Between Lost and Found

by Shelly Stratton

  Her words drifted off again.

  Utter desolation . . . that’s what he saw on her face. Sam recognized that feeling. He longed to touch her, to make her feel better, but he didn’t. Instead, he shook his head.

  “Don’t feel guilty. A thing like this is bound to make a person sway between hope and misery. I wouldn’t beat myself up for feeling either way.”

  She closed her eyes and nodded.

  “But don’t sink too far under, either. Try your best to distract yourself, if you can. Connie’s fashion show is a good outlet for that.”

  She opened her eyes and stared at him. A faint smile finally crossed her lips. “How in the world did you find out I was going to be in the fashion show? I just told her yes yesterday!”

  “I guess she told somebody, somebody told somebody else, and they told me. I don’t remember who.” He chuckled. “Don’t underestimate small towns. Word gets around fast in Mammoth.”

  “Oh, greaaaaaat!” She lowered her wineglass to the coffee table and dropped her head into her hands. “Now I’m imagining a hundred pairs of eyes staring up at the stage, waiting for the black city girl to make a fool of herself. Like I’m not anxious enough!”

  “Oh, chin up! It won’t be that bad.”

  “Won’t be that bad?” She barked out a laugh.

  He liked listening to her laugh and watching her do it. He liked how she threw her head back and closed her eyes, how her mouth went wide. He wondered if that was the same face she made in bed.

  “You should have seen one of the dresses she wanted me to wear. It was awful! Just awful! Rhinestones with fringe along the hem . . .” She shuddered, making him laugh again.

  “Well, it is a rodeo queen–themed fashion show, isn’t it?”

  She stubbornly shook her head. “I’ll wear a cowboy hat. I’ll even wear cowboy boots, but I’m drawing the line when it comes to fringe!”

  He shrugged and took a drink from his wineglass. “We’ll see. Connie can be pretty convincing when she wants to be.”

  “Oh, believe me. I know!” she said ruefully with widened eyes. She then adjusted her top. Janelle was wearing one of those sweatshirts that hung off one shoulder, like that gal from the movie Flashdance. He fought the urge to lean over and place a warm kiss on her collarbone.

  “I thought I was getting a good deal out of this since she was letting me use her washer and dryer and her scanner, but now I’m starting to question my decision.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  She grumbled in reply.

  “And hey, if I can break away for a bit, I’ll come by for moral support—if you want me to.”

  “Really? Would you have the time to do that?”

  Honestly? No, he wouldn’t. In his mind, he assembled a list of things—professionally and personally—that he had to do that took precedence over stopping by a fashion show, but then she eagerly reached out and placed her hand on top of his forearm. She gave it a squeeze that made him forget the list, that made the hair on his arm stand on end, and made his pulse race. It was like being a teenage boy all over again.

  “I know I sound like a baby, but it would be nice to have a friendly face in the crowd. I’d appreciate it.”

  He glanced down at her hand and then up at her again. The room fell silent with the exception of the crumbling logs in the fireplace.

  And this is when the night diverged into three different realities. He could feel the split happening, like his body and the world around him divided evenly into what he thought he should do, what he really wanted to do, and what he ultimately ended up doing.

  In the first reality, he nodded and rose from the sofa before telling her he should head home. She walked him to the door and thanked him again for having dinner with her. He insisted he should be the one thanking her. He then waved good-bye and told her he’d see her tomorrow.

  “It’s a date,” she said before shutting the cabin door behind him.

  In the second, Sam picked up the hand she had rested on his forearm. He ran his thumb over the knuckles, making her dark eyes flicker toward his. He held her gaze for several seconds before leaning forward and pressing his lips lightly against her own. Her lips were full and soft—just like he had imagined.

  He waited for her to pull away or to push him off of her, but she didn’t. Instead she kept her lips firmly against his, taking shallow breaths that sent hot blasts of air through her nose onto his cheek. He ran his tongue along her lips, urging them to part. When they finally did, he delved his tongue inside her mouth, licking along the rim. She tasted like Merlot. She wrapped her arms around his neck as the kiss deepened and he slid his hand up the back of her sweatshirt, feeling the warm skin on his fingertips. She moaned softly and the kiss increased in fervor. Then grudgingly, he pulled away, still feeling the sensation of her lips on his even as he stood to leave.

  “I should probably go,” he said, and she nodded dully, watching him as he walked alone across the cabin’s living room to the front door.

  He then opened the door and shut it behind him, knowing that he would be back tomorrow night and anticipating the possibility that the next kiss would turn into something more.

  In the third scenario—true reality—he picked up the hand she had rested on his forearm. He ran his thumb over the knuckles, making her eyes flicker toward his. The moment stretched on longer than it should have as he waffled over what to do next. Finally, he raised the knuckles to his lips and kissed her hand. He then lowered the hand back to her lap and bid her good night.

  “I should be heading out now,” he murmured as he rose to his feet. “It’s getting late. I’ll let you get your beauty sleep.”

  “Oh? Uh . . . yes. It is . . . it is getting late.” She loudly cleared her throat. “I’ll . . . I’ll walk you to the door.”

  * * *

  The next morning Sam stumbled out of bed at five a.m., still exhausted and feeling like he had slept two hours, not six. He peered into his hallway, only to find his dog, Quincy, waiting patiently near the front door with his leash in his mouth and his tail thumping on the floor so hard it could have beaten a hole through the warped hardwood.

  “All right, boy,” Sam called out as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. “Hold your horses! I’m coming.”

  He hastily washed, dressed, and ran out the door with Quincy at his side just as the first pinpricks of dawn were on the horizon. They thumped down the stairs to his front yard.

