Tense and introspective, for readers of Megan Goldin and Heather Gudenkauf, Don’t Forget the Girl is an astonishing debut thriller that mines the complexities of friendship and the secrets between us that we may take to the grave.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Rebecca McKanna’s Don’t Forget The Girl, which is out June 20th.
Twelve years ago, 18-year-old University of Iowa freshman Abby Hartmann disappeared. Now, Jon Allan Blue, the serial killer suspected of her murder, is about to be executed. Abby’s best friends, Bree and Chelsea, watch as Abby’s memory is unearthed and overshadowed by Blue and his flashier crimes. The friends, estranged in the wake of Abby’s disappearance, and suffering from years of unvoiced resentments, must reunite when a high-profile podcast dedicates its next season to Blue’s murders.
BREE
October 2015
In twenty-five days, he’ll be dead.
The number beats a steady rhythm in Bree’s mind as she leaves her office in the fine arts building and walks outside onto the campus lawn. Twenty-five days. Twenty-five days.
The students at the tiny college where she teaches take advantage of the unseasonably warm October afternoon, and she stares without really seeing them. Guys in track T-shirts toss a Frisbee to one another while a trio of girls in bikini tops lie on brightly colored beach towels, enjoying the sun.
Twenty-five days.
Do they have any hope he’ll tell investigators anything helpful before then? She wants to get home so she can read more news articles.
It takes her a second to realize one of the boys playing Frisbee is staring at her. It’s her student Zach, watching her with the intent expression he wears in her classroom after she asks a question about the use of light in a photograph or the balance between foreground and background. She makes a quick, almost involuntary gesture with her right hand like she’s shooing away a fly.
Don’t, she wills him. Someone will notice.
His gaze moves from her to the Frisbee cutting through the blue sky above him. Bree glances back at her phone’s screen as she walks. It still shows the Associated Press article. She closes the tab so she doesn’t have to look at the photo of Jon Allan Blue. It’s one of the media’s favorite pictures: him on the stand at his trial—eyes crinkling at the corners, long-fingered hands gesturing languidly like when she knew him.
The letters from him sit in her desk drawer. He must have found her campus address online. Three letters in two years. White envelopes addressed in neat Palmer script. In the bottom right corner, someone stamped in red: Mailed from a state correctional institution.
The familiar thoughts bubble up: If I had just listened. If I had just paid more attention—No, she tells herself. Don’t go there.
One of the girls tanning waves at Bree. It’s another of her students—Alayna—wearing a black bikini top and cutoffs. Her bleached-blond hair sits in a knot on top of her head, appearing almost white in the bright sun, as she sits up on her cherry-colored towel.
This is the trouble with such a small school. Bree can never move around anonymously.
“Hi, Hadley,” Alayna calls, still waving.
They’ve taken to calling Bree this, her students. By her last name—like she’s some beloved coach they’ll follow unquestioningly.
Bree waves back but still feels dazed as she nears the faculty parking lot. Twenty-five days. This is what she waited for all these years—him to pay for what he did. And yet, with the date finally set, it doesn’t feel anything like she thought it would.
Partly, it’s that he’s everywhere now. When she put the Republican Primary Debate on in the background while grading her students’ photography portfolios the other night, a Republican senator talked about the importance of the death penalty for “heinous cases like Jon Allan Blue.” When she checked out at the grocery store last week, loading whiskey and frozen tater tots onto the belt, she saw his face peering from a magazine cover under the headline “Blue Proclaims Innocence While Victims’ Loved Ones Beg for Answers.” There’s even supposed to be a fucking television show about him premiering soon.
He’s everywhere, and Abby is nowhere. A name buried deep in his Wikipedia page, under the heading “Other Possible Victims.” And in twenty-five days, the only person who knows what happened to her will be gone, a corpse lying in the execution chamber at the Kentucky State Penitentiary.
Although it’s only 3:00 p.m. when Bree arrives at the small ranch-style house she rents near campus, she pours herself some Fireball, the cinnamon-flavored whiskey popular with her students. It goes down easily while she reads through news articles. No one mentions investigators’ plans for questioning him or speculates about the odds of him finally confessing.
The familiar anxiety tightens her chest as the sun sets, although it isn’t like when she was in her late teens and early twenties, before a doctor prescribed an antidepressant. Back then, the slightest noise could provoke a panic attack. It was part of why she liked spending evenings with Detective Frye. He made her feel safe.
She doesn’t want to think about Frye, so she checks her email. It’s a horror show of missed deadlines. The one from her friend from graduate school, Pia, especially weighs on her. Pia curates a photography exhibition for emerging female artists. The deadline is nearing, and she wants to know where Bree’s submission is.
