The disappearance of Queenie Franklin thrilled the students at Sage College, but not outwardly. In public, we masked our excitement with the expected horror and hysterical tears and campus church meetings and pretended to be decent human beings with real feelings; innocent pre-adults who'd been traumatized by the loss of our friend. Beneath the façade, we were near sociopaths with potato salad instead of brains - spoiled since birth by too much positive reinforcement from well-meaning parents.

After the meetings, huddled in tight circles behind closed dorm room doors, and drinking the awful, sweet alcohol we'd buy year after year because it tasted the best coming back up, the Sage student body mercilessly hypothesized about the possible fates that might have befallen poor Queenie, all of them grotesque and scandalous. The most popular options were that she voluntarily joined a sex cult offering her naked body as a virgin sacrifice, or had committed suicide in a more interesting way than James Stein who had died by swallowing his whole Ativan prescription.

Breathlessly we pictured receiving the note she must have dropped in the mail before hanging herself in the forest just outside of town. Anne Irving, who had already graduated with a in BFA Creative Writing had returned to the campus dorms to composed fictional versions of Queenie's suicide note, the most salacious alluding to the shame Queenie felt about having an illicit relationship with her brother, though no one knew for sure if she had a brother, and if she did, he hadn't accompanied her parents to the church meetings and vigils.

Something you should know about Queenie. Not only was she physically lovely, tan and blonde in the annoying golden girl, future veterinarian and wife to a not-for-profit lawyer way, but she was also the kindest person at Sage. She was a member of the University Church of Christ, as most of us were, but she was really, actually a Christian who did things like organize and run a soup kitchen out of the empty sorority house on G street. By comparison, Katy Harcourt for example, used a homeless woman to buy her Adderal so she didn't have to risk getting arrested.

You would think that Queenie's sweet disposition might exempt her from our cruelty, but it only ignited our creativity. Had Nottie Barhia gone missing no one would have blinked. We would have assumed she'd died of dehydration doing ecstasy in the desert with the hippie losers she was known to associate with. Stupid. Boring. The end. But with Queenie, there was so much possibility, so many fascinating ways in which her purity might have been sullied. It was the price she'd pay for her earnestness. Was she abducted at the Route 107 truck stop bathroom while attempting prostitution for the first time (in order to pay the rent of someone less fortunate, of course) leaving behind nothing more than a lacy ankle sock splattered with blood? Did she secretly practice witchcraft and did she upset the devil by using a cross as a dildo? Did the president of Sage, Reverend Richard Jackson, sex traffic her to a wealthy alumnus as a thank you for a large donation?

Our speculations turned quickly to pure narcissism, and escalated to a fever pitch as the days turned into weeks. There were nightly Ouija Board sessions, one revealing that the school campus had been built over what was once a giant clay oven that had been used by a cult leader named Lockheart to burn his entire community alive in the 1682. There was a séance/tarot reading during which Mark Lowe sacrificed his goldfish by letting it flop around on the carpet until it died as a way to appease evil spirits. More than half the sophomore class decided to use the disappearance as an excuse to skip the rest of first semester claiming they were suffering from a group anxiety disorder called 'Peribitia' and at least eight but no more than ten drama club members cut gashes in their scalp near the crown of the head as part of an exorcism ceremony and had to go to the emergency room, though this could have been unrelated to the disappearance.

While most of my peers were distracted by visions of paranormal intervention and alien abduction, I decided that Queenie was most likely murdered by a local serial killer and that an investigation must be conducted.

My first task was to determine who in our small college town, was most likely to be a serial killer. I gathered that serial killers frequently hid in plain sight, could be charming and possibly handsome, and were meticulously cautious though sometimes they lost control, made a mistake and in the heat of passion left behind clues that could be found by an observant detective.

I was aware of no one at Sage who was charming, so I had to use my intuition. I decided to focus on a man in his forties named Greg Dockson who'd approached my friend Terri one night at The Cannery – the dank, cave-like bar downtown that let everyone use their fake IDs.

Though he wasn't handsome or charismatic, Greg was prime suspect number one because he was so seemingly ordinary. He wore a tidy orange golf polo with the name of his realty company "Dockson's Realty" embroidered on the chest (he'd pointed this out to Terri) and neat grey slacks ironed with a crease down the front and he had shaved off all but a few speckles of hair on his balding head. He was also noticeably muscular, beefy almost, but his body didn't match his meek demeanor, as if his physique was the result of an injection he'd found in the back of a men's magazine rather than hard work. He was clearly hiding in plain sight and the evidence was damning enough for me to move swiftly to the second phase of my plan without bothering to consider anyone else.

I used my father's credit card that he'd given me for emergencies only, to buy $3000 dollars of surveillance equipment. I'd driven to a survivalist shop 90 minutes away from campus and bought a pair of binoculars, two hidden-camera's that looked like smoke detectors, night vision goggles, a microphone the size of a button, a cat burglar suit that promised to contain all hair, skin, sweat and fingerprints during a break-in, a fake search warrant and detectives badge, and a large magnet able to disarm any security system in its vicinity.

I had everything I needed to execute a no-fail investigative strategy. Greg was easy to track down thanks to the company name on his shirt which lead me easily to his office downtown where my stakeout would begin. I'd wait until he left work and then follow him home. Once I assessed his private residence, I would do some light investigating and then return the next day to install the cameras and microphones and see if I could find any hard evidence leading to Queenie's whereabouts.

The night before my plans were to take place, I lay in my bed late into the night, staring at the ceiling wide awake. I had never felt so energized, and full of purpose. I believed that I was the one person on earth who could find out what really happened to Queenie and I dreamed of the many interviews I'd give after I broke the case.

