Freefall

by Jessica Barry

  I was frantic now. I moved to the bedside tables, pulled open drawers, looked under the bed. There wasn’t anything of her, not a trace. Had she really lived there? Maybe I’d had it all wrong. Maybe she had another apartment, separate from him. Maybe they’d given me the wrong address. Maybe I was going crazy.

  That’s when I saw it, tucked into the thick pile of the carpet: a long blond hair. I plucked it out with my fingernails and held it up to the light. The very tip of it was chestnut brown. It was Ally’s. It had to be.

  I heard a noise behind me and turned to see Teresa standing in the doorway, arms crossed, a scowl slashed across her face. “My shift is over and they don’t pay overtime. If you want to stay longer, I’ll have to call Mrs. Gardner.”

  I climbed to my feet. Seeing her closet cleared out like that had wiped out all my pretenses. I was here as Allison’s mother, and I wanted answers. “Where are her things?”

  She shrugged, her face a defiant blank.

  The familiar anger surged. They wanted to erase her—all of them—but I wouldn’t let them. “I’m her mother. I have a right to my daughter’s belongings. They belong to me now. They have no right—”

  “He did everything for that girl.” Her voice was quiet, almost a hiss.

  My eyes snapped to hers. “What was that?”

  “He gave her everything, but she didn’t appreciate it. She took it all for granted.” She folded her arms across her chest. Her body was thickset, her shoulders filling up much of the doorframe. I was suddenly aware that I was alone in a house with a stranger, and that no one knew I was there. Her eyes bored into mine, steady and unblinking. “Your daughter didn’t deserve him.”

  “You’re right.” The blood thundered in my ears, deafening. I was scared but I wouldn’t let her see it. “She deserved better.”

  She shook her head. Her mouth was a piece of string pulled tight. “Get out.”

  It was only as I was driving back downtown that it struck me: when I’d blown my cover like that, she hadn’t seemed surprised in the least. It was almost like she’d known who I was the whole time.

  Allison

  I hear it before I see it: the low hum of an engine and the pop of tires on gravel. I glance out the window of the cabin and see the front end of an SUV nose out of the woods. The bold green letters on the side spell out UNITED STATES PARK RANGER: POLICE. I can see the outline of two men behind the windshield.

  The car doors slam shut and there are heavy footsteps in the dirt. “You see anything?” A man’s voice, deep and close.

  My mind races. Just on the other side of this flimsy door is salvation. It’s warm clothes and a comfortable bed and a hot meal. God, the food. Still-warm baguettes slicked with salted butter. Cheeseburgers, rare and juicy and draped with bacon. Chocolate layer cake with vanilla frosting and sprinkles, the kind my mother used to make for my birthday. Guacamole.

  “Doesn’t look like it.” Another man’s voice, at a slightly higher octave. Also close.

  If they know you’re alive, they’ll find you.

  I can hear them scuffling around outside, pacing the perimeter of the building. The silhouette of one of them appears in the window, momentarily blocking out the sun, and the light in the cabin dims.

  I might die in these woods. I’ve already almost died a few times. How many more chances will I get?

  Just say something. Open the door and let them see you. I need help. Say the words. Please, I need your help.

  Do you know who you’re dealing with?

  “You seen this?” The deep-voiced man. He sounds excited.

  “You think it’s recent?”

  “Looks too clean for it to not be.”

  I must have left something outside, a scrap of laundry left to dry in the sun, a sock maybe, or a pair of underwear. I feel embarrassed. Exposed. Scared.

  When everything comes out in the wash. If they know what you’ve done, they’ll kill you.

  I press my back against the wall.

  “Let’s check inside.”

  My eyes dart to the door. The frame is splintered but the lock—a heavy padlock—is still swinging from its latch. Can I make it in time? I don’t have a choice—I have to try. My heart thuds in my chest as I dart across the floor. Footsteps on the stairs, heavy and quick. My hand grips the lock but my fingers are shaking, fumbling. I can’t get the shackle to fit into the hole. Boots scuffle on the landing. Come on, Ally. It’s now or never. There’s a click as the lock snaps together. I hear one of them push against it from the other side, the warped frame straining under the pressure. I press myself against the door and lean all my weight against it, willing it to hold. I can hear the rasp of the man’s breath as he strains under the effort.

