by Ren Richards
‘That’s it?’ Oleg burst out. He sounded like someone else entirely when he was angry. It was jarring the way that he switched gears without warning – first this morning in the car, and now here. ‘Someone tried to kill her. Do you understand that?’
Officer Rayburn held up both hands. ‘I do understand. And Ms Way has given us a description of the vehicle. But without a licence plate or a description of the driver, there’s very little that we can do.’
‘It’s all right,’ Nell said to Oleg.
‘How can you say that?’ His eyes were wide, wild.
‘Look,’ Officer Rayburn said. ‘My advice: go online. Search for your name. Look for anyone who may have issued any threats because of your books.’
Nell closed her eyes and let out a long breath. There was no way for Officer Rayburn to know that she did this all the time. But she only nodded. Her head ached and all she wanted to do was go to her own bed and sleep this off.
It was mid-afternoon when Oleg pulled up in front of her apartment building. ‘I could come up with you,’ he offered.
‘No,’ Nell said. ‘Thank you. You’ve been more than generous.’
He hesitated. She could see that he really was concerned about her.
‘I’m sorry for what I said about Autumn,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how I could think that was a possibility.’
He shook his head. ‘You’ve had a horrible night, and Easter has a way of getting in people’s heads. I get it.’
‘Still, it isn’t like me to—’
‘How about we make a deal?’ Oleg interrupted. ‘You get some rest, and the next time we speak, that conversation never happened.’
‘I’d like that,’ Nell said.
The apartment was quiet when she got upstairs. There was still the faint smell of body wash coming from the shower, and the bed was made with Sebastian’s trademark neatness.
She napped fitfully on the couch for an hour, and awoke startled by a nightmare she couldn’t remember a second later.
She stared at the ceiling. Afternoon light filtered through the clouds, making the room dreary. Then, she pushed herself upright. It was time to quit delaying the inevitable.
The Hamblins’ chapter was waiting for her when Nell opened her laptop. She minimised the window and opened her web browser to a private tab.
The search field stared back at her, as though it were already accusing her of something. Nell typed: Penelope Wendall.
This was not the name on her manuscripts. It wasn’t the name Sebastian murmured, coiling his arms around her when he wanted five more minutes in bed. It wasn’t on any of her contracts. It wasn’t the way she was programmed into the contact list on Lindsay’s phone. It wasn’t on her driver’s licence or her lease.
But it was her name, under everything. It was permanent, even though she’d had it legally changed nine years ago. Penelope Wendall: the baby who was born in Bonnie’s prison cell. The name the Eddletons were still cursing to this day.
Her heart sped when she read the search results, the way it always did. As usual, there weren’t many hits, and none of them were tied to her legal name now. Penelope Wendall and Nell Way had never met, but they were each a ghost haunting the other’s castle.
Nell had memorised the first page of search results. They hadn’t changed at all this month. There were old news articles that had never archived their comment section, and every so often there was a new comment asking for an update. Usually nobody replied, because nobody knew or cared. But occasionally there was an adamant theory that she was a pop star, or a voice actress for car commercials, or that she had died of an overdose in prison.
Nell steeled herself and read through every comment looking for anything she could connect to what had happened last night. There was nothing.
On the second page of search results, at the very top was EarlyAngels.com. Again, Nell braced herself. She had been to this website many times when researching the Widow Thompson case. It was a collection of fan-maintained online memorials for children who had been murdered or gone missing. The fans were thorough; there had even been information about Daisy Thompson, the thirteen-month-old. Nell recalled a prominent photo of her grin, wrapped up warm and safe in a towel with a hood meant to make her look like a baby chick. The online obituary said that she had loved staring at the lights cast by the prisms hanging over the kitchen sink. She would only nap if her car seat was left to rattle on the running dryer. Her favourite food was bananas.
Reina was on there too. Nell knew this, of course. She had searched many times, only to stare at the blue underlined link of her child’s name and never clicking it.
She clicked on the search result now, and immediately ‘Angel’ by Sarah McLachlan blared from the speakers. Nell hit the mute button in a panic. Her lungs felt tight. The room got darker. Her stomach flipped, and a sick taste filled her mouth.