In grad school, Bree’s photography started to get attention, winning some contests and grants. She mostly shot portraits of women. The woman working the counter of the adult video store, her expression bored while she scanned DVDs of young women dripping in cum. Bree’s neighbor with the short, bleached hair shot in profile as she bent over the gas stove in her apartment to light her cigarette.
Bree clicks on a folder of some recent photos she’s taken. She didn’t feel anything when she shot them, and she doesn’t feel anything looking at them now. Photography used to be a hunger. Now it seems like something hanging over her head—homework she’s procrastinated on long enough that it looms too large to tackle.
By the time night falls, Bree’s well and truly drunk, even though she has to teach tomorrow morning. She sees all the things she should do. The overflowing garbage can in the kitchen stinks, and she has no clean underwear. She’s lost count of how many times she’s told herself, Tomorrow I’ll do better. Tomorrow I’ll take photos/eat something nutritious/go to bed on time/finally do laundry. Tomorrow, I’ll treat myself like I’m someone worthy of care.
Tonight, though, she stands over the kitchen sink and eats shredded cheese directly out of the bag for dinner. While she chews, she stares out the window overlooking her backyard. It butts against a small, wooded area, and in the light from a half moon, she sees fallen leaves that have blown onto her patchy, overgrown lawn. The previous renter installed a garden plot and chicken coop. Under Bree’s expert care, weeds have overrun the garden, and the coop collapsed, leaving a jagged pile of rotted wood and chicken wire where yellow jackets make nests.
While she stands there, tongue searching her lower lip for a stray bit of cheddar, the motion-activated light switches on. The yard looks even worse in its brightness, illuminating the patches of dead grass. Because of the alcohol, it takes her a moment to realize what triggered the sensor. When she sees it, she drops the bag of cheese into the sink.
A man stands where the edge of her yard meets the woods. Because the light doesn’t reach that far, she can only see his silhouette against the trees. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and looks like he’s dressed in all black—or is that just the lack of light? Her heart beats fast, and she feels dizzy. She wishes she weren’t drunk right now because she’s not sure what to do. Call the police? In moments like this, she can never tell how much her past might be making her overreact. Could it just be someone cutting through the woods on their way to a neighbor’s house? Would a reasonable, non-traumatized, sober person call the police? Would she be this scared if she hadn’t spent the past few hours thinking about Jon Allan Blue?
She steps away from the window to make sure the doors are locked and grabs her cell phone from the living room, keeping it in her hand. When she goes back to the window, the person is gone. She watches for a solid minute but doesn’t see any movement. The motion-controlled light switches off, plunging her yard into darkness.
Just someone cutting through to get to a friend’s house, she tells herself. A college student on his way to a party.
She’s walking back to the sink to put the shredded cheese away when the knocking starts. At first, it’s soft and tentative, and she can’t figure out exactly where it’s coming from. As it grows louder and more insistent, she realizes someone’s at the back door. She’s still got her phone in her hand, and, mouth dry, heart pounding, she’s ready to dial 911 when a familiar voice calls her name.
She unlocks the door and opens it to find Zach standing on her doorstep, smiling, wearing a black hoodie and dark jeans.
“You scared the shit out of me,” she says as he walks inside. “What are you doing skulking around my yard dressed in black?”
“The last time I came over you told me I should be more careful about people seeing me.” He studies her for a moment. “Are you drunk?”
She’s embarrassed—both that she overreacted to seeing someone in her yard and that he caught her drinking alone. Thankfully, an eighteen-year-old is easily distracted. She grabs the bottle of Fireball and gestures toward her bedroom.
“Come on. You’ve got some catching up to do.”
He kicks off his sneakers and follows her like a puppy, padding down the hallway in his socks. She wonders if this is how she looked, all those years ago, when she followed Frye into his bedroom. Had he watched her teenage self with the same mix of arousal and shame she feels now?
She drinks straight from the bottle before handing it to Zach and perching on the edge of her unmade bed. He stands in front of her, bringing the bottle to his lips, his shirt rising to expose his lean stomach and the dark-blond hair leading to the top button of his jeans.
On the bed, her phone lights up with a text. It’s another reminder from Pia about the photography exhibition. You need to put your work out there, it reads. We’re not getting any younger.
Bree’s camera sits on her dresser, coated in a layer of dust. It’s not that she can’t see potential photos—Zach’s head tilted as he swallows, his milky neck exposed, the liquor bottle catching the light from her bedroom lamp. It’s a good shot, but she doesn’t feel any pull to grab her camera. Instead, she stands, takes his head in her hands, and brings her lips to his.
