Curious Obsession

PROLOGUE

We’re standing by the ocean, the foam washing our feet in a joint baptism, when you tell me you can’t see me anymore. You give all kinds of excuses: it doesn’t make sense, there’s no more mystery, you aren’t attracted to me — but I know they’re all lies.

I watch your eyes roam my face with desire. It’s obvious you want me, you’re just fighting innate impulses. I reach my hand out and caress your arm, but you pull away, a snarl on your lips.

I smile. You’re so feisty when you resist.

I watch you turn and walk away, studying the fabric of your sweater blowing in the wind as you maneuver through the sand back to your car. You didn’t even offer me a ride, but maybe that’s because you haven’t broken up with your boyfriend yet and you don’t want to raise questions.

I understand.

I drove here anyway.

I watch you until you turn invisible behind the sunset and then wipe my face. Fucking tears. I breathe deep and notice a starfish on the sand by my feet. I pick it up, fingering the indentations and grooves. I remember you telling me once that starfish symbolize infinite love...or was it vigilance? Either way, I lift the creature to my lips and give it a kiss before snapping off each arm and throwing it back into the sea.

If you want to play cat and mouse, Juniper, we can play.

But you need to know — I always win.

.::.

Over the last few months, I’ve watched you. I’ve learned your habits and who takes up most of your time. I’ve left you notes, but they fall wasted. But here’s the thing: I know. I saw how much they meant to you. How they would make you pause and re-read them. So I kept leaving you messages and sending you texts. You kept pretending to not be moved by them. I know they mean something. So over the next few days, I wait. I watch. I see you lock one of the notes into the drawer of your nightstand, glancing around as if someone would see you hide our love. As if you knew I was watching you from my perch.

When you end it with Simon, I know it’s for me. You tell him it’s not working and that he can’t control you and I fall in love all over again. I watch as you both pace your living room, Simon being the obtuse man that he is, tries to reason with you.

You’re too smart to waste your intellect teaching high school kids who won’t even remember you!

You throw a book at him and I smile. There’s your sass. You walk toward the front door and open it.

I think you should leave. Now.

He stands there, shell-shocked. I roll my eyes. It’s not like you haven’t done this dance before — although this time I can tell you’re really done with him. I wait for you to tell him about me — to not let him off gently and to cut to the marrow of why you’re ending it — but you don’t. I frown. You care too much about what other people will think.

I need to remind you.

I need you to remember.

So I leave a note for Simon, letting him know you found something better.

Then I follow you into school one morning and you don’t even notice because you’re talking into your phone — telling your sister you need to talk to her about something. Is it me? It’s too bad she won’t ever know. I hang out in the hallway while you teach your classes and chat with your students about some gala this weekend that you won’t make it to but don’t know yet. It’s noble, really, how you give. How you refuse your own desires.

How you refuse me.

You won’t be able to for long.

In between classes when you run to the teacher’s lounge for a refill on coffee, I sneak into your room and find the perfect spot in the water heater closet. How convenient. I leave the door open just a crack and know you will never see. It’s not that you don’t pay attention, you’re just focused on other things.

People.

Your students.

I watch you as you finish your day, resting your head in your hands at your desk and breathing deep before diving into the pile of papers still needing to be graded. You stretch. You massage your neck. And finally, you give up and decide to leave.

You told me once you worried about your students walking home after school — how they paid no attention to their surroundings because they were too busy looking down at their phones to see oncoming traffic or a potential rapist. So I note the dramatic irony in how I catch you: head down, looking at your phone, paying no attention to the cat behind you, finally about to catch his mouse.

1

One moment Juniper Reese existed, and the next she vanished into thin air.

At first, I chalked up her not answering my phone calls to being busy. We normally chat every single night, but we also both have full time jobs that tend to weave into our daily rhythm. Work life balance has never been a thing for the Reese women, plus I knew she was organizing a gala at the school where she taught, so I waited for the typical text that followed up a missed call. Probably something like….

Hey. I’m busy but I’ll call you tonight. Love you.

But this time, there was no text. I told myself it was okay, there wasn’t anything to worry about, any moment now I would hear from her and she would be apologizing profusely because ohmygosh I had no idea what time it was…

But then I went more than 24 hours and didn’t hear from her, and I couldn’t ignore it anymore. That was Sunday. Yesterday. I called her multiple times, each time hoping that she’d breathlessly answer, nonchalant about the stress I endured. Even though I knew that wasn’t Juniper. Even though I knew she would never just not call me back. So here I am, trying really hard not to freak out, and failing miserably.

Come on, Juniper. Text me, dammit.

I stare up at the fan in my room, trying to determine just how much of an emergency this is when I feel a familiar pain blossom in my chest that feels a lot like grief.