  “No good,” the higher-voiced man says finally, and the pressure on the door stops abruptly.

  I can feel the heat of their bodies as they stand on the stairs, considering their options. I’m holding my breath, my heart high and loud in my chest. My lungs start to scream. Leave, I shout silently. Leave now.

  I hear them shuffle and sigh. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

  One of them gives the door a final shove, and then I hear their footsteps retreating down the steps and across the gravel and the car doors slam and the engine spark up and the crunch and pop of the tires as the SUV pulls away. It’s only when I can’t hear the engine anymore that I let myself breathe, and by that point I’m seeing stars.

  That was it. My one chance at rescue, gone.

  Everyone has his price. You never know who’s been paid.

  But maybe, just maybe, I’ve saved myself again.

  I was in the shower when I heard him come through the door, his keys landing with a clatter on the kitchen counter. I rinsed the conditioner out of my hair and hurried to towel myself dry. When I stepped out of the bathroom, I found him sitting on the bed cradling a glass of whisky in his hand.

  “You’re home early!” I said, bending down to kiss him, but I stopped short as soon as I saw his face. “What’s wrong?”

  He wiped a hand across his face. “Nothing,” he said quietly. “Just a tough day at work, that’s all.” There were dark smudges under his eyes, and his skin was pale and waxy. He looked exhausted.

  I sat down beside him and pulled him toward me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  I stroked his back as he stared into his glass, listening to the silence settling around us. I felt the first whiskers of fear. Normally he came through the door brimming with excitement. He’d sweep me into his arms and tell me about his latest triumphs at work as he opened a good bottle of red. I’d never seen him like this. Defeated.

  Eventually he let out a sigh that seemed to come from some deep, forgotten part of himself and raised his eyes to mine. “Do you think I’m a good person?”

  My first reaction was to laugh—it was such a ridiculous thing for him to ask—but then I saw that he was serious. “You are the best man I know,” I said, taking his hands in mine. As I said the words, I realized they were true. He had rescued me, taken care of me, loved me. I owed him everything. “I can’t imagine a better man. I am so lucky to have you.”

  The shadows parted and he smiled at me. “I’m lucky, too,” he said, pulling me down on top of him. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.” He pushed a few damp strands of hair from my face and pressed his forehead to mine. His eyes were almost black in the dark, and they stared into mine as if searching for something.

  “What is it, baby?” I whispered. “Talk to me.”

  He shook his head and tugged at the cord of my bathrobe. “I don’t want to talk,” he said. “I just want to be with you.” His hands were warm as they slid up my body, his mouth soft as it made its way down my neck and stomach. He teased me with his tongue until I was begging for him, and when he finally pushed his way inside me, I was already coming.

  Afterward, we collapsed into each other, our limbs tangled in the damp sheets, our breath heavy. I watch
ed his chest rise and fall in the half-light and tried to silence the voice in my head that told me happiness like this could only be fleeting.

  In twenty minutes I’m packed up and headed east, the cans of soup rattling in my bag, the jerrican of water sloshing by my side, the rifle slung around my neck. The familiar pain strikes up again, gaining with each step until, by the time the cabin is swallowed up by the woods, the symphony is in full flight.

  Maggie

  Most of the pharmaceutical companies in San Diego were up the coast in La Jolla or Del Mar, but not Prexilane. It was downtown, right on the waterfront, in a glass-and-steel skyscraper that stretched up into the clear blue sky. I parked in an Ace lot off West Ash and walked down to the pier, the air smelling like fish guts and gasoline.

  I wasn’t sure what my plan was. I didn’t have much of one, if I was being honest. I knew he wasn’t there. I didn’t have an appointment to see anyone, or even a name to give a receptionist. But it felt important to try.

