Still Here

by Amy Stuart

  You remain on my mind, Clare. I regret how things were left between us.

  M

  The effort to read the email again, then again, wraps Clare in a wave of nausea. She cannot decrypt her reaction, whether his words have made her angry or sad, or relieved. The formality of his message concerns her. The repetition of her name. Malcolm often repeated her name when they spoke in person too. Clare. She can almost hear him saying it. Another reaction bubbles inside her, deep in her gut. The longing. She lifts the phone and hits reply.

  I am not going to stop digging. And don’t tell me you’re sorry. That word means nothing.

  Clare hovers her thumb over the delete button for a moment before continuing to type.

  I’m still here, Malcolm. You know where to find me.

  C

  This time Clare hits send and watches the line edge across the screen as the note leaves her out-box.

  This house on the water is at Lune Bay’s south end. Before Clare can lift her hand to knock, a man yanks the door open a crack and peers through at her.

  “Fuck off,” he says.

  “Mr. Bentley.” Clare presses the toe of her shoe to the door to prevent him from closing it. “I’m not a reporter.”

  The man lowers his glasses and squints at the business card Clare offers him.

  “I’m working a case that might be related to your daughter, Kendall.”

  At this mention his shoulders drop, an instant grief response.

  “I’ve been reading about you,” Clare continues. “Douglas Bentley. Retired from the army. Decorated. I know your wife died of an aneurysm last year. I know you’ve been advocating for more resources to be put towards your daughter’s case, lobbying the mayor, anyone who will listen. You’ve been disappointed in the work done by the police. I’m hoping I can help.”

  “You’re too young to be a PI,” he says.

  “Maybe,” Clare replies. “But my track record is pretty spotless. I’m good at what I do.”

  It still feels disingenuous for Clare to say such a thing. I’m good at what I do. A long moment passes, Bentley breathing in and out through his nose, considering. Finally he closes the door to unlatch the chain, then opens it to let Clare in. The inside of his bungalow is not at all what Clare would have expected, the walls warm neutrals, the furniture plush and modern, the space clean and uncluttered. Clare removes her shoes and follows him to the kitchen. It too is gleaming, the entire back wall a giant picture window with a view to the ocean. Clare rests her fingertips on the glass and stares out at the vastness, the blinding blue of it.

  “This is some view,” she says. “Incredible.”

  “My wife was an architect. She convinced me to buy this lot in the downturn. Designed the house herself.”

  “Wow.” Clare’s gaze is still fixed on the water. “She was good at what she did.”

  “She loved the ocean. So did Kendall.” Douglas coughs. “Do you work alone?”

  “Mostly.”

  “What case are you working?” he asks.

  “I’m actually searching for Malcolm Hayes. Do you know him?”

  “I know who he is,” Douglas says. “How’d you get my address?”

  “From Austin Lantz.”

  “That dumb little fuck. I hate that little twerp, I swear.”

  “He does seem quite singularly focused,” Clare says. “I feel like there’s been a failure on his part to read the facts right. His story doesn’t paint you in the most favorable light.”

  “You think? He makes me out to be a fucking nutjob.”

  “Well,” Clare says. “Maybe it’s better to be underestimated.”

  “By whom? No one will talk to me. They won’t even let me inside the police detachment anymore.”

  Clare takes a seat at the breakfast bar. Douglas paces the length of the counter, arms crossed, casting her only the odd sidelong glance. He has the look of a man torn apart by worry, by grief, his clothes baggy on a too-thin frame, his hair a shock of white against the black rims of his glasses. He holds his face in a deep-set frown.

  “You do have theories, though,” Clare says. “About what happened to your daughter.”

  “I’ve got suspicions. And anytime I bring them up, I seem to be pushing the wrong buttons.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Douglas yanks at a stool and takes a seat across the counter from Clare. He lifts a saltshaker and fiddles with it, turning it over in his hands, studying it to avoid eye contact.

