The Hidden and The Lost

By Leslee Koritzke

Men and women from across Southern California vanish without a trace.

A backyard firepit in a suburb of Los Angeles contains the gruesome evidence of a dangerous cult.

And two investigators hunt for a missing girl before she, too, pays a steep price for leaving home.

 

Private investigator Brynna McLeish and her partner, Marcus Wills, struggle to pay the too-high rent in Pasadena and are willing to take any case that lands on their desks. A missing teenager soon becomes more than just another way to make a living. The investigation will bring them face to face with an obsessive group – one that has been luring people with hope and exacting an unusual cost for membership.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leslee Koritzke
• Release date: Aug 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223831006

Leslee Koritzke

Leslee Koritzke is a psychology professor, potter, and longtime writer. She was a finalist for Writers of the Future, a science fiction writing award. She is the author of The Hidden and The Lost and Pour a Glass: The Wine and Drink Pairing Guide for Terrible Writing. When not working, she serves as her dog’s well-trained human.

Book preview

Prologue

The woman crosses the dead lawn, ducking beneath the darkened windows. Dried grass crunches beneath her boots. A quarter moon shines in the clear night sky, city lights obscuring most of the stars. She opens the wooden gate on the north side of the two-story ranch house. The next house is a mirror image of this one: beige stucco and a tile roof.

She's unconcerned that any of the neighbors would see her. People mind their own business. As long as no one trespasses into their backyards, they are willing to ignore what happens in others' yards. So many people come and go to this house at the north end of the San Fernando Valley, one more will escape notice.

But no one is here now. The occupants and their visitors all moved to a canyon in the San Gabriel Mountains, leaving the house and yard empty. She sidles beside the house, cautious by nature. Brushing beside the trash bins and humming air conditioning system, she peers around the corner to the open yard. The backyard firepit sits in the center of the yard, surrounded by low wooden benches and several beach chairs. Italian cypress trees line the fences, blocking the view from the stucco-covered homes on each side. The moon barely illuminates the aqua chairs. She pulls the rubber gloves from her jacket pocket and puts them on. From her other pocket, she fishes out the pen light and turns it on.

A pop sounds behind her and she spins, expecting to see a figure in the pre-dawn light. No one’s there. An acorn rolls toward her from the patio, just fallen from the oak tree next door, a branch poking through the slim thirty-foot-tall barrier. Ignoring her thumping heart and growling stomach, she sits on a large rock beside the firepit. She places the pen light between her teeth, shining it on the scene before her.

Leaning toward the ashes, she gives up any notion of remaining clean and kneels in the sand lining the pit. Her gloved hands sift through the ashes with slow, scooping motions. A few spots at the bottom of the pit are still warm. The fire blazed just a few hours ago and she is surprised to find the heat has mostly dissipated in the warm summer night.

She picks the solid pieces out of the ashes. Pushing aside the burnt stubs of wood, she gingerly places the more substantial bits on a bench. The pile slowly accumulates, some items she can identify, others will need an expert eye.

Seven teeth.

The bones of two mostly-intact left feet, both missing the largest toe.

Three hands, two right and one left.

Twelve fingers.

And thirty-eight more brittle, ash-covered bones. Remnants of the Family of Lightness Church.

Part One

Chapter 1

Veronica Torres's laptop glowed before her face, purple and pink comforter over her head and hunched shoulders. She readjusted the headset's microphone to better pick up her own whispering, and the earbuds to hear her friend's. The characters on screen ran through the desert landscape.

The wispy blonde avatar touched the symbol on the back of the motor home. The stylized hand shone, complete at last. The short brunette beside her jumped and whooped. Her teal and aqua dress spun around in a wave of color.

Finally! I thought we were never going to finish that, said the quiet voice in her ear. Where are we going next?

To sleep. I need to crash, Sierra. Shorah, Sea-Air! Veronica spoke into her headset, watching the avatars on the computer screen. She gave her best friend the universal word for hello and goodbye. The girls hadn't learned much more of the fictional D'ni language.

