Nice Girls(9)

The screen panned down her Instagram page as Mr. Willand’s voice narrated: “Olivia is a star. Her disappearance hurts not only me and her mom but also her followers.”

The news anchor returned.

“Willand was last seen biking Sunday afternoon around four p.m. She was wearing a black coat, a maroon college sweater, black leggings, and white tennis shoes. Any information on her whereabouts can be directed to the Liberty Lake Police Department at 911.

“Ms. Willand’s father also requests additional help from the public.”

The screen cut to Mr. Willand again.

“I’d like to thank the Liberty Lake police force for being so quick in their search efforts. They’ve been at it since last night, but we need more manpower. We are searching throughout Littlewood Park Reserve today from noon until eight p.m. Any additional volunteers can help canvass nearby areas. The police will provide instructions on-site.”

The screen lingered on Mr. Willand, who took a deep breath. “And if you’re listening, Olivia, please come home,” he implored, his pink eyes staring directly at us. “We love you, honey!”

The news anchor spoke again, but Dad lowered the volume.

“You should change into something warm,” he said. “I don’t know how long we’re gonna be out there.”

I didn’t move.

“Mary?”

“It’s been less than twenty-four hours.”

“She’s missing.”

I crossed my arms.

“Have they tried calling her friends?” I asked. “Maybe her parents are freaking out over nothing.”

Dad stared at me.

“At school we had a girl who went ‘missing’ two years ago. It turned out she was just high at her new boyfriend’s place. Everyone freaked out for no reason.”

Dad said nothing.

“It’s a true story,” I added. “People went searching for her during finals. When they found her, the administration was pissed.”

“Why don’t you want to go?” Dad pressed.

“I don’t think it’s worth it,” I said.

“You trying to avoid people?”

I shook my head.

“You grew up with her.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Human decency, Mary.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” I said loudly. “You don’t know her like I did.”

Dad said nothing and shook his head. He turned off the TV and grabbed two plastic bottles of water from the fridge. He scrounged through the kitchen for a bag of chips and a flashlight.

“I still see them at St. Rita’s, you know,” he murmured. “We talk.”

I shrugged, as if it didn’t bother me.

Finally, he left the kitchen.

“I got a job,” I called out, but Dad had already slammed the door shut.



I watched a livestream of the search. It was a mess of people around Littlewood Park Reserve. Hundreds of volunteers had shown up in the middle of the day. People in peacoats and down vests, others with dogs, who searched the woods near Olivia’s home. Dad was among them.

I realized that was why I’d seen so many police earlier. They were everywhere. They blocked off the playground. They redirected traffic around the parking lots. The police brought canine units and even two helicopters that flew overhead.

Littlewood Park Reserve had over twenty-seven hundred acres of land. With dense trees, walking trails, and streams weaving through it, the reserve stretched nearly two miles. The area was easily big enough to conceal a body.

But I had faith in Olivia.

She’d lived next to the reserve all her life, only fifteen minutes away. As children, the two of us had biked there by ourselves. We had no parents to watch us. We knew the woods and the different trails. Olivia was many things, but she wasn’t stupid.

After an hour of watching the livestream, I went outside. I took a walk to the park tucked away in our neighborhood. The weather was brisk. Kids scurried off a school bus.

At the park, I sat down on an empty swing. I turned on my cell phone.

I scrolled through Olivia’s Instagram page. She had over four hundred photos. Her last picture had been posted three days ago. Olivia was sitting on a bench. She held a slice of cheese pizza in front of her, an oversized college sweatshirt draping off one shoulder.

You’ve stolen a pizza my heart! #ad #RaffaelesPizza, read the caption.

She made the photo look effortless. That was key. The perfect hair and makeup, the size zero figure, the impish smirk, and the caption were all carefully planned.

Most of her photos followed the same formula: gorgeous girl lives gorgeous life, like lounging on a beach in the Bahamas, cuddling a chow chow in Berlin, or posing with a baby kangaroo in Australia. Olivia had been all over the world since she was a teenager. She had more money, photos, and fame than most people could hope for. With fifty thousand followers, there was more to come.

I put the phone away and began to swing.

For a moment, I pictured myself with Dad and the volunteers. Given the situation, I would bump into Olivia’s parents, an old classmate, a former teacher.

My presence posed too many questions.

How have you been, Mary?

Why aren’t you in New York?

Aren’t you supposed to be in school?