The Missing Girl

Greta slips through the crowd gathered at the mall entrance, huddled around the missing girl’s flyer. In casual tones, they lament the tragedy of another innocent life gone. The flyer will be removed again before the end of the day. Raul from Best Men’s Health supplement shop will be the likely agent. He presents like an unwavering fortress but secretly weeps for every injustice. He’ll hide her tragedy until she is forgotten. And she will be forgotten. He’ll need a willow bark cream for the dark around his eyes.

“She was such a good client,” Jess from If it Glitters nail salon says. “Her and her mother used to come in every week. Don’t think I’ll see them again.” She takes a drag from her new e-cig and glances away. She exhales smoke that smells like strawberries and cream, disappointment dragging her features down. She’ll eat a bag of candied fruits and dab some vanilla body spray onto her neck, restoring her perky personality.

Bill, the owner of Discount Shoes, clucks his tongue. He’s never been shy about blaming the girl for her own disappearance. “After all,” he often expresses, “I hear she was promiscuous.” What started out a month ago as a young girl becoming sexually aware has become a narrative about a highly sexualized teenager making her way through the high-school football team. He’ll ruminate over this while soaking in a lavender bath that will add years to his skin.

The cool air inside the mall chills the sweat on Greta’s skin and she feels her flesh prickle. She pauses for a moment listening to the unintelligible hollowed echoes reverberating off the polished white linoleum. The mall is a temple of consumer delight. A shining beacon designed to attract worshipers eager to fill the holes in their hearts with bright new baubles.

The detective waits next to the sliding chain door outside her shop. His dark eyes slip across the length of her body, lingering at her ass, her hips, her breasts. He glances away quickly as his gaze touches hers. He wants more from her, that’s why he’s here. For a time, she considered giving him more.

Greta owns the Treat your Soul bath, perfume, and specialty candy store. The key clicks and the chain gate clinks and clanks as it rumbles up. Musty spices mingle pleasantly with clean refreshing scents. The rich aromas engulf them as they step into the shop.

“I’m being reassigned,” he says, straightening a bottle of body oil. The name Peaceful Resignation is scrolled in a lovely font across the label. “Ever since nine eleven, missing girls have taken a backseat to terrorists.”

She studies his nervous fumbling, and pities him. When he first came into her shop, confidence poured from him like smoke from dry ice. She drank it in like an intoxicating elixir. He was so sure about finding those girls and catching the bad men. Now, he looks more like a pouty child who didn’t get his toy.

She slips a salty candy and an aromatic scrub into a bag for him. He takes them reluctantly, before awkwardly turning away. At the entrance he stops, giving her body a long last look, full of what could have been.

After he’s gone, she steps into the supply room in back and down the partially obscured steps. The cauldrons bubble and sputter, releasing musty scents that blend with refreshing fragrances creating an earthy atmosphere. The girls in cages mumble quietly, but rarely move. The potion she slips them keeps them complacent.

Her brother sits at his computer, clicking away. She nods, reassuring him that the detective is gone. He smiles then waves her over. He opens a web browser and begins to click through pages. He shows her social media sights and new online market places. The traffic at the mall has dwindled recently, but with the internet, the possibilities are endless. They’d come such a long way since the witch and her candy house. Greta smiled at her brother, ready to embrace the technological future.

End

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