  “That label?” he says. “Conspiracy theorist? I wear it proudly, if you want the truth. My grandfather knew the first guy to push the theory that smoking causes cancer. He was a scientist in this tiny little lab going up against big corporations. He was treated like a pariah. Lost everything. But he knew he was right. And he was right, wasn’t he?”

  Clare props her elbow on the counter and rests her chin in her hand, attentive. She knows not to interrupt Douglas, that letting him speak unencumbered will help him circle closer to the bull’s-eye.

  “I was in the army. You know that, you read that. I was decorated. Ha. I went overseas five times. I always figured I’d be the one to die and leave my family behind. We considered that carefully, my wife and I. That’s why we had one kid. When you’re posted in the middle of some faraway desert, every single morning you open your eyes and you say this little prayer. You just want to stay alive. And you do. And you make it home and you seem okay. A few nightmares here and there but no real problems. Got myself a good desk job at the local recruitment office to ride it out.” He angles back to the window. “Then you retire. All is well. Then your kid goes missing. Then your wife dies. So what’s that expression? I’ve had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened? The bad stuff always blindsides you.”

  “It does,” Clare says. “You’re right.”

  With a sigh Douglas opens a drawer and places a photograph in front of Clare. It’s his daughter, Kendall, at her college graduation, flanked by two beaming parents. As she studies the photo, Douglas tells Clare the story. His daughter, Kendall Bentley, didn’t come home one night. Her phone was off, texts not going through. They filed a report, but it only hit the news once Douglas convinced a beat reporter to write a piece that was printed in the back pages of the Lune Bay newspaper. And the police? They labeled her a runaway, a young woman under too much pressure at medical school, with addiction issues, a boyfriend in all kinds of trouble with the law. You’re not missing if you’ve left on your own terms, a Lune Bay police officer is quoted as saying in one of the news stories. Clare lifts the picture. Kendall looks the perfect hybrid of her parents, tall like her father, the same soft and pretty face as her mother.

  “And you think she was kidnapped?” Clare asks. “Taken against her will?”

  “She wouldn’t just leave. Do you know anyone who would just leave their family out of nowhere?”

  At this Clare feels a stab. Yes, she wants to say. If you have no choice, you will leave everything behind, everyone. For a moment they both look out the window, each quieted by their own sadness.

  “I never fit in here,” Douglas says. “Last spring I showed up to the Veterans Day parade. You know how many of us were marching? Four. People who fight in real wars don’t move to Lune Bay. This place is about money.”

  “Why did you move here, then?” Clare asks.

  “Because my wife was born here. I was gone most of the time. So where we raised our daughter was her call.”

  “I can help you,” Clare says. “We can help each other. Can’t we? I feel like it might all be connected, right? You obviously believe there’s something bigger at play too.”

  Without answering her, Douglas stands and leaves the kitchen. He gestures for Clare to follow him. Next to the hall closet is a pocket door blended almost seamlessly into the wall. Douglas opens it and hits the light. They descend to a lower apartment, a nanny flat overtaken by rubber bins neatly stacked and labeled with dates. The space that would be the livi
ng room is instead set up as an office, a desk at its center with a computer and color-coded files, the largest wall a corkboard adorned with a labyrinth of photographs. Some faces Clare recognizes at once. Kendall Bentley is at the center, a web woven out from there. Clare sees Jack Westman. Zoe, and as an extension of her, Malcolm. Stacey Norton too, the other missing woman, a line drawn from her to Kendall.

  “Jesus,” Clare says. “Has Austin been down here?”

  “Are you kidding me? So he can write a story about how I’m unhinged? Some crazy dad with a perp wall taking his cues from bad cop shows.”

  “Right,” Clare says.

  “We built this flat for Kendall. She moved down here from her bedroom upstairs and six months later she disappeared. So.” Douglas removes his glasses and rubs hard at his eyes. “I’ve taken over the space, as you can see.”

