by Minka Kent
I didn’t mean to hurt him. That was never my intention. But he needs to move on.
We all need to move on.
CHAPTER 34
GREER
Day Ten
The Burlington airport is quaint and easy to navigate, which is much appreciated given my current condition.
I find Ronan by the baggage claim, thumbing through his phone and periodically glancing up to check the crowd for my face. His flight landed an hour before mine. I’m sure the wait was hell.
“Hey,” I say.
He dangles a set of keys, peering around again, not meeting my gaze. “I’ve got the car.”
Within minutes we’re loading our carry-on bags in the trunk of a rented Dodge, barreling down the highway toward Harris’s cabin, which is a good three hours from here according to the GPS on my phone.
Road noise layered over silence does nothing to quell the anxious twist in my middle. Legs crossed, my ankle bounces, and I nip at my nails, biting them to the quick one by one.
“So tell me about the dynamic between Meredith and Harris,” Ronan says, his fists gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles whiten. “Help me understand how this possibly could’ve evolved.”
I shake my head, my eyes unfocused on the road before us. “They couldn’t stand each other. From the moment they met, they butted heads. She thought he was an opinionated jerk. He thought she was everything that was wrong with her generation. They were constantly giving each other shit, sometimes joking, sometimes not.”
“Is it possible it was all a ploy?” he asks, checking his rearview mirror. “Maybe something was going on between them, and this was their way of covering it up?”
I laugh at his ridiculous suggestion. “My sister would never hook up with my ex. And I was with Harris all day, every day, at the shop, morning till close. There’s no way he had some secret relationship going with her.”
“Okay.” He rubs his fingers along his lips, squinting into the late-afternoon sun. “This doesn’t make sense. Where’s the motive? Harris was in New York the day Meredith went missing, right?”
Exhaling, I nod. “Yes.”
“And we know she didn’t leave willingly because why would she leave her things in her car and make it look like she was taken?”
“I know. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.” I tug on the strap of my seat belt, uncomfortable under its restraint. Cars make me feel claustrophobic, and road trips put me on edge the moment boredom and anxiety marry impatience.
For a moment, I wonder if perhaps these two things are unrelated. If Harris ran off to be with another woman while I was gone . . . but that doesn’t add up either. He was free to be with anyone he wanted, and he wouldn’t have told me he wanted to get back together if he were seeing someone else.
My mind spins, but the thoughts are old and tired. It’s like I keep considering the same plausible scenarios over and over, trying to piece together a puzzle that doesn’t fit.
Perhaps she and Harris had something going on the side all along? Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to be with me anymore? Maybe that’s why she ran off with him—she couldn’t bear to come forward with this?
Exhaling, I concentrate on counting the number of blue cars passing us. I need a distraction, a momentary reprieve. My mind is screaming for a break from this nightmare.
Seventeen miles and two blue cars later, my thoughts return to Meredith and Harris.
I try to imagine them touching, kissing, and then my stomach churns. Rolling down the passenger window, I gasp for fresh air until the sensation subsides.
“All right. Let’s think.” Ronan forces a rugged breath between his lips, his jaw flexing. Everything about him is on edge today, like he’s ready for a confrontation. Before we hit the road, I watched as he pulled his gun case from his bag, assembled and loaded it, and then slid it into a pocket holster.
If this nightmare didn’t already feel real, it came to life in that very moment.
“We have to examine this from every angle,” Ronan says, brows furrowed.
Pulling my phone out, I bring up CNN’s website and nearly choke on my spit when I see a flashing red banner across the top of the screen with the scrolling words BREAKING NEWS. “Oh, my God.”
“What?” Ronan springs to life, whipping his attention toward me.
Pressing the flashing banner, I’m redirected to an article that takes forever to load, and I’m finding it impossible to breathe.
“Breaking news,” I manage to say, reaching for the air and cranking it up. Surely if something happened, my mother would call. I wouldn’t expect to hear from Andrew, but I can’t imagine anyone would let me find out about it this way.
The white page finally loads, filling with text, and the photo of a blonde, pigtailed toddler fills the top of the screen. The headline reads ALABAMA TODDLER KIDNAPPED IN BROAD DAYLIGHT.
I exhale, eyes scanning the article about a little two-year-old who was kidnapped while playing at a park. Her mother was there, but apparently she was chatting with another parent. When she turned back, her daughter was gone. There was a witness who claimed they saw a gray minivan speed away about that time.
I stop reading.
The article already has 3,782 comments, and it’s been up all of twenty-nine minutes.
Tapping back to the front page, I scroll down. The headline with my sister’s name in it is at the very bottom, like it’s old and stale and a few news stories away from being pushed into oblivion.
This is what’s wrong with our society.
We treat tragedies like entertainment, the American public priding ourselves on being armchair detectives trying to solve these crimes, but the second the sensationalism dies down and the case grows cold, we move on to the next exciting thing.
And the media. That’s another thing. They need headlines that sell. Stories that stir up emotions and garner web traffic and ad clicks.
I hope to God they find that Alabama baby, but watching the public forget about my sister is a stab in the heart.
