Page 6 of My Killer Blind Date

Maybe Zoe’s body hasn’t shown up yet, but I know she’s dead. She’d never walk away from our life without her stuff. Without her clothes, her makeup, her art. Without a goodbye. I feel like I’m just waiting for the day her body shows up on that beach. Before she’s officially victim number three in the string of killings that some sick fuck is getting away with as we speak.

I put the picture of us carefully back on the corkboard and shove the tack in, so that everything looks exactly as it was. Pick up my food. Leave her room, closing the door quietly, as if she’s sleeping and I don’t want to disturb her.

It’s not like our relationship was perfect. When I started to pull away from the wild nights out that had propelled me into so many disasterships, that created some distance. During our worst fight, Zoe accused me of becoming boring and standard and controlling, just like my parents. And maybe she wasn’t far from the truth. Over the years, I started to grow uncomfortable with the risks she took, the way she jumped into everything with both feet even when she kept crashing. At first, our newfound freedom was all fun and games. Two girls fresh out of high school, itching to discover themselves and spread their wings. But as we crept into our twenties, she got hurt too. Gallery rejections, bad friends, sociopathic bosses, shit boyfriends. The difference is, I retreated while she pressed forward. I could see the toll it was taking on her – the new, wary brightness in her eyes, the bitter curl in her smile – but she wouldn’t stop. With Zoe, it was all or nothing. She was living on her own terms, and she wasn’t going to slow down for anyone – not even herself.

Even now, though I wish I could have kept her safe, I can’t resent her. Wasn’t her passion and fearlessness the reason behind our first spark of friendship? Of course my retreat made her feel judged. And worse, like I was betraying our pact to become liberated, empowered women.

Our last hour together, the fatal night of her date, she was swabbing on lipstick and leaning into the mirror.

‘You’re going out?’ I said. ‘I thought we’d planned to stay in and binge watch the new season of Love is Blind.’

‘Oh! Yeah, there’s this guy, oh my God, he’s insanely good looking. Honestly, a little too perfect.’

I tried to hide my hurt that she was bailing on our cozy night in for another guy who’d probably turn out to be a douche, just like all the others.

‘Oh?’

She dabbed lipstick on to her full lower lip. ‘Super hot, grew up here, sexy tattoo in fucking Latin and ooh, you’ll like this – he’s college-educated.’ She caught my eye in the mirror and arched a brow. ‘Northwestern. See? I don’t just date “deadbeats.”’

I flushed hot. ‘I did not call your last boytoy a deadbeat—’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Trust me, I heard the subtext. And just because you don’t want to have fun any more doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t.’

I nearly choked. ‘Excuse me, but being cheated on over and over stopped being fun. Not to mention, there’s literally a serial killer out there right now. I’m allowed to step back and reevaluate—’

‘I swear to God if I hear one more thing about that serial killer …’ Zoe whipped around, eyes flashing. ‘Where’s the daring, carpe diem Margot I moved here with, huh? You work at an office job you don’t even like.’

‘It’s the only job I could get! And it has great health insurance—’

‘Health insurance? Are you hearing yourself? You had a dream, Margot! You wanted to find love and open a coffee shop that employed victims of domestic abuse! You wanted to make a difference in the world. And instead you’ve given up dating in favor of this little true crime obsession, which is tacky as hell by the way, and you’re answering the phones for an ancient, cranky-ass dentist!’

‘Why can’t you give me the space to figure out my life?’

‘This isn’t you!’ she snapped. ‘This is the scared little girl your parents raised who doesn’t want to stand out and doesn’t have the guts to go after what she wants!’

‘Well you wanted to be a big-time artist, but you’re playing the victim of “the art machine” and working reception at a funeral home!’ I said, an unusual cruelty entering my tone. ‘From one receptionist to another, how’s that going for you?’

‘I am a victim of the art machine,’ she snarled back. ‘They wouldn’t know innovation if it kicked them in the balls. I’ve been a victim my entire life, Margot, from my religious asshole parents to the shitty men I’ve dated, all the way to the stick-up-its-ass art world. How dare you throw that in my face?’

We spiraled from there.

I hate that we left on that note. If that had to be our last moment, I wish we could’ve left each other with me blowing her a kiss or offering her the use of that jean jacket she liked or … something. Anything. Instead, my last words to her were awful. It feels like you’re running away from me.

And hers. If you’d stop breathing down my neck and trying to force me into a little box, maybe I wouldn’t have to run!

Back in the living room, I settle on the couch with my feet up, take a bite of lasagna before setting it down and reach for my laptop.

I take a few seconds of cleansing breaths to disperse the memory of our last fight. Yes, it sucks that we went out that way. But we loved each other. And I’ve proved it, because I’m the only person in the world who hasn’t moved on from her disappearance. Who loves her enough to keep trying to find her – or rather, her body. Maybe no one else sees it, but I feel certain she’s the serial killer’s third victim – a profound irony, since she was literally mocking my so-called ‘obsession’ right before leaving the apartment. And who knows – maybe it is just an obsession. But the timelines match, with six months between each disappearance. All three women are from the North Side. All three women were unmarried. And unfortunately, based on the timeline of the other two women’s deaths, it’s been too long for Zoe to still be alive.

Either way, I owe it to her to find out what happened.

I flip open my laptop. First, email. I have Google alerts set for Zoe’s name, as well as the names of the other two victims. Unfortunately, none of the alerts have been triggered. And there are no responses from the YouTubers, podcasters and local TV shows I’ve reached out to, trying to get them to feature the story. I grind my teeth in frustration as I send a couple follow ups, my fingers clacking furiously. Hi! Just checking in to make sure you saw my message … I figure, if I can just get more people to see Zoe’s face, hear her story, it increases the chances of someone remembering her and calling in a tip.

In moments like these, I have to wonder about her parents. Did they get my messages? Do they care? Zoe’s dad was a pastor at some North Shore Baptist church. I couldn’t remember which one, but the internet being what it is, how hard could it be to figure out? Turns out, very. I couldn’t find him in any online directories. Still, I sent emails and left voicemails at every single Baptist church in the area, asking him to get in touch. But after months of nothing, I gave up. Her parents had already proven they didn’t care to be involved in their daughter’s life. I had to let it go.

Next, I check the Cook County Medical Examiner’s website. I scroll through the Unidentified Persons page. Oh, shit. There’s one new entry – and new entries only pop up at the rate of maybe two to three per month.

I scan the information.