If mom were here, she would know what to do. I swallow the tears ballooning in my throat. Ten years later and her absence still felt like a gaping wound that wouldn’t ever heal.

I scrape the edge of my hairline with my finger, anxious for some type of clarity. Instead, it’s just the standard brain fog coupled with anxiety and grief. I groan. Who am I kidding? I’m not going to be able to accomplish anything until I get coffee. I take a deep breath, willing myself out of bed. A glance at the clock lets me know it’s not even five in the morning.

Not surprising. Sleep and me aren’t friends, especially when my sister isn’t responding to texts.

I sniff and push myself up and out of the covers, stretching and watching the lights outside my window blink in iridescence. I chose this loft for a reason — it overlooks the San Francisco bay. Throwing a chunk of my monthly salary toward the minuscule living space that functions as a bedroom, living room, and kitchen seemed rational at the time. Now I’m just lonely.

Lonely and worried.

My feet grab the coolness of the wood beneath me as I sleepily move from the bed in the corner to the kitchen counter a few feet away. Bonus of living in a true loft: the coffee is literally steps from your sleeping space. I turn on the espresso machine and choose my roast for the day, tampering the grounds and hoping my mind being somewhere else entirely won’t effect the taste of the brew. At this point though, I guess it doesn’t matter. The coffee will be more about clarity and energy than enjoyment. I grab a cup and pour the shots, mixing it with almond milk. Juniper would be laughing at me right now and reaching for the full fat cream I leave in my refrigerator door in case she ever comes to visit.

She’s only come once.

I grab a blanket draped off the side of my bed and carry it with me to the couch that sits against a brick wall and in perfect view of the sun beginning to stretch over the horizon. I try and think back over my conversations with Juniper.

Wednesday, a week ago, she talked to me about Simon. They were ending it for real this time — his pursuit of a career getting in the way of her desire for normalcy.

What’s more normal than brow beating your way up the corporate ladder while your wife stays home and pops out babies? I joked with her. She didn’t find it funny.

Later that night I called her crying, completely in my feelings. My day had taken a complete turn and a project at work was running away from me. I didn’t know how to fix it. Like always, Juniper came in and offered her logic and practicality. By the time we got off the phone, she could barely form a sentence she was so exhausted and I was downing a shot of espresso, fully inspired. I finished the project in a few hours. I texted her my celebratory photo of taking shots...this time full of vodka. She texted me that she was afraid I was becoming unhinged.

Even still, that day was no different. We texted until we couldn’t anymore and then she told me she was going to be busy working with another teacher on the Gala the next day but she would try and call me that weekend.

Thursday morning when I woke up, there was a text waiting for me saying she needed to call me about something and to be expecting to hear from her the next morning because she’d be working on the Gala again that evening.

This is important. Please answer, she said.

Meaning: this is important. Please get your ass out of bed and be ready to talk.

Friday morning I got up early — I remember stumbling out of bed and making my coffee and properly attempting to do some sort of yoga before getting a notification that she’d sent me a video message in Marco Polo. I clicked on it, confused. She stared back at me, smiling and in her classroom. It was completely empty.

Hey. I know I said I was going to call you tomorrow but I am still working on the Gala and I imagine we’ll be here pretty late, she rolls her eyes. Who is we? Who’s with her?

We still need to talk, though. She’s out of breath even though she’s sitting down. Her eyes keep darting in front of her, to what I imagine is her door. I frown as I watch it again for the thousandth time. There’s a shadow that crosses her face when she tells me she still wants to talk and her eyes are definitely swollen, as if she’s been crying. She left me a similar message back when she was telling me she needed to talk and it was about Simon.

I swipe up out of the app on my phone before my response starts playing and rest my head on the arm of the couch.

Friday morning. Last time I heard from her. Is this grounds for calling the local police? I try and think back to all the missing persons cases I watched on Unsolved Mysteries and keep coming up blank. No wait. Maybe I’m thinking of a murderino podcast…..

My phone vibrates in my hand and I startle, my heart racing. I glance down at the screen and feel the crashing of my energy when it’s an unknown number. I recognize the area code though — Providence. Where Juniper lives.

Hello?

Hi. This is Tracey from Sacred Heart. We’re looking for Juniper and you’re listed as one of her emergency contacts. Have you spoken with her recently?

I close my eyes and start massaging my forehead.

There are moments in life where you experience something in technicolor. Everything around you turns luminescent, a built in bokeh-effect around the moment. Finding out my mother died is filed under this category.

So is finding out my sister is missing. Truly missing — not just ignoring my calls and texts. It feels like cement has lodged itself into every corner of my being. I’m frozen. I force myself to speak.

I’m - I’m her sister. I haven’t heard from her since Friday. Did she not show up today?

