your best american girl ✓

04 | happy birthday, mr. president

"Still don't think she's a runaway?" I ask him with an eyebrow raised. To suggest otherwise would negate all the clear signs: the deliberately wiped out information on her phone, the dresses intentionally arranged to send a message, and the fact that her family doesn't seem to be that worried about her. Still, that doesn't explain why she didn't leave a note for closure or why she disappeared so suddenly. I'm not a detective, but if all the true crime shows I'm watching are right, we don't know what drove her to run away, if she ran away at all. That alone suggests that maybe there is a little bit of foul play involved.

Looking up from the phone, Hunter presses his lips into a grim line, visibly in disbelief that I was able to unlock it. Rolling his shoulders back, he finally meets my gaze, and the intensity pouring from his stare is enough to make my knees buckle. Being around him for extended periods of time has helped me understand his charm. Unlike his best friend, there are small markings on his face—like the spray of freckles along the bridge of his nose, or the comma shaped scar on his lower lip, or the dark circles under his deep set eyes—that make him so much more memorable in a haunting way. Time to time, I catch myself studying the thickness of his arms, or the sturdiness of his stance. "I never said she wasn't, but there's only way to know for sure."

"Oh? And how's that?" I challenge, pushing my round glasses up my nose.

"Simple. Cape Bedford's train station keeps records of every ticket bought," he informs me, matter-a-factly, leaning into his hands as he takes a second to read me.

"Sounds like a flimsy lead," I retort, crossing my arms. "There are a million other ways she could've left. Besides, her phone was found at your house, meaning she came back from the train station to here."

A nonchalant shrug. "That might be true, but what does someone do at a train station if they're not buying a ticket or boarding a train? It's been 4 years, Lay. This is our only viable lead."

Taking a step backwards, I take a moment to consider him. "Okay, you're right."

"Before we leave, I have one more thing I think you'll like to see," he tells me, handing me a neat stack of papers held together by a paper clip.

Flipping through the first few pages or so, I realize it's a resume. On the top of the page, the contact information is missing. The design of the whole thing is...questionable. In terms of font and the wording of the job experiences, it's very...unprofessional to say the least.

"What the hell is this?" I ask, continuing to read through the poorly lined up passages.

"House maid's resume," he answers nonchalantly.

Skimming through her experiences, I notice a lot of her past jobs were in China. It's very likely she's an immigrant and arrived recently.

A polaroid is attached to the top of the next page. Gingerly, I remove it from the paper clip. A young woman with thick eyelids and a prominent nose stares back at me. LULU JIANG, 1975, is written on the bottom. This is the girl Wes D'Medici had an affair with behind his wife's back? Don't get me wrong, she's pretty, but she isn't the type of girl I'd assume he'd like. Before seeing this picture, I pictured their maid to be, well, white.

"Why does she still work for you?" I ask, unable to withhold my curiosity any longer.

"Dunno," he confesses, shrugging, "she's good at her job, and I suppose it might be hard for her to find another one. Plus, my sister has a soft spot for her, and my mom is willing to put the history behind her, I guess. That's not the point though. She's coming in tomorrow morning. I was hoping you could, I don't know, gain her trust and hopefully get some information out of her. Her English...isn't the best."