Shorah, Fair-o-nica! Sierra's voice piped through the earphones. See you tomorrow.

The girls had been playing Myst online for hours. They'd spent the last twenty minutes trying to lower a bucket into the underground warren of rooms, known as The Cleft. Veronica knew she should have gone to sleep earlier, but she could not walk away from the online puzzle. Fifteen-year-old Sierra was even more obsessed with the game. She'd been known to play all night, then fall asleep in class the next day.

Veronica's avatar froze in place as she closed the laptop. Her leggy, fair-skinned alter-ego managed to solve all of her problems in the online world. She fell asleep wishing she had the same luck. And the same look.

Veronica felt through the blankets for her phone. The incessant sound might as well have been screaming, Get up! Get up!

She hit the snooze and pulled a pillow over her face.

Veronica! Are you up? her mother yelled from down the hall.

A mumbled yeah made its way through the fabric over her face, but not loud enough for Estrella to hear.

Veronica!

She threw the pillow to the floor. I'm up! She rubbed her eyes and began the daily process of getting ready for school. The first task of the day: choosing clothes she didn't completely hate.

The twin bed against the wall took up most of the room's space. A small particle-board desk sat beneath the double-paned window. Scuff marks on the lavender walls showed where she had carelessly kicked off her shoes, missing the closet. The dresser drawers hung open, fabric draping out of each drawer. The sliding closet door came off its hinges long ago and rested against the wall. Some of the clothes inside lay on the floor, others on hangers.

Long pants? The jeans no longer buttoned at the top. Besides, the forecast predicted another warm spring day. The long navy skirt, then. She grabbed it from a pile on the floor by the desk. Three-quarter sleeves of a thin violet sweater hid her upper arms. The torso pressed too tight on her belly. Extra large sweatshirt? Too hot. The sweater would have to do. She pulled on black leggings under the skirt in a last-ditch effort to hide her calves from view. At least the slip-on shoes still fit.

Veronica walked down the hall to the bathroom. As she did every morning, she leaned in, trying to grab the hairbrush from the counter without catching a glimpse of herself. No matter how far she stretched she couldn't reach it without stepping all the way into the room. She turned her head away from the mirror to test herself. Could she just brush this once without looking at her own hideousness? No. She stopped. The brush snagged in the ends of her brown hair. The face looking back at her snarled in contempt.

Zit. Zit. Zit.

Her chocolate brown eyes alternated between anger and disgust. She dropped the brush in the sink and stomped toward the kitchen.

Sit down and eat. Estrella Torres stood next to the stove, pointing to the kitchen table with a spatula.

Veronica's mother used her Bossy Mom voice. There was no arguing.

The teenager moved around the table to the armless chair. The waistband of her skirt pressed against Veronica's flesh as she sat, wood creaking beneath her.

I'm not that hungry. She did not sound convincing. They played this game every morning. Veronica would say she didn't want any food. Her mother would serve it and insist that she eat. Veronica would clean her plate, and blame her mother for force-feeding her.

You have to eat before school. Eat. Her mother placed two plates of bacon and eggs on the table. She sat across from her daughter, pushing a glass of orange juice to her, then adding sugar to her own coffee.

Veronica drowned the eggs in ketchup. She used the crispy bacon to push them onto her fork. Then she shoved the three pieces of bacon into her mouth. She would be able to refuse to eat if her mother made it all less tasty. It was her mother's fault that she had no willpower.

I hate you, she mumbled as she pushed her chair back. She picked up the backpack by the front door and returned to her room to throw in the last items for school.

As she began to zip her phone into the top pocket, it rang with the annoying Dad! Dad! Dad! ringtone. She sighed and answered.

What, dad? I gotta go to school.

Do not speak to me like that. If I wanted attitude, I'd talk to your mother. Tomás Torres's gruff voice shut down any possible comeback.

Sorry, dad, Veronica said in an effort to sound contrite.

