by Wendy Walker
Slowly, he shakes his head back and forth. The shotgun rests, propped against a wall, within his reach. Alice holds a hand over her mouth, containing her fear. Or is it excitement?
I don’t think anymore. I drop the dishes and they crash to the floor. Alice gasps. The man jumps up.
I lunge for the phone and take it in my hand. I should run but I feel desperate to press that little green circle. Before I do, I am on the floor, the broken plates beneath me, scraping against my back. The man is on top of me, the weight of his body pressing me into the floor. Into the broken shards.
“Go to your room,” he says to Alice, and she scurries away.
His voice is stern but otherwise calm. He does not yell. He never yells. Even in the heat of this violent moment.
He takes the phone from my clenched hand. He takes it with no effort at all, peeling my fingers away with his fingers, as though all of my strength is not even a bother to him. My body fights now, arms and legs and torso and head, all writhing and flailing like a captured animal in the mouth of its predator.
Helpless.
His legs are outside my legs, pinning them together. His left hand holds both of my wrists as he props himself up and looks at the phone. I try to lift my head, teeth ready to clamp down on his flesh, but he is just out of reach. And he knows this. I can see on his face the satisfaction that he has secured his prey.
He uses his thumb to stop the call before it can be answered.
He slides the phone out of reach, across the kitchen floor. He leans his head in close to mine, his mouth brushes my ear.
“Are you wondering if that was your daughter? The one you didn’t kill?”
I freeze now. Terror. They know everything.
Not another word is spoken as he slides me across the floor, pieces of the plates digging into my skin.
He drags me by my arms, even as my legs kick and my body writhes to break free, twisting and turning in futility.
He drags me down the hall, past the guest room. Past Alice’s room and his room to the very end.
A door opens to the room that is cold and dark and has a hard tile floor.
The fear descends as he drags me inside and closes the door. I hear a dead bolt click into position on the other side.
It is then I know.
I am never leaving this house.
12
Day fourteen
Daisy Hollander.
Another woman who’d disappeared. Another woman who’d written notes to loved ones, telling them she’d walked away from her life. Nic thought about Daisy Hollander as she cradled a cup of coffee in her hands, looking out at the bar across the street.
Kurt had told her what he knew about the missing girl and her family. Eight children. Poverty. Dismal enough to draw out social services, and that was saying a lot for this part of the state, he’d said. Parents were long gone. He didn’t know where. All of the children had left as well. Except for one. A sister named Veronica.
She lived in the family’s old house in the deep part of the woods near the river, on land that was owned by the state. No one had tried to chase them off. He’d said he wondered if anyone from the state actually realized it. Nothing that happened in Hastings made much of a difference one way or another.
You’ll never find it, he’d told her.
Kurt had promised to take her when his shift ended.
Was that strange, she wondered now? That he didn’t just give her directions? That he’d brought it up at all? No one else had mentioned Daisy Hollander. Not even Chief Watkins.
The diner was close to empty, even at noon. Just one man at the counter, and an older woman in the back who came every day and stayed through dinner, reading books and sipping lemon water. Nic remembered her from the last time she was here. The diner was warm and the water was free. It made her think that Roger Booth was a generous man.
Nic waved to the same waitress from the morning who was leaning on the counter, reading something on her phone. Ignoring her. Nic had captured Officer Reyes’s attention, so now she would be punished with bad service. Cold coffee.
It was just like the girls in school. She had not been one of them. Not ever. And their petty jealousies had amused her. She’d been an athlete. An academic. She’d had her eye on the endgame, which was getting into college and finding her path in life. Her friends had been like-minded, a small pack of four or five of them, banding together against the invisible social ladder in their school. It was absurd how they were sorted out. Boys who played sports with sticks were at the top. Their girlfriends sat beside them on their thrones. Pretty blondes. Always. Nic was blond and some used to think she was pretty. But she didn’t have it in her to sidle up to a jock.
She’d liked the quiet boys. The geeks and runners. The quiet thinkers. The ones Kurt Kent reminded of her of, though he didn’t fit into any of those categories. Maybe it was his earnestness. That was how her mother had described her father—earnest.
That life had felt strong and good.
That life had been a gift. A gift that was long gone.
She was about to get up and get the coffee herself when she saw a new text from Evan.
What did that woman say?
Nic started to text a reply, but decided to call.
“Hey,” he said. He sounded surprised.
“Hey. How are you?”
“I’m, you know, whatever. What’s going on there?”
Nic considered how much to tell him. He needed to keep his shit together. Junior year was important.
“I met with the woman.”
Nic told him about Officer Reyes, and how he’d punched holes through Edith Moore’s story.
“So she’s like the other assholes? After the money?” he asked.
“Everyone wants the money. That doesn’t mean she isn’t telling the truth about the truck. She would be pretty stupid to make up a story that Mom would know was a lie.”
