Out of Her Mind

by Ragan, T. R.

  Riley couldn’t walk normally. She shuffled her way inside. The door slammed shut behind her. The only sound was the turn of the key and the click of the lock. And then she was alone in a closet wallpapered with pictures of all the other girls who had most likely made the mistake of helping a stranger in need.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It was nearly midnight. Harper had used makeup and wore a turtleneck to cover the marks on her neck. Nate had arrived home fifteen minutes ago. The kids were asleep. While Harper scrubbed the kitchen counters, Nate took a seat at the table in the nook area and ate the leftovers she’d warmed up.

  “How was work?” she asked.

  He chewed and swallowed. “Fine. How was your first day of school? Did you like your creative writing instructor?”

  “He was okay,” she said. “It was sort of a wake-up call for many of us.”

  “How so?”

  She didn’t want to lie to him, but she’d been practicing her spiel, and it rolled from her lips without much effort. “Our professor warned the class that we either have talent or we don’t, but all writers are not born equal. He said that the ‘real deal’ is a rarity. He also talked about the class not being a place for therapy and made it clear that he doesn’t want to slog through a bunch of memoirs about abuse.”

  “Sounds harsh.”

  Nate didn’t usually say much, especially after such a long day. She stopped scrubbing long enough to take a good long look at him. His body was tense. He had yet to look over at her. Something wasn’t right. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  He put his fork down and met her gaze straight on. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that question?”

  She tried to slow her breathing. “What do you mean?”

  “I called the administrative offices at CSUS. And then, just to be certain, I took time off work and drove there to talk to a staff member face-to-face. You need a degree to get into the creative writing program.”

  “Yes, but I—”

  “Stop,” Nate said. “Just stop. You’re not even registered at CSUS.”

  Her stomach quivered. She looked at Nate and wondered when they had grown apart. They made love every so often, but it was robotic and without emotion. For the first time in the years they had been together, she thought he looked like a stranger.

  “So are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”

  “No,” she said, unable to keep eye contact.

  “I’m not stupid,” he said.

  She looked at him then. “I know that.”

  He stood and walked over to her.

  She kept her head down, eyes on her sponge, wishing she’d at least told him about the baby. Did he know about the baby? She was still in her first trimester. She’d lost weight, and the baby bump was hardly visible. And talking about the baby would have taken their discussion down a long, slippery slope about their future and goals and plans, and she wasn’t ready for that. Before she could think, let alone talk about, the future, she’d wanted to be done with The Crew.

  “I checked the outside cameras,” he said. “You were gone most of the day. What’s with the turtleneck?” Before she could stop him, he pulled down on the fabric around her neck. “Jesus. Who did that to you?”

  “Nobody did anything to me. I had to slam on the brakes today, and the seat belt left a mark.”

  “And why should I believe you?”

  She felt a sudden urge to fall to her knees and tell him everything, including shooting and burying Otto Radley. She wanted to be free of all the lies. Nate wasn’t a stranger. He was her husband, her hero, the man who had taken her away from her nightmare in River Rock and shown her the healing powers of love. And she’d simply tossed it all out the door.

  Tell him. Tell him everything.

  The shame was too great, and the words didn’t come.

  “You’ve always had your quirks, Harper. I get that your childhood was beyond fucked up. It’s no secret that cleaning is something you need to do to keep the demons at bay.” He raked his fingers over his short, cropped hair. “I gave up a while ago on trying to get you to open up about everything that happened in River Rock. But I can’t live with someone who has completely shut me out of their life.” He sighed and added, “That’s asking way too much.”

  She looked at him then, her heart racing, confusion swirling. It was as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff, and the rocks beneath her feet were slippery and unstable, but there was nothing to grab hold of. “It wasn’t my intention to shut you out,” she finally said.

  He shrugged. “But that’s what you’ve done. We never talk anymore or go out or make love. Why are we even together?”

  She grabbed hold of his forearm. “It will all be over soon. I promise. Please, Nate. I just need a little more time.”

  “What about the baby?” he blurted.

  Her breath hitched.

  When she didn’t answer right away, he freed his arm from her grasp and shook his head. “I truly don’t know who you are any longer. When were you going to tell me about the baby?”

  He rubbed his forehead, and she could see the pain in his eyes. She felt like an idiot for thinking he wouldn’t notice. A bead of sweat rolled down her back.

  “Or maybe you weren’t ever going to tell me,” he went on. “Maybe you have other plans that I don’t know about.”

  “Of course I was going to tell you about the baby. I’ve been waiting for the right time. I swear to you, Nate. I love you, and I don’t want to lose you, but I need you to be patient for a little while longer.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know. A few weeks. A month at the most.”

  “God, you must think I’m a complete moron.”