Hm. Pretending to be respectful is not the same as being respectful. Leaving your shit all over my apartment is absolutely not respectful. Your mother has the house and you have your own goddamn room there and you will not dump it all here over the weekends. If you want to keep yourself looking like shit or your room looking like shit, that's your problem. I have enough to deal with over here without finding papers and socks and god-knows-what. Olga's my girlfriend, not your maid.

I'm sorry, dad. I—

Just don't. Maybe I need to go back to court to change the arrangement. You don't want to be here anyway. No more than your mother did. Before Veronica could respond, her father's voice cut off as he hung up the phone.

Mouth open in disbelief, eyes tearing up, she stared at her phone's wallpaper image of her own Myst avatar.

Veronica vividly remembered the last time she spent a whole day with both of her parents. The three of them drove down to Disneyland for no other occasion than a fun Saturday. The trip took over an hour, but dreams of toys, rides, and food distracted her until they arrived. A trip to Anaheim always followed the same order: park in the structure, take the tram to the drop-off point, and then ignore the shops at Downtown Disney as they walked full-speed to the ticket window. The switchback lines to buy tickets moved steadily, though seven-year-old Veronica didn't understand why the process seemed to take an eternity.

Three tickets later and more lines to the front gates of Disneyland. They would not go to California Adventure today.

I bet people with smaller seven-year-olds can get their kids in for free, her father said.

The only kids who get in free are under two. You can get away with that when they're four. Not seven, her mother snapped.

If you didn't feed her so much. . . .

Veronica ignored the exchange as she showed her ticket to the woman at the front. They moved away from the turnstile and posed for the traditional picture before the flowers in the shape of Mickey Mouse's face.

Let's skip it today. Her father took her hand and pulled her through the tunnel beneath the train tracks.

They proceeded through the park in the same order as always. They checked to see if any rides were closed that day. Then they moved to the east side of the park for the counterclockwise crawl through rides, food, and more rides.

Veronica took turns sitting beside each of her parents on the rides, or in the case of the Matterhorn, in front of her mother. Her parents never sat beside each other, using their daughter as a buffer between them.

Over her head on the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad ride, her mother shouted, Tomás! Why are we doing this?

It's fun, mama, that's why! Veronica yelled to her mother.

"I wasn't talking to you, mija."

We'll talk in the car. Not scream at each other on a damn ride. Her father didn't look at her, but Veronica thought he meant her, rather than her mother.

Talk about what, daddy?

Nothing, sweetie. Eyes facing forward, he didn't say another word that day until they got back to the car. There were few kind words in the eight years since.

"Time to go, mija! Get in the car," her mother called from down the hallway.

Coming, Veronica responded, placing her phone back in the pocket, zipping it closed.

Chapter 2

Brynna McLeish locks her silver Prius on the west side of Marengo Ave. The sun at her back, she looks at the one-hundred-year-old Craftsman office building, converted from a six-bedroom house. She’s lucky to have found office space in Pasadena for less than an absolute fortune. Crunching over the dying grass, she walks straight to the green-painted steps that lead to the front door.

Another year without rain. Another year of brown plants. At least the deep-rooted Jacaranda trees would soon bloom with their purple flowers.

Brynna greets the building manager, Mr. Gamble.

Good morning, she says. Don't stop me. Please don't stop me. Let me at least have my coffee first.

He blocks the doorway to the kitchen. There’s a piece of English muffin in his beard. Lucky girl. I have your mail, he says, holding out a handful of envelopes.

Uh, thanks? Coffee. I just want coffee.

My pleasure. I put a little present in there for you.

Of course. The bill for the May rent.

I'll get right on that. Excuse me. She takes a step forward and he shuffles out of her way. And, you have a little something . . . she points to his beard. He brushes it with the back of his hand, clearly not caring if he dislodges the piece or not.

Brynna stops by the shared kitchen to find that someone has already made a full pot of coffee. She jams a crushed dollar into the slot of the brown-lidded coffee can labeled Sbux donations! Pay up! Her oversized cup from yesterday sits on the counter. One quick rinse and she fills it up. A splash of heavy whipping cream and a tablespoon of raw sugar.

