Page 58 of Trapper Road

I keep my chin raised and my expression defiant as I feel her look me over. My bra and underwear aren’t particularly nice, but at least they’re clean.

Mandy moves to a dresser set against the far wall. “First things first,” she says, pulling open the top drawer. She pulls out two bright pink scraps of fabric and walks toward me. She holds up what turns out to be a bra, pressing the cups of the silky material against my chest to see if it will fit.

I’m so startled I don’t even think about batting her away. Plus, the backs of her fingertips are warm against the sides of my ribs. The skin along my arms and torso erupts in a wave of chill bumps.

“You cold?” Her voice is soft, and she’s close enough I can smell the sweetness of her shampoo. She’s still wearing next to nothing, and her skin looks soft and smooth. I want to rest my hands on her hips and maybe tug her toward me, but then I remember that I’m standing in a missing girl’s room.

I take a step back. “I ain’t wearing no dead girls’ underwear.”

Mandy’s eyes flash with a storm. “She’s not dead.”

I shrug. “All’s the same.”

Still, I like the game Mandy’s playing and I decide to up the ante. “Besides, dress like that don’t need a bra. The straps will show.”

And just like that, I reach around back, unhook my bra, and let it slide down my arms. She holds my eyes a beat longer before dropping them to my chest. My tits aren’t the biggest in the world, but I still think they’re nice. I’ve certainly gotten enough compliments on them in my life.

Mandy stares at me long enough that I’m thinking she might actually make a move after all. Then she returns her gaze to my face. “You got spunk, Vee. I like you.” She turns before I can respond and walks back to the closet. “Now, try on that dress. We still gotta work on makeup and hair.”

Willa barely glances up from her magazine as I collect the dress from the bed and drag it over my head. The material is soft and stretchy and nicer than anything I own. The straps are supposed to tie behind my neck and I try it a few times but manage to get my hair caught in the knot every time. Then I hear Willa shift, and she’s on her knees on the bed behind me, her fingers cool and graceful against my spine as she expertly ties the straps into a perfect bow.

Then it’s Mandy’s turn again. She drags me toward a desk under the window and pushes me into the chair. “Makeup time,” she announces. “Close your eyes.”

I don’t bother protesting. I just do as I’m told and sit saying nothing as Mandy and Willa dig through drawers filled with bottles and tubes in a dizzying shade of colors. They take their time with it all, spritzing and spraying and spackling me. When it comes time for my eyes, Mandy leans close enough I feel each puff of breath against my cheek.

It’s a struggle to keep my eyes closed knowing she’s so close. It makes me vulnerable. Hell, Willa could be standing behind me with a knife, getting ready to plunge it into my back, and I’d never know.

I’m just about to tell them enough when Mandy lets out a long sigh and shifts away from me. “No peeking,” she tells me. There’s rustling and the sound of hangers being pushed along the closet rod. Then her hands are on mine, and she tugs me to my feet.

She pushes me forward a few steps, then links her arm through mine. “Check it out,” she orders.

I open my eyes. I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me. I’m not one for dressing up normally. My motto is “comfort over style” and “who cares what anyone says about it.” Hell, my favorite shoes are my yeti slippers, and I don’t think I’ve owned a dress since back when my mamma tried to get me to go to church.

But damn, I look good. Real good. The dress is bright pink with orange flowers, and I’d have never given it a second look, even on the clearance rack. But it fits perfect, the stretchy material hugging around me, the halter top making my girls look perky and full.

My face, though, that’s what I can’t stop staring at. Mandy is some sort of genius when it comes to makeup. I’ve never seen my eyes pop the way they do now, or my mouth look so perfectly pouty.

Mandy clings to my arm, nearly vibrating with excitement. The dress she’s wearing leaves little to the imagination. “What do you think?” she asks in a near squeal.

I don’t have an answer for her because I can’t find the words. She doesn’t seem to mind. “Let’s go show Mrs. Larson.” She tugs me toward the door, but I resist.

“You sure that’s smart?” I ask. I’m wearing her missing daughter’s dress, after all. Even I have to admit that’s a little weird.

Willa dismisses my concern. “We play dress-up over here all the time. Mrs. Larson loves it.”

I’m still not so sure, but Mandy is insistent. Before I know it, she’s pulled me down the stairs and into the kitchen, Willa trailing behind us.

“Check it out, Mrs. Larson,” Mandy says, nudging me forward hard enough that I stumble a few steps.

Mrs. Larson is at the sink washing dishes and she turns, a dripping mug in her hands. Her eyes fall on me and she goes still. Her face goes pale, her eyes wide. The mug slips from her fingers, shattering against the floor. “Oh God,” she whispers. She clutches at the countertop, as if her legs can no longer support her. “You look just like…” Her voice trails off as her eyes fill with tears.

There’s clearly something very off, and I have no idea what it is. I look to Mandy, willing her to say something or to at least explain what’s going on.

Something snaps in Mrs. Larson, and she collapses to the floor, sobbing with her hands over her face. “My baby,” she wails.

Mandy leaps to her side, crouching next to her and putting her arms around her. “Oh, Mrs. Larson, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, honey, I know.” She’s struggling and failing to pull herself together.

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