In the morning, she keeps her eyes closed, her breathing steady, listening as Zach zips his jeans before gently shutting the bedroom door. Only when the front door opens and closes does she roll over to lie on her back.
Her head pounds, her mouth cottony. She reaches for the ibuprofen. The nightstand is a disaster, a still-life of a thirty-year-old shit show: empty beer cans, wadded face wipes smeared orangey from her foundation and black from her heavy liquid liner, empty condom wrappers, an orange prescription bottle of Zoloft, the almost-empty bottle of Fireball, a metal one-hitter, and a baggie of shitty weed. Somehow more embarrassing are the attempts at self-care: two glass vials of facial serum and a pot of expensive moisturizer, the bottle of gummy vitamins, sheet mask wrappers, and the essential oil diffuser. Because, sure, she’s spending nights smoking weed and drinking with her eighteen-year-old student and eating shredded cheese over the kitchen sink, but why not make sure her bedroom smells like peppermint and her skin is properly hydrated?
There isn’t water, and she’s not in any shape to walk to the kitchen yet, so she washes the ibuprofen down with some lukewarm beer either Zach or she left in the bottom of a dented can. She gags a little but manages to swallow.
Something occurs to her while she lies there waiting for the painkiller to take effect. The panic cuts through her hangover, and she grabs her laptop from the floor to check the calendar. After doing the math, she turns to the internet. She reads the results and feels sick. It’s impossible to know if it’s an early symptom or just her hangover. You can’t think about this right now, she tells herself. This is a problem for Future Bree.
It was something Abby said a lot—That’s for Abby in Two Hours to deal with. That’s for Tomorrow Abby to handle. She’d say it in a self-deprecating way, her eyes rolling at her own procrastination. After she was gone, these moments would be erased in every vigil, in every newspaper article. They flattened her into a one-note character, the missing girl, perpetually beautiful and smiling, sweet and saint-like. Until, soon, more gruesome deaths overshadowed her, and she was forgotten entirely.
After her classes are finished, Bree drives to the only drugstore in her small town. The bored-looking girl working the checkout isn’t one of Bree’s current or former students, so Bree walks to the feminine care aisle in search of the pregnancy tests.
In front of the feminine washes—the ones that make vaginas smell like someone’s grandmother’s potpourri—a one-gallon bottle of Hawaiian Punch sits discarded. Bree sees why it was abandoned—the bottle leaks a puddle of red liquid onto the tile. If Bree stands back, she can get the puddle and the rows of tampons and pads into a shot. It could be a good composition, if a little on the nose. She sees the technical merits of it, but there’s nothing pulling her toward shooting it.
She bends down to study the pregnancy tests behind the locked case but hears a familiar voice.
“Hadley!”
Alayna is standing next to the condoms.
It’s wrong to have favorites, but Alayna is one of Bree’s. She’s short and round-faced and works long hours at Dollar General. She reminds Bree of herself at eighteen. It’s a narcissistic reason to want to mentor someone, but Bree can’t help it. Bree’s careful to step away from the pregnancy tests and toward the menstrual products.
“I’m sorry I missed today’s class,” Alayna says. “But I had to cover someone’s shift at the last minute.”
Everything Alayna says sounds like a question even if it isn’t. She has a great photographic eye, taking digital photos of the women in her life—her grandmother holding a Newport 100 between red acrylics while looking out at their backyard. A chained bulldog running on a circle of bare earth. Her best friend in a pink bra and black underwear, pinching the fat on her waist as she stares at her reflection in a toothpaste-spotted bathroom mirror.
Bree grabs a box of super absorbency tampons and tells Alayna it’s fine.
“Can you send me your PowerPoint?” Alayna asks. “The guy whose notes I borrowed didn’t do a great job.”
Bree nods. She wishes, though, she could tell her: Look, you’re going to get an A in this class no matter what, so just calm the fuck down.
Although Bree doesn’t feel especially youthful lately, she’s still the young, cool professor. She rarely enforces deadlines and listens when students vent about things. Some of them probably think she’s a pushover, but life is hard, and Bree so rarely has her own shit together. The closest relationship she has right now is with a boy whose name is in her grade book and who’s too young to remember 9/11. Who is she to judge anyone?
“I shouldn’t have asked him for the notes,” Alayna says. “I really only did it because I wanted him to ask me out.”