Another Monday starts the way it should.

On the third floor, her nameplate shines in professional-looking Copperplate font: McLeish and Wills, Investigators. Every workday she struggles to find the keys buried deep in her purse, careful not to spill the precious coffee. She hears motion behind the cherry door and kicks twice with her pointed shoe.

His rolling chair squeaks as Marcus Wills leans back to open the door for her.

Whudja bring me? he asks, hands behind his head.

I brought MY coffee. And some bills. You are more than welcome to them. She pulls the envelopes from her purse and waves them in his direction.

I'm giving up bills for Lent.

Easter was weeks ago and you're not Catholic, she says as she sits in her chair. She places the coffee cup on the coaster. Three stacks of paper-filled folders lay to the right side of the east-facing desk, labeled done, doing, and next. A computer runs a colorful screensaver beside the papers.

Marcus shrugs. So whudja do this weekend? Another hot date?

Uh, yeah, the usual. I couldn't decide between Netflix and Hulu so I had them both.

You know I know a guy. . . . Marcus's bright smile shines in contrast to his mocha skin.

Yeah, that's not gonna work for me. Brynna rubs the vial on the end of her necklace between her finger and thumb. Over the years of shaking it, tapping against teeth, and general abuse, the yellow rocks inside the inch-long glass tube have broken down to powder. She stares toward her desk, seeing nothing, Marcus's voice a drone in the background. A snap of fingers before her face startles her out of her reverie.

Welcome back.

Sorry. Just floated for a minute there. I'd better suck down this coffee. What did you say?

Marcus sighs. The short version is that I'm wrapping up the Peterson case. Should be done in a day. The simple background investigation didn't take much time and wouldn't result in a huge fee. What about you?

I have a few call-backs. Maybe there's a live one in there. If there are any cakewalk cases, I'll throw one to you. Brynna holds up her hands to fend off Marcus's glare. I mean, I'll evenly split the cases with you, based solely on their monetary value.

Yeah, that's what I thought you meant. He turns back to his computer, shaking his head. Aren't you finishing up the Henriksen corporate search yet?

Today. I hate corporate cases. They take forever to pay up. There are a couple interesting possibilities in these messages, though. One is a missing person. A lot of expenses. A lot of hours. I love cases where someone willingly throws money at me to solve their problem.

Ever the humanitarian.

Brynna flings the rent bill at the back of Marcus's head.

Chapter 3

MISSING TEEN, 17, VANISHES FROM MALL

02/15/1988

SAN DIEGO, CA — San Diego police officers are searching for Romi Rodriguez, 17, reported missing by her family. She was last seen on Saturday, February 13th at 5:35 p.m. speaking with a man outside the Fashion Hills Mall. The drop-off point next to Nordstrom's is a common place for teens to be left and picked up by adults.

Romi was known to visit the mall with friends or alone. The payphone on the corner of Church Road was in working order. There are also several phone booths and pay phones available within the mall for unsupervised minors to call their parents.

Romi is a senior at Lincoln High School. She is 5'4" tall and weighs approximately 130 pounds. She is Hispanic with shoulder-length brown hair and brown eyes.

Her ears are pierced and she wore small hoop earrings the morning of her disappearance. Her mother reports that she left the house wearing blue jeans, a bright green sweater, and a navy blue ski jacket.

The man seen with her is Caucasian, 6'3" tall and weighing approximately 250 pounds. He appeared to be in his late teens or early twenties. He was driving a new red Chevrolet Silverado minivan. No license plate was reported. The police department believes this man was previously unknown to Romi.

Frida and David Rodriguez are asking for the safe return of their daughter. Anyone having information should call the San Diego Police Department at 619-555-3456.

Chapter 4

The black four-door sedan pulled up to the Chatsridge Prep Academy drop-off point, engine idling. Green hills lay in the distance, just beginning to brown after a winter of a miraculous two-day rain. The low Spanish-style buildings of the school glowed in the morning light, Gingko trees with their distinctive green leaves planted several yards apart along the walkway.