  “No. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  He let out a bark of laughter, then leaned forward, his eyes delving into hers. “Every single day, I go to work to keep a roof over your head. To provide this family with food to eat and a warm bed to sleep in each night. But it’s never enough, is it? You’re just as fucked up now as you were the day I met you.” His face reddened, a vein in his neck bulging. “But the baby . . . that takes the cake. I’ve been racking my brain over it, and for the life of me I couldn’t think of one God damn reason why you would keep that from me. But then it hit me like a truckload of bricks to the head. The only reason you might not tell me about the baby is if it wasn’t mine.”

  Her eyes widened, saddened that he could think such a thing. “It’s yours.”

  “I had a feeling you would say that, which is why I’m going away for a while.”

  Her stomach lurched. “Please, Nate. I just need more time, and then I’ll tell you everything. I want to change, to get better, to be there for you.”

  “Not good enough,” he said. “I’m leaving first thing in the morning. My bags are packed. They have been for days, but I knew you wouldn’t notice. Hell, I could have walked out of here tomorrow morning without having this conversation, and you wouldn’t have known I was gone.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to Montana with Dad to work on Uncle Joe’s mountain cabin. He’s been begging me to see it, and I can’t think of one reason why I shouldn’t go.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What about the kids? What am I supposed to say to them?”

  “I’ve already told them. I said it was a surprise for you . . . that we were all going to spend some time at the cabin as a family when it was finished. I guess you’re not the only one in the family who’s good at lying.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, reaching for him, wishing she could fall into his arms and tell him everything, but afraid he might leave her for good if she did.

  “Yeah, me too.” He turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  As Sawyer drove along the highway, the scenery on both sides of her a blur, she saw a head pop up in
the back of the white GMC Acadia directly in front of her. She waved at the little girl, smiling when the child waved back at her. The child’s perfect curls reminded Sawyer of the old black-and-white Shirley Temple movies. That kid could do it all—smile, dance, act, and sing—and to top it off, she had perfect ringlets and dimples.

  Sawyer’s heart pounded as she drew closer and saw that the little girl wasn’t waving at all. She was gesturing wildly while mouthing Help me! Her eyes were red, her face puffy from crying. Sawyer merged into the left lane and sped up, hoping to motion for the driver to pull to the side of the road.

  But the woman driver remained incredibly rigid, her eyes focused straight ahead. She had gray scraggly hair and a long, pale neck. Seconds before speeding away, the woman turned and looked directly at Sawyer with big, round, unblinking eyes and a shit-eating grin.

  Sawyer bolted upright, both hands on her chest. The LED clock on the dresser across the room told her it was two in the morning.

  Just a nightmare. Breathe.

  Her bedroom was cool, but sweat dripped down her spine.

  She slid off the bed and made her way to the bathroom. As she splashed cold water on her face, her cat, Raccoon, appeared, circling her ankles as Sawyer washed her hands. Raccoon followed her to the kitchen. Sawyer leaned over and scratched the cat’s back. “Did I wake you?”

  Raccoon was wide awake, ready to start the day.

  Movement outside her window caught her attention. As Sawyer straightened, she noticed a car parked at the curb pull away, its headlights off.

  Thinking that was strange, she walked to the door, opened it, and stuck her head outside to take a look around.

  The car was gone.

  An owl hooted. A light breeze made the tops of the trees sway, leaves rustling.

  On the welcome mat was an envelope. She picked it up, stepped back into her apartment, and locked the door. She went to the couch and sat down. Raccoon jumped up next to her and settled on her lap as she opened the envelope. Inside was a picture with a note. She pulled out the picture.

  Her mouth fell open. Rebecca Johnson. Sawyer’s best friend from her childhood stood alone in the middle of the schoolyard, looking lost. The photo was grainy and old, but there was no mistaking who it was or where it was taken.

  The picture was like a time machine, taking her back to when her best friend was alive. So much had happened between then and now.

  Haunted by old memories, she stared at the photo. Guilt for what happened to her friend swept through her.

  Inside the envelope was a note. She pulled it out. It was written in crayon, all squiggly capital letters: Why didn’t you look for me?

  Guilt and sadness were quickly replaced with anger.

  It was disturbing to think that someone went to all the trouble of finding a picture of Rebecca and writing such a horrible message.

  Who would leave this on her doorstep, and why?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  First thing the next morning, Sawyer found Palmer in his office. She took a seat and slipped the picture and the note across his desk, under his nose.

  He looked at her. “What’s this?”

  “Someone left an envelope on my doorstep at two o’clock this morning.”

  “Did you see them?”

  “No. Just a car driving away without the headlights turned on. I was half-asleep and couldn’t make out what kind of car it was through the window.” She pointed at the photo in front of him. “That’s a picture of Rebecca Johnson. You remember . . . my best friend from kindergarten until the time she disappeared.” Sawyer’s stomach turned. “The girl my mother left in the crawl space beneath the house where I grew up.”

  He stroked his beard as he nodded.