There was a slide show of Reina’s photos. Only three had ever been leaked to the press, but whoever put this memorial together had gotten creative, using colour filters and a glittery shooting star effect as one image blended into the next.
In the clearest picture, Reina stood in tall blades of grass wearing a blue and white striped shirt and denim overalls with metal hearts for buttons. Her thick, silky curls spilled over her eyes, and she held them away from her forehead with one hand, clutching the grass with the other. Her mouth was open, a row of pearly little teeth, perfectly gapped. It looked as though she was smiling.
Below it, the text in swirling purple calligraphy: Baby Reina, 2006–2010.
Nell was faced with that picture every day for weeks. She had been there when it was taken, and she knew the truth, which was that Reina had not been smiling but squinting at the sun. The camera had clicked at just the perfect moment to create the illusion that she was a happy child, a normal one.
But once Reina was gone, Nell had stared at that picture and made herself believe that the little girl in the picture was smiling. That she was sweet and bright as the voices on the evening news declared. It made her feel less alone in her grief. And she did grieve, desperately. So much it surprised her.
Ten years later, Nell still thought of Reina every day; she couldn’t help it, and she accepted it as her penance, not only for losing her daughter, but for bringing her into the world at all. But the photos were still a shock, because she had come to remember Reina abstractly, like details from a dream. But there she was: dark eyes and curly hair. Sweet, people would call her. Pretty. Reina had been pretty, and that was what made her disappearance less suspect. Nobody is surprised when pretty things get taken. They’re horrified, outraged, but not surprised. Pretty things are always at risk. The earth splits open just long enough to swallow them whole.
Unconsciously, with one hand on the track pad, Nell’s other hand pressed against her stomach, as though to make sure there would never be room for another creature to pass through her womb; as though to make sure no one could see that she had ever carried a child there, and certainly so they could not ask her where that child was now.
Because the answer was its own terror: her child was nowhere, and she was everywhere.
The slideshow was still playing on a loop when Nell scrolled to the bottom of the page. There was a link that read: condolences (5689)
Nell clicked. The comments were sorted with the oldest first.
November 28, 2010: rest in peace, sweet angel
November 28, 2010: I’m sorry your mother didn’t treat you like the gift you are. Rest in peace.
November 28, 2010: I have a son your age and I promise to protect him from monsters like the one who hurt you. Rest in peace.
Nell sorted the comments so that the newest came up first.
January 9, 2020: Is there any update on the mother? Is she in jail?
March 27, 2020: She was acquitted of all charges. But I know karma will get her.
22
NOW
Before Nell could register the sound of keys in the door, Li
ndsay had already burst into the apartment. A phone was pressed to her ear. ‘Yeah,’ she said, to whoever was on the other line. ‘Yeah, she’s here. See you soon.’ She slammed the phone on the counter. ‘What the fuck, Nell?’
Nell clicked out of the memorial site, but Lindsay had already seen it. Lindsay’s eyes moved from the screen to her sister, her face a mix of outrage and horror. ‘Do you know we have been out looking for you all goddamned morning?’ she said.
Nell stood and moved to close the apartment door, which was still wide open. Though she was trying her best to appear calm, her legs felt rubbery and weak. Her throat felt dry, and she had the sense that no sound would come out if she tried to speak.
‘Don’t scream at me,’ Nell said, her shoulders pressed to the door, the doorknob clutched in both hands behind her back. ‘I was out looking for you, to clean up your latest mess. But the address you gave me didn’t exist, and you haven’t been answering your phone. I left you about a dozen messages.’
Lindsay reeled back, blinking. ‘Looking for me? What are you talking about, Nell?’ She waved her phone in a frantic gesture. It was not her usual phone with the pink and gold leopard print casing and the smudged screen. This phone looked factory new, rose gold without any personal embellishments. ‘I lost my phone yesterday.’
‘Lost?’ Nell echoed back, hollowly.