For Juniper to not show up to one of her obligations, let alone her job, is definitely out of character. A cold realization hits my limbs and I’m glad I’m sitting down. Tracey wouldn’t be calling me if Juniper had waltzed through the doors this morning like she always does. I can feel my pulse staccato out a rhythm that’s unfamiliar. Something is wrong.

Tracey clears her throat. She’s been great with communicating in the past if she would miss, and so when she didn’t show, we thought we would reach out in case you had heard from her. You are her emergency contact. She repeats this last fact as if it would magically unlock the whereabouts of my sister.

I get up from the couch, nervous energy beginning to bounce around my limbs. I need to pace.

I haven’t. I-I haven’t heard anything, actually. Like I mentioned before — last time we spoke was Friday. I take a fistful of hair from the messy bun on the top of my head and squeeze until I feel the pressure against my scalp. I’m beginning to come undone and I need some type of tactile reminder that in this moment I am okay, that I can breathe and focus on what’s next. I glance out of my window and watch the sun begin to creep over the horizon of the bay.

I feel my hair.

I see color in the sky.

I smell my coffee.

All reminders keeping me present, but I am dangerously close to the precipice. Right here in the middle of my living room, I’m going to unspool and collect like dust on the hardwood. I reach for another branch.

Have you spoken with the the teacher she was working with on the Gala? Would they know?

He’s not in yet this morning. I haven’t been able to ask him.

I rub my tongue across the top of my teeth and am surprised at the shock of how organic the thought pops into my brain, she was working with a man?!

As if this were any other phone call.

I shake my head and force the thought into the back of my mind to retrieve later. Not that it matters. Well, yes it does. This is the type of information in which sisters give each other hell for, and I would have given her the worst kind in the form of third degree questioning.

I will be able to give her hell. I wince at the tense change, resisting it.

Tracey hums absentmindedly, is there anyone else who might know where she is you think?

I think through any other options — any other person I know she might have been working with on something or another. Conversations about the teachers and their close-knit community come back to memory. Juniper had a hard time connecting with the cult-like mentality there. She was always telling me about an awkward conversation or an invisible rule she knew nothing about within their culture.

I sit down again, this time on my bed, and shake my head.

"There’s no one. She…she had a boyfriend, but they broke up and she wasn’t - isn’t - very close to anyone at the school…."

Tracey clucks her tongue, the judgment evident in her voice. I see.

I remove my hand from the tangle of hair and spread my fingers out over my knee, pressing down as hard as I can and breathing like my counselor taught me so many years ago after Mom’s death —

Inhale one two three

Exhale one two three

It calms the panic attack that I can feel brewing underneath the surface, but I know it won’t work forever. That’s when I know I need to leave. I need to be there.

I’m coming, I say. I’ll be on the next flight.

I hear Tracey mention something incoherent and I speak over her, my sister wouldn’t miss work. Something must be wrong. I’m coming. We’ll find her.

I hang up the phone and let the adrenaline move for me: I need to find a flight out of San Francisco, call the local police station out in Providence, and shove as many clothes as possible in my carry on — I’m not too concerned about how many outfits to bring. Juniper and I are the same size. I can always borrow her clothes if needed. Thankfully, job perks means I have miles I can use for a last minute, very expensive flight. I call the police station in Providence and report my sister missing, but the conversation is frustrating at best. As soon as they know she's been missing less than 48 hours they refuse to do much. I'm persistent though, and manage to snag the number of a Private Investigator they promise will look into it.

I don't believe them for a second.

I'll call him as soon as I get there tonight.

I send a haphazard email to my team at work letting them know I’m making an emergency trip and will be out of pocket for a few days. Immediately, Jack responds.

Really? I find out via email?

I roll my eyes. I can deal with him later.

.::.

When I land in Providence, I'm shocked by the chill coming off of the coast. I wrap my scarf closer to my skin and put my head down to avoid the way the wind cuts into me. I take an Uber to her house out in Newport, feeling the apprehension settle in my throat as we turn on her street. The entire ride, it's been silent and now suddenly the driver wants to try and have a conversation.

Visiting family?

When I don't answer, he just nods to himself and turns up the music — a tired country song that sounds like a mixture of Clint Black and Montgomery Gentry. I roll my eyes and stifle a groan.

When we reach her house, I notice the lights are off. I pay for the drive and close the car door behind me, standing on the sidewalk for a beat before moving up the steps of the porch. I blow out a series of short breaths, hoping to gain control of my emotions. What happens if she doesn’t answer? What happens if I find her inside? I swallow those thoughts, shoving them as deep as I can, and try the doorbell.

Nothing.

I look around me, noticing the lack of other houses nearby — it’s a quaint neighborhood on the edge of the coast. I can see the waves crashing over each other from here. I try knocking, and when I don’t hear any footsteps, I try the doorknob.