"There will definitely be some hard choices," I thought. "Which news network will get the exclusive? Who will publish my memoir? Then there will be consultation requests from police departments and probably the FBI asking for my input on the unsolved cases on their dockets, how will I arrange my schedule? Will I bother to finish my Communications degree?"

When I woke up the next afternoon, I was surprised to discover that I was still interested in pursuing Greg Dockson. Ordinarily my motivation had a way of seeping out of me during the night.

I grabbed my duffle bag full of gear and headed out into the courtyard of my dorm. Walking past the pool, I immediately sensed a shift in the energy of my classmates. It seemed the interest in Queenie's whereabouts was dying down because groups of boys and girls were once again lounging in the afternoon sun, hoola-hooping, playing drums, braiding each other's hair, whereas before they had put great effort into appearing to be distraught.

"Good," I thought. "I want to be the only one to find out what happened to Queenie. If they've lost interest, that means they haven't figured out, like I have, that Greg Dockson has either killed her or is planning to kill Queenie soon."

I parked my Volvo in the parking lot of the shopping center across from Dockson Realty, pulled out my binoculars, and aimed them at the office building where it was located. I couldn't see anything incriminating, or anything at all and so I waited for Greg to appear. It was 3 o'clock in the afternoon and I felt energized from a good night's sleep.

I opened my duffle bag and organized my stuff. I hadn't read the instructions for the cameras or the microphone and so I wasn't sure how they worked, but I figured that would come to me in the moment. Also, I couldn't seem to get the night vision goggles to turn on, but maybe they only worked at night? I filled out what I could of the fake search warrant, though I'd have to wait until I knew his home address to complete it.

Looking through my gear had taken up only fifteen minutes and after passing an hour doing nothing, my enthusiasm for the investigation started to wane.

Another mind numbing half hour passed and I was on the verge of giving up and going to Burrito Monster when a flash of Orange caught my eye. It was Greg's polo shirt – the very one he was wearing when he tried to capture Terri! Seeing his stalky frame in the light of day filled me with terror but also will. This was real. Greg was real. Maybe Queenie could be saved.

Greg got into his brand new white Ford truck and I started my car and backed out of my parking space recklessly. I think my eyes were shut. I had no idea how to follow someone and I panicked losing sight of the truck.

Then I saw it up the street and nearly caused five accidents as I briefly drove on the wrong side of the road. The honking noises made felt like I was being stabbed. Greg was stabbing me, he knew he was being watched. He was preparing for his next victim. Even though my physical characteristics didn't meet his preferences, he preferred voluptuous blondes, he'd have to make an exception and dismember me, not for pleasure, but because he couldn't leave a trail. I knew his secret and I must be disposed of like a bag of garbage.

I took some deep breaths, steadied myself and continued to follow the truck at a safe distance. Eventually, it pulled into the parking lot of 24 Hour Workout and I drove up to the curb and watched as Greg jumped out of the truck, he was on the shorter side and the truck was high off the ground. He grabbed his gym bag from the truck bed and paused to answer a call on his cell phone before going in.

I felt a need rise up in me. A sharp decisive jolt of electricity that communicated, though not in words, that what I must do is confront Greg Dobson, here, now, in front of the gym. I must make my case publically, before he has a chance to burn my corpse in the industrial oven he had installed in his basement.

I was shaking uncontrollably as I opened the car door and stepped out. Greg had finished his call and had pulled open the door to the gym. "Wait!" I yelled. My voice was emotional and I realized that I was crying. The area was quiet and no one else was nearby so Greg turned, though he was unsure if he was the person being summoned. His eyebrows were raised in a "Who me?" formation.

"I know you did it," I was crying hard now. "I know you killed her," crying so hard I was nearly choking, the words coming out me like a coughing fit.

Greg's look of "Who me?" changed to one of genuine concern. "Are you ok?" he asked. He voice was gentle and kind but worried. He started walking toward me carefully, the way you would approach a stray cat.

"Don't come near me," I said, though unconvincingly.

"Do you need help? Can I call someone for you?" Greg held out his cell phone in front of him like an offering, like he might lay it down on the pavement, as if he were surrendering a gun.

I softened to him and shook my head and lowered it. I crouched down into a squat and hugged my skinny knees into my chest. I was wearing the cat suit and I felt slippery, like I couldn't get a good grip on anything.

"Do you need something to eat? I have a powerbar in my truck? Or money? Do you need money?"

He reached for his wallet and I said "No," horrified and got up. Greg's niceness had taken me by surprise and I had forgotten that he was a master manipulator. I ran back to the drivers side of my car, cutting and bloodying my hand fumbling with the heavy door handle. "Don't come after me," I said and got in. I didn't look at a Greg as I hurky jerkied away from the curb, but I caught a glimpse of him as pulled away. His body looked capable and his face sweet and open with astonishment.

"I think maybe I was supposed to marry Greg," was the thought I had as I pulled away, heartsick, sobbing at the loss of our life together. I would have helped him run his real estate business. I'd have gotten my license too and we'd have been one of those couples that put out flyers with a picture of the two of us with our arms around each other. "Success runs in the family," the flyers would say. Or something like that.

I've thought of Greg Dockson often over the years. I wonder about him and his life. I hope he's happy and I still fantasize about being with such a good person, the type of person who would try to help a smelly, insane girl wearing a cat suit and freaking out on the side of the road. I know I am not a good person, even though I try harder to be one now than I did then.

I think about Greg Dockson more than I do about Queenie who was never found. Her disappearance remains a real mystery. A rare thing - something far more interesting than the students of Sage College deserve.