  There was a wide concrete plaza out front edged with neat boxes of red and yellow carnations. The sun glinted off the glass of the building, and I had to shield my eyes as I approached. It was nearly lunchtime, and a few people sat on benches outside, eating their packed lunches while reading books or poking at their phones. It looked more like a scene from a movie than real life, but maybe that was just California. All this sunshine felt unnatural to me.

  The receptionist watched as I approached the wide wooden desk. “Excuse me,” I said, reaching up and smoothing down my hair. I put on my most trustworthy smile. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

  She nodded, and her eyes wandered back to the big black monitor stationed in front of her face.

  I cleared my throat. “I was wondering if there was someone at Prexilane who could talk to me. My daughter, she—”

  “Name?”

  “Maggie,” I stammered. “Margaret Carpenter.”

  She nodded and typed something on her keyboard. “Name here and sign,” she said, tapping on a piece of paper on the desk. I printed it out in careful letters and scrawled out my signature in the box next to it. She handed me a laminated scrap of paper with a little metal clip affixed to the back. “Forty-third floor, elevator B.”

  I took the pass and clipped it to the edge of my blouse. It smelled faintly of the old mimeograph machine we used to use in the library years ago, before they bought the fancy Xerox. “All right,” I said with a nod. “Well. Thank you.” I hesitated. The marble lobby was enormous, the size of a football field. I didn’t have a clue where elevator B was.

  The woman must have caught the look on my face and took pity on me. “To the left,” she said, nodding toward a far-off corridor. “You’ll see the signs.” Her eyes turned back to the monitor and her fingers flew across the keyboard.

  I felt a flurry of nerves as the elevator took me up to the forty-third floor. I wasn’t sure what I was doing there, or what I expected to gain. The doors opened into another lobby, this one done out in cream and brown leather. Another receptionist—blond this time, and smiling—was sitting behind a large wooden desk. She smiled at me brightly as I stepped off the elevator. “Welcome to Prexilane! Please, take a seat. Mr. Hutchinson will be out in a minute.”

  I stared at her quizzically. I had no clue who Mr. Hutchinson was, as I was pretty sure he wasn’t expecting me. “I think there’s been some kind of mix-up.”

  She looked up sharply. “You’re not from Hyperion?” I shook my head. Behind her, through a frosted glass door that was half-open, I could see the office in a state of commotion. She followed my gaze and swiftly shut the door. “I’m sorry,” she said, recovering herself. “I thought—” She shook her head apologetically. “Sorry, it’s been kind of a crazy day. How can I help?”

  My palms were sweating. I clasped them together and stepped forward. “I’m . . . well, my daughter, Allison, she was engaged to Ben Gardner, and . . .”

  The woman’s face crumpled. “I’m sorry for your loss. Allison was a sweetheart. We were all so shocked to hear about the accident.”

  “Thank you. I was wondering if there might be someone I could speak to, someone who might be able to tell me—” What? What was it I wanted to know? The woman watched me patiently, her eyes full of sympathy. Come on, Maggie. Pull yourself together. Ask the damn question. “Is there somebody I could talk to about her? Or about Ben?”

  She blinked up at me. “Do you have an appointment?”

  My fingers fumbled with the laminated pass. “No, like I said, I don’t have an appointment, but I was hoping there might be someone . . . You see, I’ve come all the way from Maine, and I can’t seem to get ahold of Ben’s parents, and . . .”

  I saw the shutters come down over her pretty green eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. Her blond ponytail swished neatly back and forth. “I can’t help you if you don’t have an appointment.”

  The frosted glass door opened and a clean-cut man in a dark gray suit shoved his head through. “Have they turned up yet?”

  The receptionist stiffened. “Not yet,” she said in a false-bright voice. I could see the tension on her face. The man cursed under his breath and slammed the door shut.

  “Well, maybe that man could spare a few minutes? After all, I know his appointment isn’t here yet.” I ventured a conspiratorial smile but she didn’t return it.

  The phone on her desk rang and her gaze flicked to it impatiently. “Look, I’m really sorry about your daughter, and about you coming all this way, but there’s nothing I can do.”

