The information that isn’t available to Joe Citizen is available to those in law enforcement. While I’m most certain that Sheriff Manes won’t be interested in helping me, I think about setting my sights on Deputy Ford. I played basketball with Annabelle’s sister for three years, and being back in my hometown, I’m willing to cash in on any connection.
After Sheriff Manes left my parents’ home, the neighbor, Sally Hopkins—she’s lived next door as long as I can remember—knocked on the door. She spent a few minutes consoling Mom. It seemed to me as though she was also fishing for information. We stuck to our story.
Julie is stable and we’ll know more in the future.
When she asked about Marty Thompson, Mom said that she is a dear friend of Julie’s and we’re praying for her safe return.
Sally left us with a large casserole of noodles, spaghetti sauce, and vegetables, as well as a salad and garlic bread. I don’t know if I would have stayed to eat with my family if the incident between Sheriff Manes and Dad hadn’t happened. But it did happen, and for a moment in time, Jerry Thorne was the father I had as a child, the one who supported me.
I admit, at least to myself, that I stayed for more than the food. I shamefully wanted to bask in that selfish place—where my dad was my dad—for a little longer.
After dinner, Mom and Dad headed back to the hospital to be at Julie’s side for the night shift, and Iheaded back to Stark Lake. As I parked my car, I noticed Keith’s truck was missing. I had more than a few thoughts about him throughout the day.
A nagging one centered on the hypothesis that the perpetrator may be from out of town—check. May be someone connected to Craig—check. May have a reaction to Craig’s death that would spur the need for power and control—possible check.
As Echo reminded me, sexual assault isn’t about sex but about power.
Sexual predators differ from sexual offenders in that the offenders have been convicted of the crime. The term predator implies multiple offenses. That’s the part I’m trying to learn. Have there been other victims of similar assaults in the area or elsewhere?
Should I do a search for the Upper Peninsula?
As Liv and I discussed whether Julie’s assault was random or if she was the intended victim, a bit of information I learned long ago through my work with the studio replayed in my thoughts. Statistically speaking, an exceedingly small number of perpetrators randomly commit sexual assault.
More often than not, the perpetrator and victim know one another.
That could mean that Julie wasn’t assaulted by an outsider; this person knew Julie and Marty. It would also explain why the girls willingly went with him or at least left without making a fuss.
I scribble again on my notepad.
Someone saw something.
I want to circle the sentence and make stars around it.
Echo is right. Blue Gil is too small.
Before I left my parents’ home, I asked Ollie and Liv about Julie’s other friends. There were seven girls all together at the park on Saturday afternoon. Seven. One is now dead and one is in the hospital assaulted.
Who are the other five?
Together with Ollie and Liv, we come up with the girls’ names. It wasn’t hard. We went into Julie’s room and on her dresser were multiple framed pictures of her and her friends. Her last year’s yearbook was in her bookcase. If old-school hadn’t worked, her Instagram and TikTok were overflowing with pictures.
Colleen is the one with too much eyeliner. Liz is the one with very light blond hair. I recall both of them from the park. The other three hadn’t stood out to me on Saturday afternoon, but they were recurring faces in Julie’s pictures. Their names are Jessie, Tamara, and Penny.
As I was about to leave, I snuck back into Julie’s room and borrowed one of her pictures.
With it now sitting in front of me, I stare at the grouping. This photograph is a selfie taken on a beach. I can’t pinpoint the location, but the lake is familiar. It isn’t local. The seven girls are all together at Lake Michigan.
Light-colored sand, blue water that goes on forever, and a crystal-clear sky. Lake Michigan beaches have been a teenage destination for years. I recall many road trips to Warren Dunes, now a national park that hosts onemillion visitors annually and is only an hour’s drive west of Blue Gil.
The parties I attended there when I was younger were all about food and fun. Lake Michigan is beautiful and scenic. It isn’t a place where one wants to swim. The water is freezing—not literally. In midsummer the water temperature rarely exceeds sixty degrees Fahrenheit. The temperature near the shores may reach mid-sixties, but the average is mid-fifties.
It’s cold.
In the picture, the girls are all smiling, wearing bathing suits, and their hair is blowing in the breeze. I wonder if the picture was taken last summer or the year before. It’s difficult to judge their ages with little makeup in such a casual setting.
Sitting in the cottage with a glass of red wine, I work to create a list with each girl’s name, vowing to learn more about each one.
Marty.