  “What do you think it means?” Sawyer asked, doing her best to rein in the thought of her friend being trapped below the floor of the house she lived in. She didn’t know for sure if Rebecca had been dead or alive when she was placed inside the crawl space, but all evidence pointed to her being alive. Her mother never would have been able to fit beneath the floorboards. No way could she have dragged Rebecca’s deadweight to the far end of the dark space where Rebecca’s bones were found. Either way, the answer had died along with her mother.

  “It could be a prank,” Palmer said about the note and picture.

  “A fiery brown paper bag filled with dog shit would be a prank,” Sawyer argued. “What sort of person would go out of their way to be so cruel?”

  “Why don’t you take the day off? Get some rest.”

  It pissed her off that he wasn’t taking her seriously. She put her hands on his desk and leaned forward. “Someone knows.”

  “Knows what?” Palmer asked.

  “That I’m searching for answers. It’s possible someone is upset that I’m searching for a link to all those missing girls.”

  “Does anyone besides me even know you have a list and you’re checking it twice?”

  “Only you, my sister Aria, and Paige Owens.”

  “Exactly.” Palmer handed her back the note and the picture. “I think you’re reading too much into it. You’ve already written a number of controversial articles that might have set off readers. For instance, you upset a lot of people a month ago when you accused a popular author of being a murderer.”

  “True,” she said.

  “Years ago,” Palmer said, “an older man came to my house uninvited and launched into a tirade about the columns I had written about racism. When I wrote about abortion, I received a letter smeared with feces. It happens.”

  “What if whoever left the note is dangerous?”

  Palmer appeared to ponder her question. “If you’re worried, why don’t you take a drive downtown and fill out a report?”

  “Thanks,” she said, standing. “I think I’ll do that.”

  “Sawyer,” he said when she got as far as the door.

  She turned and waited.

  “I know you want to find Riley Addison, and that’s an honorable and worthy goal. I want the same thing.”

  “But?”

  “But I’m concerned about the stress this story might cause you.” He sighed. “You’ve made it clear you carry a lot of guilt for your friend Rebecca’s disappearance, and I know for a fact you don’t believe anyone looked long and hard enough for her. But I want you to understand that Detective Perez and his team are working around the clock. They want to find Riley as much as you do.”

  “Maybe so,” Sawyer said. “But they don’t have the manpower to do what needs to be done.”

  “That’s not your call to make.”

  He was right. She tried not to judge Detective Perez and his men, but she knew there was more that could be done. “Did you see one missing person poster anywhere near the spot where Riley disappeared?” Before he could respond, she said, “I talked to a handful of people in the neighborhood, and no one had been visited by a detective. Why aren’t Perez and his men hitting the pavement, distributing flyers, or even making announcements over a loudspeaker? Sometimes it’s not about wanting something as much as it is about doing.”

  “Go do what you need to do, and we’ll talk later,” he said.

  Sawyer left Palmer’s office feeling defeated and wishing she could do more. She grabbed her backpack from her cubicle on her way out, not bothering to glance down the hallway to see if Derek might have returned from vacation early.

  She went straight to her car and drove to the police department. After signing in at the front, she took a seat in an uncomfortable plastic chair and waited patiently to talk to someone. It wasn’t until Detective Perez walked by forty-five minutes later, heading toward the exit, that anyone paid her any mind at all.

  “Sawyer Brooks,” he said with a look of suspicion etched on his face.

  She jumped to her feet. “Detective Perez.”

  He looked over his shoulder at the receptionist who was too busy to notice, then back at Sawyer. “Who are you waiting to see?”

  “Anyone.
I’m here to fill out a police report.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m being harassed.”

  He looked at his watch. “I’ve got five minutes. Come with me.”

  Without hesitation, he turned back the way he came. She followed him past rows of cubicles to his cubicle in the corner. Her shoes clacked against ugly cement flooring.

  “Excuse the mess,” he said. “New carpet is going in soon.” He gestured toward the extra chair in the corner. “Five minutes,” he reminded her. “Go.”

  Sitting, she reached into her bag for the envelope that had been left at her doorstep and handed it over. She then quickly explained who was in the picture and why it was so disturbing.

  “It’s not a crime for someone to leave an envelope with a picture and a note at your door. Have you been intimidated, confronted, or threatened with physical force?”

  “No.”

  “Any damage to your property?” he asked, the questions flying at her like darts hitting a bull’s-eye.

  “No.”

  “Do you know who left the envelope?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Are there security cameras outside your door?”

  She shook her head.

  He cleared his throat. “In that case, you can find a Protection from Harassment form online. But,” he said, looking down his nose at her, “if the court finds that you filed a frivolous complaint, they can order you to pay court costs. So before you file a complaint you might want to ask yourself: Do I need this court order to be safe?”

  “So there’s nothing I can do?”

  He gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “Do you remember the Paige Owens case?” she asked before he could escape.

  He exhaled as he glanced toward the exit. “I do.”

  “She’s sixteen years old now. For five years she’s been keeping a list of the names of children who have gone missing. There are five females between the ages of ten and twelve on her list.”