What are your plans after school today? Estrella asked.

Nothing. I don't know, Veronica mumbled while shaking her head. Go to the mall, maybe. Depends. Her hair hung, covering her left eye, leaving her unable to look at her mother.

Text me. I need to know where you are. Estrella's voice managed to combine frustration and resignation at her daughter's hormone-fueled adolescent angst.

Veronica felt the controlling noose of her mother tighten. She slid out of the car and shoved the door closed with her hip. As she walked closer to the gate, the guard at the chain-link fence looked over her head. Just another quiet Monday.

But Veronica's mind was not staying quiet. Why did I wear this today? Oh, God, this is going to be a disaster. She stared at the walkway a few feet in front of her, making her way through the entrance. Hunched over from the weight of books in her backpack, she trudged up the stairs to first period ninth-grade English.

Boys and girls, some with child-like bodies of undeveloped fourteen-year-olds, others with adult muscles and curves, pushed their way to class. The smells of Axe, unwashed gym clothes, scented lotion, and body odor intermingled in the hallway. Most of the kids surpassed Veronica by several inches, placing her nose at the perfect height to detect her peers’ bathing habits.

She approached her locker and spun the lock. Notebooks and textbooks traded places in her backpack. The kids around her laughed with their friends.

There were students of every shape, size, and ethnicity. Popular cliques walked one way, basketball players the other. The kids from the marching band stood in front of a doorway. Debate club members came out of their zero period classroom.

Hey, Fair-o-nica! Sierra nudged her with her elbow. Her friend stood half a head below her. Freckles on her nose accentuated her pale skin.

Veronica waited a beat before replying, Hey back. Um, can you not call me that at school? She felt certain that the other kids would hear them and use the moniker as ammunition for bullying.

Oh, yeah. Our secret. Got it. When can you play later?

Veronica shrugged, but she wanted to die inside. Play? Oh, God. We sound like little kids. I'll text you, okay? Sierra had been her best friend since third grade. Veronica didn't want to hurt her feelings, but she began to wonder if their freshman year of high school should bring a new crop of friends. Mature friends. Popular friends.

Sierra whispered, I kind of kept playing Myst. Now we're in a land called Teledahn. There's this flooded room, and I'm not sure what to do about it. Chances are, she'd spent most of the night on the game. Playing games was her favorite escape from school, parents, and whatever the worries of the day might be. Adults might believe that the games were a waste of time, but the girls knew that some people found their true selves hidden on the screen. I'll show you tonight, okay?

Sure, Sea-air, Veronica whispered back.

The only way to make new friends is to change something. What are the options? Learn to play an instrument? It's probably too late for that. Try out for drama or choir? Too embarrassing.

Veronica watched Sierra maneuver through the crowd to her own first period class. People seemed to jostle Veronica from every side. They all had places to go and she felt trapped in one place. Slowly she pushed her way past the bodies toward the girls' bathroom down the hall.

All of those instas seem to agree: the key to making friends for people with no talent is to look like the rest of them. Thin and pretty with perfect skin.

Veronica flamed with anger at her situation, self-pity, and hatred for every other kid at the school. Her anger spread through her, to her parents, the school, and a world that valued looks above all else. No matter how many times her mother said she's fine the way she is, Veronica couldn't make herself believe that. The fitspiration stars and Instagram influencers posted the only truth she could see. If she worked harder, bought more products, and ate less food, she would have what they all had: fame, fortune, friends, and fun. One of her fitspiration heroes went from flab-a-licious to ab-a-licious in just thirty days with a regimen of vegan foods and daily four-hour workouts. Her daily feed bombarded her with images and advice to change who she was.

Last year's health teacher, Mr. Porter, explained that a combination of hormones and the consequence-processing area of the brain's rapid growth made for horrible decisions. Veronica understood this on an intellectual level. She aced the test on it all. Yet her inner experience felt absolutely genuine. Perhaps most kids' brains couldn't filter the lies from the truth, but Veronica knew in her