The tension in Lindsay’s shoulders eased. She was calming down now. ‘I lost it at the salon. I’m positive that’s where I had it last. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning, but you weren’t picking up. I figured you didn’t recognise my new number, so I left a bunch of voicemails. Finally I called Sebastian at work. He said he thought I was with you.’
Nell shook her head. ‘You texted me last night.’
‘I didn’t have my phone.’ Lindsay said the words slowly, punctuating the space between them, the way she used to when she was dealing with a particularly dense foster sibling. She reached forward, picking at the cashmere of Oleg’s sweater. She wouldn’t know it was Oleg’s, of course, but it was clearly a man’s sweater and it wasn’t Sebastian’s style.
‘I don’t have my phone!’ Nell burst out. ‘It’s at the bottom of a fucking swamp, along with my car, because you texted me that you needed me to come get you.’
Lindsay stared at her for a long moment. Her eyes were blue, but not pale and warm like Oleg’s. They were bright and deep and commanding. She grabbed Nell’s forearms. ‘I was home last night, Nell.’
‘What about the police car?’ Nell asked. ‘You said a police cruiser has been parked outside of your house, right? Maybe we should make sure nobody followed you home, took your phone—’
Now it was Lindsay’s turn to be on the defensive. Her thumbs traced circles against the cashmere. ‘About that,’ she said. ‘I lied.’ As Nell wrestled from her grasp, she added in a louder voice, ‘I knew you were going to worry needlessly, so I said what I thought would calm you down.’
‘Worry needlessly?’ Nell cried. ‘Lindsay, someone has been threatening us. Someone burned your car—’
‘I got a new one through the insurance,’ Lindsay said, as though that were the point. ‘And I told you, it’s probably just that old bat on my street.’
‘Really?’ Nell’s voice had gone hysterical. She was shaking now. ‘Did that old bat try to kill me by running me off the road?’
‘Hey,’ Lindsay said. ‘Hey. What are you talking about?’
She guided Nell to the kitchen counter, and before Nell could argue, Lindsay was uncorking a bottle of white wine and grabbing a pair of glasses. It was early, but Nell downed her glass as soon as it was handed to her. Lindsay climbed onto the barstool at her side.
In a voice that was eerily calm, Nell told her sister everything about the night before, leading into the early morning argument with Oleg about Autumn, up to the report she’d filed at the police station.
Somewhere in this retelling, Lindsay had wormed her fingers between Nell’s and was now squeezing her hand.
‘It’s okay,’ Nell said, staring into her empty glass. ‘It’s okay.’
Lindsay didn’t speak for a long time. She was thinking, calculating. Any time their lives fell into chaos, Lindsay had always been the one to fix it. But she couldn’t fix this. Nell knew that somehow. The police couldn’t fix it. No one could fix it.
‘Is that what you were doing on those let’s-lynch-Penelope-Wendall message boards when I walked in?’ Lindsay asked. It was jarring for Nell to hear her sister say her full name. It had been years since they’d left that ghost behind in Missouri.
Nell nodded, still staring at her glass.
‘All right.’ Lindsay took a breath. ‘Do you remember ten years ago, when – let’s just be honest – I abandoned you and left you with the fucking Eddletons?’
Nell already knew where this was going. ‘This isn’t like that.’
‘You were traumatised. Reina’ – even Lindsay couldn’t say the name without a tangible modicum of strain – ‘was gone, you were under a microscope, the Eddletons threw you to the wolves, and I was too busy with my marriage to see what was happening to you.’
‘This isn’t like that,’ Nell said again. ‘I didn’t hang mannequins in your yard, Linds. I didn’t set your car on fire.’
‘Of course not,’ Lindsay said. ‘But can you at least entertain the idea that the mannequins were a prank by my psycho neighbour, and the stress of all that, plus this new book, are bringing up a bit too much of the past?’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Nell said. ‘That I hallucinated your text messages?’
Lindsay didn’t answer. She knew that saying it would only bring up a fight. But it was too late.
‘Get out,’ Nell said.
Lindsay squeezed Nell’s hand, but Nell jerked back so hard that her barstool tipped and she had to clutch the counter to keep from falling.