“Have you heard anything lately?” I ask. “From the department?”
Ronan’s hand grips the wheel, and his mouth purses. “Nope. Heard they sent out a cadaver dog the other day, but they found nothing. That’s a good thing, though. For now. The volunteer searchers have combed as much as they can. They’re starting to go home. There are a few that’ll stay a while longer, but they can’t stay forever. They’ve got lives to go home to. Jobs. Families.”
“I know.” I rest my head against the window. “That Bixby’s an ass by the way.”
Ronan chuckles. “Isn’t he?”
“Ugh. He’s a walking, talking cliché. A pompous good ol’ boy.” I shudder when I think of his bulbous belly, that smug smirk, and that untouchable attitude. “Is he any good?”
Ronan lifts one shoulder. “Blew out his back years ago and took a desk job. He’s been around forever. Kind of does the bare minimum.”
“Great.”
He switches lanes, checking his mirror and readjusting his posture. I’m not sure how long we’ve been driving yet, but I don’t want to think about how many more arduous minutes we have to spend staring at long stretches of gray highway.
“Bixby’s worthless.” There’s a slight rasp in his throat when he says the name. “But you’ve got me.”
CHAPTER 35
MEREDITH
Ten Days Ago
Two pink lines, the promise of parenthood, and a mile-wide smile on my husband’s face—that’s what makes this ordinary Monday extraordinary.
I spent the morning on the phone, making doctors’ appointments and dinner reservations for a celebratory date night this Friday, and when I wasn’t daydreaming about baby names and nursery colors, I managed to put together a grocery list.
It’s our week with the kids, which means I’m picking them up from school today, and they’re going to expect a full pantry’s worth of assorted snacking options. Erica also requests that the childr
en not eat takeout more than once per week; I suspect she’s becoming preoccupied with Isabeau’s inability to shed the baby fat she’s been hanging on to since childhood.
There’s an eating disorder waiting to happen there, but God forbid I chime in with my two cents.
Tearing a sheet of paper from my notebook, I scribble a few names just for fun.
Jameson Andrew Price.
Poppy Wren Price.
Serena Greer Price.
Emmett Ambrose Price.
Crumpling the paper, I toss it in the trash, buried at the bottom, where Andrew won’t find it. I don’t want him to think I’m being silly, and it’s still so early. Getting my hopes up is dangerous.
Rising, I fold my grocery list and slip it in my purse before grabbing my keys and tugging my suede boots over my jeans. Seems like an hour ago I was staring at a positive pregnancy test and kissing my husband goodbye, and now suddenly it’s early afternoon. Somehow I’ve lost several hours today, though I’m not sure what I did with them.
Daydreams do that, I suppose.
Climbing into my car a minute later, I head toward the grocery store and park in the back of the lot. Andrew is a stickler about door dings, and despite the rest of the Glacier Park population sharing the same sentiments, he still prefers that I park “away from everyone else.”
Killing the engine, I check my texts and almost call my sister to share the news, but something gives me pause. She’s been a little more distant lately, ever since I offered to bail out her business. It killed her to accept the help, but she wasn’t in a position to say no, and I’m going to be coming into all this money that I’ll have no use for—at least not in the short term.
Darkening my phone screen, I decide to wait until we at least have a heartbeat and a due date. Maybe I’ll text her a picture of the sonogram when the time comes. Or surprise her in the city with a cheesy T-shirt she’ll never wear that says WORLD’S COOLEST AUNT.
My mouth draws into a curve when I think about the kind of aunt Greer will be. She’s never been baby crazy or one to so much as talk about wanting a family someday, but what people don’t realize is she’s nothing but fluff on the inside. It’s why she’s so hard on the outside. Greer’s personality is her armor. Inside she’s nothing but love, and she’s got an enormous amount to give. Someone just needs to crack her impossibly hard shell so we can pour it out of her.
I’m about to put my phone away when a tap on my window followed by a dark shadow sends my heart into my throat. Glancing up, I exhale when I see the familiar face; I place a palm over my chest to throttle the errant beats. Opening my door, I climb out and straighten my jacket.
“You scared me,” I say. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
And then everything goes dark.
CHAPTER 36
GREER
Day Ten
“There it is.” I unbuckle my seat belt and point across the dash, my mouth running dry at the sight of the little dark cabin nestled in a thicket of green. It’s unnerving now, sitting here all by itself. The pond to the north is dark and daunting, and the sky is beginning to dim.
Ronan pulls off the road and follows a set of tire tracks worn into the grass and covered in pea gravel.
The closer we get, the more I see the hint of light shining through one of the windows, the kitchen perhaps?
As badly as I want my sister to be in there, I almost hope she isn’t. If she’s hiding in that cabin, willingly tucked away with Harris . . . it’ll kill me. It’ll break my heart in two.
“What now?” I ask when Ronan slows to a stop. He doesn’t stop the engine; he just sits in silence, staring at the house, maybe contemplating his entrance strategy.
“Wait here,” he says.
“I’m not waiting here.” I reach for the door handle, but he places his hand across my lap.