It’s locked.

I bite my lip, trying to remember where she put the key for drop in visits, attempting to encourage me to come and stay for a bit. It isn’t something obvious like underneath her door mat. She doesn’t even have one. I look around her porch, trying to determine where I would hide a key if I were Juniper.

Oh.

I reach over and feel the underside of a nearby sconce. My fingers brush up against the familiar shape of a key and I manage a smile.

The key goes into the lock and within seconds I’m in the entryway of her home. I glance around, trying to ignore the overwhelming scent of my sister that permeates every surface.

Juniper?

My voice sounds scratchy and foreign. I clear my throat and take a few steps into her living room, noticing her bedroom door ajar. I walk toward the kitchen counter, my head tilted in the direction of her room. There’s no response.

Nothing.

I spend a few moments walking through every room and checking every closet, making sure that I know with everything left in me that she is not here. I glance out her bedroom window and notice the path winding up the cliff and hugging the coast. It’s her walking path. I almost walk outside and straight onto the loose gravel, mimicking her movements and wanting desperately to retrace her steps. But I’m not familiar with this area, and it’s the dead of night. I may want to find her, but I don’t have a death wish. I decide to pull out my phone and call the detective the police said would help me with a missing person’s case. I glance at the clock at the wall after dialing and only after I recognize the time do I hesitate — 11:00pm. I shrug.

They did say to call any time because he keeps weird hours.

The phone rings twice before he picks up, groggy.

This is Dan.

I wrinkle my nose without thinking. First, because it sounds as if I woke him up. Second, his name. Dan. Such an ordinary name.

My mother's voice echoes in my memory and I remember Juniper and I sitting on either side of her on the bed eating ice cream out of the carton one Friday night. I can’t remember what happened, but I remember being in middle school and devastated by a boy who played Juniper and I against each other. His name was Matthew.

Don't ever trust a man with an ordinary name, girls. He'll be so bored by the ordinary he'll purposefully shake up his life and create chaos on a whim.

It probably doesn’t bode well for my relationship with this man that I already have a suspicion of how he’ll handle the case because his name rhymes with van.

Hi, Detective. It’s me. Lavender.

Ah yes. The spice girls. Someone told me you might be calling.

I roll my eyes. It was bad enough that Juniper and I were identical twins right down to the part in our crystal blonde hair and the freckle on our left cheek. Names meant so much to my mother that she chose Lavender and Juniper: intuition and healing, respectively.

Despite this, Detective Dan is not the first to call us the spice girls. As if both Lavender and Juniper are spices. As if there is nothing else to be pulled from our names other than it being some type of decoration. I think of the first time we came home fuming because of the nickname. We didn’t even know there was a girl group attached to the name first — all we knew was that being dubbed spice girls felt wrong and misplaced.

You are not a decoration, girls, mom said. You have all the sass you need, but you are not regulated to the spice on a dish. You are more than that — so much more. You hear me? Your names come from here. She’d patted her chest, signaling her heart and soul. Don’t ever let anyone take that away from you.

And then she looked into our eyes and spoke the meaning we knew then by heart.

Her hand on my cheek, intuition, she whispered.

Her lips on Juniper’s head, healing, she echoed.

I sigh.

Mama, I sure wish you were here.

I sniff and Detective Dan takes my silence as approval to continue.

It’s late, he says.

I know. I rub at my face, anxiety already starting to settle in and make a home with dry patches and mini-breakouts. They told me to call you any time — said you kept weird hours. He gives a noncommittal grunt and I take that as a cue to keep going.

I wanted to let you know I’m here in town. I flew in tonight and am at Juniper’s place now.

Is she there?

I blink at his question. Is she…what?

Would I be calling you if she was had magically appeared? I hear another slight grunt on the other end.

Just checking. Sometimes family just likes to…you know…disappear for a while.

Something in his voice makes me pause. I pull at my ear, feeling the weight of my earrings stretch the skin.

Not Juniper.

He hums for a moment as if he’s thinking and I swear I want to reach through this phone and punch him where it hurts the most. Instead, I close my eyes and reach for patience and ask a question.

Have you…. I pause to give my voice a minute to strengthen. Have you looked into this at all? I know this is the first time you’ve heard from me, but you knew about her missing from the station when they called you. Have you checked in with any of her coworkers yet?

Well, you reported her missing today and it is almost midnight so…no. I haven’t. I was working on other cases.

I breathe in quickly and he jumps in, "your sister is an adult. It’s very possible she needed to get the heck out of dodge, if you know what I’m saying. We can’t force her to come home. If I had a dime for every time someone told me it wasn’t like so and so to just up and leave, I would be a rich man. Sometimes, we