  For a long time, Clare sidesteps along the length of the wall, studying the photographs, the connections Douglas has drawn.

  “Who are all these people?”

  “Most of them are Kendall’s friends. Some from high school, college. Beefs she had. Guys she dated. Dead-end leads.”

  “I see Stacey Norton.”

  “Yeah. They worked together for a summer. Maybe two.”

  “At Roland’s?”

  “Yeah,” Douglas says. “It seems like it should mean something, but Roland is one of the only guys in town who hires students. Most kids have worked there at one time or another.”

  Clare points to the line linking Kendall to Zoe Westman.

  “The Westmans figure pretty prominently. What connects these two?”

  “They met at a fund-raiser. Kendall was helping out with the catering. Zoe took an interest in her.”

  “What do you mean by interest?”

  “She offered her some side gigs. Bartending at little private events Zoe would throw. Kendall would leave the house in these white dress shirts with a tie, and these tiny fucking miniskirts. Serving cocktails to the biggest assholes Lune Bay has to offer.”

  “It’s pretty clear how you felt about that.”

  “What am I going to say? I’m just her overprotective father.”

  “Right,” Clare says. “When was this?”

  “In the months before she disappeared.”

  “What were these parties she was working?” Clare asks.

  “Cripes,” Douglas says, arms crossed. “I think it’s pretty common knowledge that Lune Bay was built on handshakes and backroom promises. When the tech boom hit and this area became hot, I think a lot of pockets got lined. It was a different place when my wife was growing up here. More like a small town. Some fishermen around. Some industry. Now it’s a suburb for rich people. The kind of rich people who went to Zoe Westman’s parties. And my theory is that Kendall got wrapped in something she didn’t fully understand. Maybe she overhead something or witnessed something… I don’t know. Maybe I am a conspiracy theorist, but I feel like this stretches further than Lune Bay’s borders. All I know is that my daughter met Zoe Westman and a few months later she was fucking gone.”

  “Was Malcolm part of this too?”

  “Well.” Douglas rubs at his chin. “He was married to Zoe. He must have known there was shady stuff going on. I went to him once. Shortly after Kendall disappeared. Tried to appeal to him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not much,” Douglas says. “He listened to me. Heard me out. Then he told me he couldn’t help. Just like everyone else.”

  Clare keeps her back to Douglas. She recognizes the photograph of Malcolm on this wall. It was taken by a reporter as he left the police station after Zoe’s disappearance. She weighs her options. Surely Douglas could be useful to her, might help her cut corners in her efforts. She can build some goodwill with the truth. And so she turns to face Douglas, outlining the basics of her history with Malcolm. He sits back against the desk and listens, his expression never flickering from steady focus.

  “Anyway,” Clare says, “I’m here. I’m listening. I know you haven’t had much help, but I hope to change that. What I can tell you is that in some indirect way, my story is linked to Kendall’s. I wish I knew more. I wish I could tell you more. Right now I can’t. But I think we can help each other.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “I’m not exactly sure how.”

  “No one has me labeled a conspiracy theorist. There’s that. I can dig where you can’t.”

  Douglas offers a small laugh. “Well. Where do we start?”

  “Why don’t you tell me about Kendall? What was she like?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “She finished college six years ago. She was only twenty-one. Skipped a few grades along the way. She started medical school way too young. We probably should have encouraged her to take some time off. It was too much for a kid. She dabbled in a bit of modeling. Worked at Roland’s in the summers, did some catering. She loved it. She was happier slinging appetizers than she was in medical school. We told her she didn’t have to work, but she wanted to. We even told her she could take a leave from school.”

  His voice cracks. He rubs at his eyes.