  I felt a well of desperation open inside me. “Maybe you could speak to me, since you’re here? I won’t take up too much of your time, but you said you knew Ally, and—”

  The phone rang again, and this time her hand hovered above it. “I’m sorry, but I really have to get back to work.” She gave me one last pitying glance before picking up the phone. “Good afternoon, Prexilane Industries.”

  I straightened up and nodded. I understood that I’d been dismissed, and I wasn’t about to lose my dignity, not again, not here. I hit the call button for the elevator, and when it opened, a pair of suits pushed past me into the Prexilane reception area. Mr. Hutchinson’s appointment, I guessed. At least he’d stop shouting at that poor receptionist.

  I watched myself in the mirror as the elevator descended. My eyes were bloodshot and puffy, my skin waxen, and there were gaunt hollows under my cheeks. I looked like a ghost. A goddamn ghoul.

  I pushed my way through the revolving door and squinted into the bright sunshine, my eyes blurred with tears. The courtyard was nearly empty now, the lunchtime crowd having slunk back to their offices for another afternoon at their desks, so I sat down on one of the benches to wait until my bearings returned. The sunshine was relentless, and the wooden slats of the bench were hot to the touch. I dug around in my purse for the bottle of water I’d tucked inside. It was lukewarm, like drinking bathwater.

  All this way, and for nothing. She’d lived in this city for almost a decade but I could barely find a trace of her. It seemed like everyone who knew her had just let her slip away. They had neglected her, and now she was gone.

  I could rail against all of them—Ben, Dee, the Gardners, those men in that seedy bar—but deep down I knew who was to blame. I was her mother. I was supposed to take care of her. I let her cut me out of her life without so much as a fight. I’d failed her. And I was failing her all over again.

  There, under the bright glare of the California sun, I broke down and wept.

  Allison

  By nightfall, my steps slow to a shuffle. I can’t think about how many miles I still have left to go. I can think only about the miles I’ve already covered, and I know that I’ll get there in the end. I drop my bag where I stand, pull out the canopy cover, and tug off my sneakers. The day has done a number on them—the fabric is caked in dirt and the rubber soles are starting to pull away from the seams. Nike’s finest apparently isn’t up to the challenge of a week
in the Rockies.

  I open a can of soup with my knife—chicken noodle—and drink it straight from the tin. Unheated, the broth is gluey, oversalted, but I don’t care. The noodles slip easily down my throat along with the tiny cubes of carrot. I finish the can within minutes and wash it down with a few gulps of water.

  I lie back and close my eyes. What I wouldn’t do right now for an ice cream sandwich, the kind with the two chocolate wafers made out of God knows what, the sort that leaves a smudge of residue on your fingertips that can be scraped off with your teeth, and a thick slab of too-sweet vanilla ice cream. Or a grilled cheese made with fluorescent-orange cheese that oozes out the edges of thickly buttered Wonder Bread. But most of all, I want a drink. A stiff one.

  All the drinks in my life. All the cold beers chugged from Solo cups, tepid glasses of white wine sipped at networking events for the magazine, shots of tequila laced with wine slammed after shifts at the bar. And champagne, whole lakes of it, poured out at countless parties.

  “Would you like a refill?” The white-shirted waitress bowed low as she refilled my glass before disappearing into the crowd. I watched her retreating back longingly. I wondered what they were saying to each other back in the kitchen. I could picture it, the stainless-steel tables lined with canapés waiting to be offered to San Diego’s great and good, the waiters jostling with each other as they came through to refill trays or sneak a quick cigarette. They would be gossiping about us, whispering about who was too drunk and who was hogging the salmon tarts and which of the men were handsy. I would have given anything to be in there with them, rather than out here, trying to make small talk with the other wives and girlfriends while the men slapped backs and brokered deals.

  I watched Sam lean in and whisper something in Ben’s ear and saw Ben’s face darken. Secrets. Always secrets. Sam’s role at the company was murky—Ben called him his fixer, but he wouldn’t explain what exactly Sam fixed. I’d pressed him on it once, after Sam had appeared on our doorstep at quarter to midnight and the two of them had disappeared into the study until the early hours, but when he finally climbed into bed, he just kissed the top of my head and said, “It’s business, baby girl. Just business.”