Evan was silent then.
She shouldn’t have gone down that path. He was coming to the same conclusion she had earlier with Reyes, after they’d left Edith Moore at the Gas n’ Go. If their mother was dead, she wouldn’t be able to refute any story. And there was money to be had, dead or alive.
“Ev—I think she did see Mom,” Nic said, changing the subject. Giving him hope. “Do you remember how she always waved at us, when she couldn’t get our attention?”
“Both arms over the head? Like she was working the tarmac at JFK?”
Nic smiled. “Yeah. It was ridiculous, right?”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Of course, Ev. What is it?”
“She did that at the game. She didn’t know I saw her, but after we scored a touchdown, she was standing and cheering and waving like that and it pissed me off because she looked so stupid.”
He could barely get out the last few words.
“Maybe she did know, Evan. Maybe she knew you saw her and that even though it pissed you off, it was because you know how much she loves you.”
“I guess. What made you think about that? The way she waves at us?” Evan asked.
“Edith Moore said that’s how she waved down this truck. And she even had her purse in one hand, so it was flying in the air as well.”
Evan’s voice was lighter now. “Usually it was with her phone in her hand. It was fucking ridiculous! We told her to stop.”
“I know! We did. Even Dad told her. She was so embarrassing.”
Nic felt her throat tighten with these thoughts, these memories, of their mother.
“And she saw the letters on the purse. That was never released to the press.”
“So she really saw her? She saw Mom that night?” His voice trailed off at the end. Was he crying? Had she made him cry?
“Ev…”
“Can you find the truck? Maybe she said something, told someone why she didn’t come home.” His words sounded fragile, their syllables broken.
“I’m trying, Ev. That’s why I’m h
ere. Why I’m staying.”
“Okay … fuck. I mean, fuck this, Nic! Where is she?”
“I don’t know…” Nic tried to stay calm, keep her voice steady so she could stop him from unraveling. But it was too late.
“Why? What the fuck! Why did she leave us?”
Nic searched for the right answer. Was it better that he believed their father’s lie? That the note had been authenticated? That their mother left them? Or should she tell him the truth—that now she didn’t know for sure, even if the police and everyone else in this town still believed it?
Not knowing meant their mother could be dead.
“Ev—listen to me,” she said. “It wasn’t because of the football game. It wasn’t because of anything you did.”
“I see her sometimes,” he said, his voice beginning to calm. “I see her standing by the door to the field house, smiling at me. Wanting me to smile back. Just one smile, you know? And I just felt so pissed off that she was right there where all my friends could see her. It’s not normal that she came all that way for every home game. Other parents don’t come until the playoffs. Why did she have to do that? Why did she keep coming?”
“You know why, Ev.”
“Why?”
She took a second, let him think about it.
“Because of Annie?” he asked then. “That was so long ago. And it’s not like driving eight hours to see me is going to bring her back.”
“I know. It’s complicated.”
“Do you ever ask yourself…”
“What?”
“Why we’re not enough. Why it’s not enough that we’re still here.”
God, Evan. What could she say to that? The truth was, she had never asked that question. It was shocking to hear this, how their mother’s disappearance had resonated so differently inside of him.
“Evan—I’m going to find her, okay? You keep your shit together. I’ve got this.”
“Okay…”
“Promise me?”
“I promise,” he said.
Nic told him about the broken taillight, and how it was a good lead. She made it sound more promising than it was because she needed him to be all right. He seemed comforted by it, this shred of hope she’d given him.
Then he asked, “Did you ever find out what was behind that fence? If anyone looked there?”
* * *
Nic went up to her room. She found sweats and sneakers. Then back downstairs where she found Roger Booth at the front desk.
“Hi,” Nic said.
“Hello,” he replied. He was in a good mood.
“Are there any trails behind the inn? I wanted to go for a run,” she said.
Roger jerked his head back like the surprise had knocked him square in the jaw.
“Not really. The ground’s pretty rough. And wet. Why don’t you go on the road?”
“I used to run cross-country. I still run in the woods. The trails. How far back does it go—the property?”
“We’ve got about fifty acres. You could start training for a marathon if you want.”
Roger Booth had a sense of humor.
Nic turned and walked to the front door. Roger called after her.
“Wait. I was actually joking. It’s not safe out there. The bears are still active. And we’ve had sightings of wolves.”
“Seriously?”
Roger nodded. He was serious, but Nic didn’t care.
“You really want to go in the woods?”
“I really do. Besides, I want to check out that fence my father saw.”
“Fence?”
“You don’t know about it?”
“Not since I’ve been running the place. Far as I know, it’s just woods.”
Nic followed him through the door behind the desk. It led to an office, which had another door to the outside. There was a bluestone patio which was overgrown with weeds. Moss caked most of the stones and a rotten picket fence framed the square. Piled in the corner were an old, rusted-out firepit and some lawn chairs. On the far side was a shed.