“Oh?” Bree says. Before she started teaching, she wouldn’t have believed the things students would confide. But in almost four years of teaching college students, she has heard about herpes outbreaks, mental breakdowns, students’ porn addictions, and so many other deeply personal confessions.
“I just can’t tell from social media if he has a girlfriend or not,” Alayna says, peering at her phone, her neon yellow acrylic nails tapping against the screen. “There’s a girl from his hometown he takes pictures with, but I haven’t seen him with anyone here.”
She shouldn’t ask, her colleagues wouldn’t ask, but Bree loves gossip. “Who was this whose notes you borrowed?”
“Zach,” Alayna says.
Bree’s head snaps up, and then she immediately looks down, as if she’s carefully studying the sanitary pad offerings. One-hundred percent leak-free comfort! one box advertises.
“Well,” she tells Alayna, staring at a box of overnight pads with wings. “It was good to see you. I’ll make sure to send you the PowerPoint.”
“Great,” Alayna says, still not leaving.
“Have a good night.”
“Thanks,” Alayna says, still standing there. “Do you think it’s bad to ask a guy out? Like, does it seem desperate?”
Alayna’s expression is so earnest, her wide eyes watching Bree, her small mouth pursed. Bree has seen this with other female students. They’ll come to office hours and ask things like: Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? Where did you go to school?
She’s a paper doll they’re holding up, seeing if they, someday, might want her life. It’s an achievement she’s even tricked them into thinking it’s worth considering.
She has to swallow a few times and clear her throat before she answers. “I think a woman should always ask for what she wants.”
Alayna smiles so wide her dimples appear. “Thanks, Hadley.”
Before Alayna leaves the aisle, she selects the exact type of tampons Bree grabbed and follows her to the checkout line.
When Bree gets home, she sits at her computer and types Jon Allan Blue’s name into the internet search bar. That’s how she thinks of him—by his full name, careful even in the privacy of her own mind not to slip up, not to think about the person he was to her before his name started appearing in newspapers.
She knows reading more about him right now is a bad decision, but she can’t stop herself. It’s the same impulse that makes her search Abby’s name sometimes or scour cold-case forums about her. It will distract her from her late period and her guilt about sleeping with Zach the way pressing on a bruise might. Sure, it will hurt, but doesn’t she deserve to hurt?
She scrolls past articles about the execution date and finds think piece atop think piece:
Jon Allan Blue typifies toxic masculinity, and we should all pay attention.
Jon Allan Blue’s toxic masculinity isn’t anything special, and it’s wrong to give him attention.
It isn’t Jon Allan Blue’s toxic masculinity we should be concerned with—it’s his white privilege.
Stop saying Jon Allan Blue is hot!
Further into the search results, she sees the TV show that’s about to come out about him has been designated by Entertainment Weekly as “must watch.”
She pulls up IMDb and scrolls through the cast list. Of course, Abby’s name isn’t in the credits as one of the characters, although there is “Screaming Girl” and “Terrified Girl Running” and “Crying Girl.” Bree supposes Abby could have been any of those. She doesn’t know. She wasn’t there. She has no idea what her final hours were like.
Sometimes it seems like an answer—any answer—to what happened to Abby that night is what Bree needs to move on. To stop typing Blue’s name into search bars and pick up her camera again. To stop screwing around with one of her students and date someone her own age. To get her shit together and let go of all the guilt and grief that has settled on her like a heavy coat.
She pictures what the University of Iowa’s campus looked like twelve years ago. The real campus—not some Hollywood approximation. The lawn picturesque in the autumn sun. Orange, red, and yellow leaves glowing bright in front of the limestone buildings’ arched windows and ornate stonework. Abby, Chelsea, and Bree drinking Red Bull and vodkas at a bar with beer-sticky floors, clutching the fake IDs Chelsea got them. Eating quesadillas the size of dinner plates at bar close, Abby’s head on Bree’s shoulder. The three of them sprawled on the grass in the Pentacrest on sunny days, the Beaux-Arts buildings looming over them as they napped or read for classes, ladybugs crawling across their bare legs. Early morning in sweatshirts, shotgunning cheap cans of beer in the parking lot of the football stadium, the air full of smoke from grilled burgers and brats, the thrum of the drumline reverberating in their bones as the hours collapsed toward kickoff.
Then, for one second, she sees the moment in exact detail: Abby crying under the statue of the Black Angel in her Hermione Halloween costume, snowflakes collecting on her coppery hair. Chelsea and Bree watching her, not putting their arms around her, letting her walk away. Her footprints in the snow leading down that blacktop path. The last trace of her they ever saw.