‘No,’ Lindsay said. ‘I’m not leaving you alone right now.’
‘Why not?’ Nell bit back. ‘You’ve left me alone to deal with worse.’
‘You’re right,’ Lindsay said. ‘You’re right, and I’m sorry.’ She was being uncharacteristically contrite, and it made Nell feel like a bratty child, once again rebuffing her sister for trying to look out for her. ‘I’m just trying to see this logically. There’s an explanation for the mannequins. There really is, Nell. And as for what happened last night, I don’t know. But here’s what we do know: someone took my phone. I never texted you. And Autumn Hamblin is as dead as my love life.’
‘My car’s gone,’ Nell said. ‘I didn’t make that up. Someone is trying to hurt us, Linds. Both of us. Someone clearly stole your phone and used it to lure me to the middle of nowhere.’
‘Or a drunk driver ran you off the road,’ Lindsay said, and Nell could see that Lindsay was steeling herself against the imagery. Lindsay didn’t dwell on things; Nell was alive and that was all that mattered for now. ‘There’s not even a police department out there, only a sheriff. People go speeding down those back roads all the time, you know that.’
Nell stared into her glass again. A moment ago, she’d been furious that Lindsay didn’t believe her. She’d been certain of exactly what had happened to her. But now it was all falling to pieces in her mind.
‘Am I being crazy?’ she asked, her voice hoarse.
‘No,’ Lindsay said. ‘I know that it feels like the universe is trying to punish you, but hey.’ She grabbed Nell’s chin, tilting it so that Nell’s eyes met hers. ‘It’s been ten years, and you have to let this go now. You’ve gone through hell and you made it out the other side.’ She was so adamant that Nell found herself believing it. ‘The universe is not punishing you. Nobody is.’
It didn’t matter how big they were now; it didn’t matter that Lindsay had grown wealthy off her failed marriages, or that Nell had grown wealthy off her books. It didn’t matter that they had found stability, or love, or any other desirable thing that sparkled to anyone on the outside looking in. They were still aban
doned children at the end of the day. The world had given them to each other to make up for everything else they’d lacked.
Lindsay scooted her barstool closer, and Nell rested her head on her shoulder.
‘I’ll never let you get pulled back into that place again,’ Lindsay said, tucking her chin on top of Nell’s head.
‘Sebastian can’t know,’ Nell said. ‘He can’t know about who I was. He’ll leave me. I’ll lose everything.’
23
THEN
When Nell heard about missing children on the news, she’d always watched and wondered how the sequence of events happened. Did the parent march to the help desk, ask to speak to a manager, and explain the situation? Or was a missing child such a catastrophe that the police somehow sensed it and showed up with their squad cars and sirens?
When it happened to Nell, she had her answer. She just started screaming.
She walked to the frozen and refrigerated food aisle of the grocery store. Raw slabs of beef and chicken hung on bits of twine, swirling in cold mists. Eggs watched from their cartons like eyes. A bulb in the fluorescent ceiling light flickered like an interrogation lamp.
Someone ran to her. He wasn’t a manager or the police. He wasn’t anyone in authority at all. He was a teenage boy with a nametag and a button-up shirt who had been restocking the yoghurts; Nell remembered seeing him as she came in.
Through her hysterics, she heard him asking what had happened.
‘It’s all my fault,’ she said. ‘It’s all my fault that she’s gone.’
Nell was eighteen years old, but having a child like Reina had aged her a hundred years. A thousand. She was beyond any measure of sanity most days. Reina’s absence flooded in through the sliding glass doors of the supermarket like an ocean wave.
The store was on lockdown immediately. Customers were kept lined up by the doors with carts of shopping bags, unable to leave. Reina’s description was blasted over the speakers, cutting through Mariah Carey’s rendition of ‘All I Want for Christmas’.
All of this as Nell sat, useless, on the rickety bench beside the deli counter, sobbing into a wet tissue. Sobbing because she knew that Reina was not going to turn up hiding behind the lobster tank or under the rolling cart of ground meat. A cashier in a black apron wasn’t going to come walking up one of the aisles, holding her by the hand.