“We use this in the summer. Or we used to anyway, back when we had more guests. Some nights, we’d be full up. Kids, parents, everyone sitting around by the fire at night.”
Nic could not imagine it. The state of disintegration, of disrepair—it was like a testament to the agony this town had endured since its economic spiral.
She followed Roger Booth to the shed. He opened the padlock, and then the doors.
Inside were some gardening tools and equipment. A John Deere lawn mower sat in the corner, thick with dust. A small generator was beside that. Tiki torches rested against a wall.
And hanging just above them was a row of shotguns.
“You gonna give me one of those?” Nic asked. “To shoot the bears?”
“You know how to shoot?” Roger asked.
“I missed that class at my private school.”
Roger smiled. “I was thinking more along this line.”
He handed her a small black canister.
“It’s just pepper spray. Problem is, you gotta get pretty close before it’ll work.”
Nic took the spray, examining the nozzle and trigger. Roger adjusted her into the right position. His hands were stronger than she had thought. His fingers long and lean.
“Like this,” he said. “Point and squeeze.”
“How far will it spray?”
“About six feet.”
Roger stepped away and led them out of the shed. He clicked the padlock back on the doors.
“So if I see a bear, I have to let it charge me and then spray and hope it stops?”
Roger nodded and smiled. “He might get in one good swipe.”
“Okay,” Nic said. “Better maimed than dead, I suppose.”
“Exactly.”
They walked around the fence where there was nothing but open woods. The trees were tall but bare. Nic could tell she would be able to weave through them.
Roger pointed toward the sun.
“Head toward the sunset. Don’t make any turns. When you’ve had enough, turn around and come straight back. That way you won’t get lost.”
“I’ll bring my phone. Just in case.”
“Okay. Good luck.”
Roger stood at the edge of the tree line.
Nic turned, took a few steps, then stopped. “Can I ask you something?” she said.
He nodded. “Sure.”
“Did you know a woman named Daisy Hollander?”
Booth stared blankly.
“Yeah,” he said. “She was a girl from high school.”
“Who disappeared?” Nic asked.
“Who told you that?”
“I just heard it around. Any idea what happened to her?”
“She left. Just like the rest of her family, one by one. People do that around here, you know.”
Nic watched his face, the nonchalance of his words and the tone of his voice not matching his expression.
“You should get going before the sun is gone.”
He disappeared behind the fence. She heard the door to the inn open and close. Then she started to move.
Her legs felt heavy. Her breath shallow. She was tired and she hadn’t eaten—her body was protesting now. But the pain felt good. She ran through the trees, watching her feet carefully with every step so she didn’t place them down on a branch or rock. It was an obstacle course and it did exactly what she remembered from her days racing cross-country. The physical pain, the mental preoccupation—all of it a welcome distraction.
She checked her phone. Fifteen minutes had passed. Still no fence.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The pain in her legs had moved into her side. A cramp. She never had to stop. Even after a bad night. Even after miles and miles. This was more than exhaustion.
Suddenly she was standing still, buckled over, gasping for air. Her head was light as she sucked it into her lungs. Words had broken free while her mind had been busy fighting the pain. They
were free and singing between her ears. The things she’d said to her mother the morning she disappeared. The things she’d piled on top of I hate you and open your eyes! The things that surely had pushed her mother over the edge on the anniversary of Annie’s death.
You killed my sister!
Oh, God. No.
You killed your own child!
No.
She had said those words. And she’d told no one.
Tears came, running into the sticky sweat on her face. She wiped them with the back of her hand and leaned against a tree.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The sky was turning orange. She didn’t have long until it would be too low to help her navigate.
She looked back at the sunset to make sure she’d squared herself, to make sure of the direction. When she did, she saw something shimmer through the trees. She looked again, then started to walk toward it. Another shimmer. The sun was almost at the horizon and it created a glare. But she kept walking, until she was forced to stop.
Evan was right—there was a fence. She stood before it and looked up. It had to be seven or eight feet. There were barbed coils at the top, and smaller barbs lining every inch of the wire. She touched them gently. They were sharp. They were meant to keep anyone from being able to climb. The barbs would shred bare skin and the holes were too narrow for a shoe.
She looked through it but saw only more woods on the other side.
She started to follow the fence, walking alongside. She remembered Roger Booth’s warning—don’t make any turns.
She told herself she would make this one turn and walk for ten minutes, then turn around.
It only took five for her to reach the small hole someone had started to cut.
13
Day five
The door opens and three days of darkness come to an end.
He has been bringing food after dark. He leaves the light off in the hallway. There are no windows in this dark room where Alice was born. Just the sink, a hand-pump toilet, and the tile floor. He’s given me two blankets to stay warm.
I count the days by the pitch of the darkness. Light is like water, always finding a way through the cracks and crevices.