Tooley was here.

He hears Dason’s footsteps come back, and he looks up from the bowl of his hands.

"So, I uh talked to the guy at Canal. About that woman."

Toomey drops his hands. "Tell it to me straight. Was it her? Did she-"

"Her name is Winnie Galves. I’m sorry, man."

It’s like a punch to the gut. Like he’s on a high hill and his brakes have been cut. And Toomey laughs. It feels awful. This feeling, like relief and regret and rage. It’s not Tooley. It’s just some woman who looks like an older version of his sister. That happens, right? He thinks back to that glimpse he got of her. That lightning-quick image of a woman with Tooley’s brown curling hair and sharp chin (the mirror of his own). Did she see him watching her? Did she wonder?

He laughs until it’s hard for him to draw breath, until his throat feels like he’s swallowed stinging nettles. Until the rage leaves him a shivering mess. Until it’s time to go home.

"Oh, and, uh. You won’t believe who was with that girl, though." Dason walks on ahead. "Fucking Geismar Lobdell."

"G...Geismar?" Toomey stops walking. "The giant?" Oh, that name. That name.

"Yeah. He was driving. Didn’t even know that guy could drive....Tooms?" Dason realizes his friend isn’t with him and turns back. "What?"

"Geismar...was Tooley’s friend." It’s not exactly evidence. It’s not proof that Winnie is anyone but herself...but.

"Yeah, wasn’t he the one everyone thought...you know? Disappeared her?" Raped her killed her buried her, Toomey does not say. No evidence, no proof.

"So they thought. But he was...she was his only friend. She would tell me about how misunderstood he was, how he was harmless and sweet. I still don’t think...it can’t be true."

"Whatever." Dason shrugged. "No one’s seen him since then anyway. Until tonight, I guess." He looks back in the direction of Toomey’s car.

Something just doesn’t add up. First the text, then the appearance of that woman, now Geismar? Too many pieces of a forgotten puzzle. Too many thoughts.

The phone in his pocket buzzes, and Toomey nearly jumps out of his skin. He pulls it out, expecting it to be a message from creepy anonymous person, but it’s from Celia. Fuck. Beer!

"I’m in your bed, naked. Wheres the beer asshole"

"Uh, shit. Sorry, Dason, I gotta go. I got 99 problems, you know."

"Ah, your lady doth hath arrived?" Dason reaches his bike and takes out his key. "Go, man. Get that pussy. I live vicariously through you, as always."

"Later, Dase. Uh...don’t tell anyone. Okay? About Tooley. Or ‘Winnie.’ Whatever." Dason shrugs, which is pretty much all Toom is going to get, and he knows it. He walks to his car and gets in. Key in the ignition, about to throw it in reverse, and another text beeps.

Anonymous: "did u c her"

Toomey throws it back in park and responds: "Not her. Some girl named Winnie Gomez or something." He’s about to reverse again when his phone beeps.

Growling, he reads: "was it?"

"Fuck." He throws his phone aggressively at the passenger floor and gets the hell out of that parking lot.

Was it?