“It’s safer if you do.” He removes his seat belt and slides out, keeping the noise to a minimum. Retrieving his concealed gun, he clasps both hands around it and keeps it trained on the door of the cabin as he treks through an overgrown lawn and over a stone path sidewalk.
Maybe the gun is overkill.
I don’t even think Harris has held a gun in his life. If he’s hiding out on the other side of the door, the harshest weapon in his arsenal would probably be an old can of pepper spray.
Then again, anything is possible, and if Harris did run off with my sister, that means I don’t know him like I thought I did.
Chewing my thumbnail, I cross my legs, my ankle bouncing as I watch him try the door. It’s locked. Of course.
He moves around the cabin, checking windows and disappearing behind the building for a heart-stopping minute. When he reappears, he returns to the front door.
One hard kick is all it takes. The door swings open. Ronan disappears inside.
My heart races. I can’t sit still, can’t breathe.
I imagine him carrying her out, bringing her to the car, peeling out of the weedy driveway and careening to the nearest hospital.
Only he emerges a short time later, holstering his sidearm and keeping his gaze low. When he climbs back into the car, he exhales.
“She’s not in there.” I state the obvious.
“Nope.” He shifts into reverse. “By the looks of it, no one’s been there in a long time. At least from what I could tell. Light’s probably left on to make it look like someone lives here.”
Sinking back into my seat, I bite my trembling lip and blink away the mist clouding my vision.
I will not cry.
Crying won’t find my sister.
The hotel air conditioner hums way too loud, and I’m halfway to becoming a human ice cube, but I’m too exhausted to get up and do anything about it.
The flight back to Utah leaves first thing in the morning. I’m not sure where I’ll be staying when I get back. Ronan hasn’t offered, and I haven’t asked, but I’m not beneath groveling to Andrew.
Lifting my phone, I swallow my pride and call my brother-in-law.
“Greer,” he answers on the third ring, his tone indifferent.
“Hi.” I’m defeated, desperate, and too tired to pretend I’m anything but. “Look, I’m sorry about the way I’ve been treating you.”
“I shouldn’t have kicked you out,” he says next, his tone softening.
My entire speech flies out the window. Andrew’s never apologized for anything, ever. At least not to me.
“I’m under a tremendous amount of pressure and scrutiny,” he says. “I didn’t want to deal with it under my own roof, from my own family.”
He’s never referred to me as “family” either.
“Completely understand,” I say. “I was actually planning to come back tomorrow, but I wasn’t sure where I was going to stay . . .”
“You’re welcome to the guest room again,” he says.
“Are you sure?” I can’t hide the breathy relief in my voice. Drawing my legs close to my chest, I tuck my body under the thin hotel sheets.
“You’re her sister,” he says, as if his reason for forgiveness boils down to that single, solitary reason.
Not wanting to dwell in sentimentalities, I change the subject. “Any developments since I’ve been gone?”
Andrew chuffs. “I wish. Sounds like they’re still focusing on Ronan.”
Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. “They’re wasting their time.”
“And how would you know?”
I wish I could tell him. I wish I could come clean and tell him about Harris being gone, about Ronan hopping on the next flight to help me rescue her from an empty cabin in the woods, but the truth is, I feel stupid, and without an ounce of real evidence to justify everything we did, he’s going to think I’m insane. He’ll never take me seriously again.
As of now, all I’m going off of are my instincts and the fact that Harris is MIA. I have to believe that if Ronan took my sister, he wouldn’t have flown to Vermont the way he did, a man with a gun on a mission to
save the woman he still loves.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Just a gut feeling. I think he really wants to find her.”
“So you’ve been keeping in contact with him?” Andrew asks. “Since he was removed from the case?”
Pausing, I finally answer. “Yes. Here and there. Someone needs to keep an eye on him.”
He’s not going to understand. I had to stay in contact with him. I had to keep him close on the off chance that he might slip up and I might find a hole in his story that could lead me to Meredith.
“Greer.” Andrew groans into the phone.
“What?” I sit up in bed, my back resting against a wooden headboard.
“You need to stay away from him.” Andrew’s direct tone and the clear, succinct delivery of his words send a chill down my spine. “The department did some checking into that stalker case he’d been handling for her a few years back. Turns out there was never a stalker. Never any paperwork filed. Nothing. He made it all up. Everything he ever told her.”
My blood turns to ice, and I can’t feel my lips.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
The only thing separating me from Ronan right now is a slim hotel wall and a door that adjoins our rooms.
“Positive,” Andrew says. “We think he’s been following her for years, obsessed with her.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” I say, my thoughts moving from a still very much MIA Harris to the bombshell Andrew just dropped.
“What doesn’t make sense?”
“I came back to New York,” I say. “Found out Harris has been gone for days. He never told me he left town. All those times I spoke with him, he made it sound like he was running the shops.”
Andrew’s silence concerns me, but I suspect he’s just as baffled as I am. Finally he says, “I’m not sure how Harris would figure into any of this.”
“Me neither.” I whisper more than I speak now, fearful Ronan’s got his ear pressed against the paper-thin walls.
“Just come back to Utah,” Andrew says. “And whatever you do, stay away from that detective, you understand?”