  “I swear everything took a turn after she met Zoe Westman. She started hanging out with Zoe and her people. These cars would come pick her up. I’d hear her coming home at all hours, even after her classes had started up again. Once, I spotted her in the society page of the Lune Bay paper at some fancy party. I didn’t even recognize my own kid in that photo. The whole thing worried me. At one point I even considered installing a hidden camera down here. You know? I figured I’d just spy on her. My wife put a hard stop to that. She said Kendall was just blowing off steam after a few tough years at medical school. But I didn’t like that I couldn’t keep track of the comings and goings from my own house. Kendall was technically an adult, but she could be so naive.”

  Clare’s phone buzzes in her pocket. She extracts it to check the message.

  It’s Charlotte Westman. I need to talk to you.

  Clare writes,

  Tell me when and where.

  Her response comes.

  8 pm Pebble Beach

  Clare types a response then slides her phone back in her pocket. She turns to the wall of information in front of her. The photographs are all laminated, the lines between them perfectly straight. Douglas Bentley is fastidious, a man who takes great care in his efforts.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to go,” Clare says. “I need to be somewhere and my timing is tight. Can we connect again tomorrow?”

  He sighs, looking suddenly exhausted. “You won’t be back.”

  “Of course I will be. If you’ll have me, I mean. We can help each other, can’t we? I know we can.”

  “Right,” he says, heading back to the stairway. “Sure.”

  What petulance, Clare thinks. But at once she softens. This man, accustomed to working on his own, to being dismissed by the authorities. He is searching for his daughter, grieving his wife. All he wants is to be heard. All Clare wants is to be given the benefit of the doubt. The least she can do is offer Douglas Bentley the same.

  Clare stands inside the gate of the Roy Mason Correctional Facility. Beyond her, two tall fences snared with barbed wire stretch between the parking lot and the prison yard. A group of men in jumpsuits hover at the far end of the yard. Though they are at quite a distance, Clare is certain they are watching her, that even with these fences between them she is still plainly in their sights. Only thirty minutes inland from Lune Bay, but this might as well be another planet. It’s a regular field trip for me, Austin said of his frequent trips here to see Jack Westman’s business partner, Donovan Hughes.

  Somers must have called ahead, because Clare is waved through despite visiting hours being almost over. In the prison’s stark reception area Clare must surrender her bag and empty her pockets, the gun left in the car’s glove compartment. She drops everything into a bin, then slides it through a trapdoor in the plexiglass that separates her from the guard. The woman who pats Clare down is humor
less and makes no eye contact. Clare follows a male officer as he advances them through three sets of heavy doors, each one buzzing sharply as it opens. When they reach the waiting room, the guard gestures for Clare to take a seat at a table in the center of the room.

  “Hughes?”

  “Yes,” Clare says. “Donovan Hughes.”

  Clare sits at the tip of the chair, her hands in a tight ball on her lap. After a few minutes the guard returns. The man trailing him wears a beige work shirt and jeans. Donovan Hughes is not much changed from the photographs taken before he was arrested. He may be thinner, his hair grayer, but he stands tall and stoic. He lowers himself to a seat across from Clare slowly to account for the shackles on his ankles and wrists.

  “Only my lawyer visits these days,” Donovan Hughes says. “Even my wife has stopped coming.”

  He is soft-spoken in a way Clare was not anticipating. He smiles at her, expectant.

  “Mr. Hughes,” Clare says. “My name is Clare O’Kearney. I’m a private investigator. I’d offer you a card, but I wasn’t allowed to bring anything to this part of the facility. I’ve been working on a case related to the disappearance of Zoe Westman.”

  “You don’t say.” He grins. “Clare. Call me Donovan. Or Don. Whichever you prefer.”

  “I appreciate your willingness to see me.”

  Donovan laughs. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I imagine a rat could come through those doors, literally vermin, and I’d come out here for the visit. Anything for a break in the day.” He pauses, scrutinizing her. “You look a lot like Zoe.”

  “I’ve been told that before,” she says.

  “Really. You could be her twin.”

  “I’ve never met her. My focus is actually on Malcolm. Zoe’s husband. I’m sure you know him.”