  The duo traversed more than a mile, zigzagging over trails partially hidden by brush and thawing snow, going deeper and deeper into the woods. Sam would pause every now and then to throw a tennis ball and let Quincy fetch it.

  “Go get it, boy,” Sam said as he stopped again to toss the yellow ball into the distance.

  He watched as it bounced once, twice, then rolled down the hill and disappeared into the shadows beneath low tree branches and a thicket of shrubs.

  Though Sam had lost sight of the ball, Quincy’s eyes were considerably better than his master’s. The golden Lab went chasing gleefully after it—sending up a spray of white snow and fallen pine needles. Sam reluctantly followed.

  He wasn’t enjoying this quite as much as Quincy. Sam was now wading ankle-deep in thawing snow, feeling the hem of his jeans become soaking wet. The tree canopy overhead was also dripping water onto his head. All the while, Sam kept glancing down at his watch, feeling the minutes ticking by, knowing he’d have to report to City Hall in a half an hour.

  But he didn’t call Quincy back. He knew he owed the dog this. He had returned home late several nights in a row and hadn’t given poor Quincy a decent walk in almost a week. He wasn’t even giving Quincy his full attention now. His mind instead kept drifting back to Janelle.

  As Janelle had walked Sam to her front door last night, she had looked disconcerted by what had transpired, and he’d felt a pang of guilt for kissing her hand, but it quickly passed.

  It was her hand, not her mouth—or any of the many other extremities he ha
d fantasized about kissing when he was with her.

  Sam knew what he was doing: pushing the boundaries between appropriate and inappropriate just far enough that neither could feel guilty. They could pretend he was the well-meaning police chief, having dinner with her to bring her solace. She could pretend that she was still in love with her boyfriend. But the subtext was there; he wanted her, and he suspected she was starting to feel something for him, too. He just had to wait for the moment when she would finally acknowledge those truths.

  Quincy bounded back to Sam with the tennis ball in his mouth. The dog’s fur was damp and covered with dirt and slush along his belly and paws. He opened his jaw and dropped the ball at his master’s feet, making it sink into the snow. He then looked up eagerly at Sam.

  Throw it again, boss, the look said.

  Sam chuckled, picked up the soggy tennis ball, and tossed it again—farther this time with the ferocity of a pitcher aiming for home plate. Again, Quincy went chasing after it. Sam watched the dog disappear behind a line of trees. He stood in the snow with his hands in his jacket pockets, waiting patiently for Quincy to return. A minute passed and then another and Quincy still hadn’t come back with the ball.

  “Quincy!” Sam yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. “Hey, Quincy!”

  Had he thrown it too hard?

  He squinted into the distance, listening for Quincy’s bark or the sound of the Lab trampling through the brush. He heard neither.

  “Quincy!” he called again.

  Suddenly, his cell phone began to ring, a piercing chirp in the aching silence of the forest. Sam tore his gaze away from the brush long enough to reach into his pocket and pull out his cell. He squinted at the name and number on the screen. When he saw who it was, his heartbeat instantly picked up its pace. His hands shook.

  “What’ve you got?” he barked, not even bothering to say “hi.”

  As he listened to the voice on the other end of the line, Sam heard the sound of breaking twigs and rustling leaves. Quincy galloped toward him, holding not the tennis ball Sam had thrown, but a baby doll in his mouth. One of its blue glass eyes was missing, along with one of its plastic legs. Quincy proudly dropped it at Sam’s feet and panted.

  Sam gazed down at the doll that had sunk face-first in the snow. According to the lieutenant now on the phone, it seemed that Quincy wasn’t the only one who had made a discovery in the woods.

  “All right.... All right. I’m heading into City Hall. Catch me up on the details when I get there,” Sam said before ending the call, not knowing whether to be relieved or sick to his stomach.

  CHAPTER 19

  The rumor began as a whisper a little after dawn, but by noon it had turned into a roar. Rumors spread quickly in small towns and this one had the momentum of a mudslide after a heavy rain; there was no stopping it once it started.

  “Hey, did you hear about what the trackers found last night?” a customer shouted over the sound of the espresso machine to the girl behind the counter at Cuppa Cup of Joe as she toasted his wheat bagel.

  “I hope it isn’t true,” the older woman whispered to her companion as she held a stack of envelopes against her saggy bosom. They lingered in front of the glass door of the Mammoth Falls Post Office and stepped aside for another woman pushing a stroller. “If it is true, it would be awful. Just awful!”

  The crime reporter at the Mammoth Falls Gazette—a transplant from Cleveland who had always had dreams of working at the New York Times—nearly choked on his hash browns when his editor tossed the tip onto his desk. He quickly dialed the direct number to the police department to get confirmation.

  He could see the story now in his head, from the lede to the closing sentence. It would be the article that would propel him to the big leagues! Mentally, he was already rehearsing his Pulitzer Prize acceptance speech.

  “Come on! Pick up!” he shouted, though his call was kicked to the automated messaging system.

  The lines had been flooded since eight a.m. with similar calls from residents who all wanted to know if the rumor was true.

  Did the search teams really find a body in the woods late last night? And was it a man or woman? Young or old?

  Was it Bill?

  No one knew for sure. It depended on what version of the rumor you had heard. Some said it was a young man who showed signs of a stabbing. Others said it was an old woman who had been shot three times—once in the head, twice in the chest. And some said the body was so gruesomely charred that only dental records could reveal the person’s true identity.

  But they all agreed on one thing: the cops had finally found something.

  When word reached Connie’s ears, she saw little pinpricks of bright light in her vision just before everything dimmed, like someone had flicked a switch from on to off. She almost crumpled to her knees on the tiled floor, but she gripped her kitchen counter to catch herself. She managed to stay upright long enough to ease into a chair at her dinette table.

  “Connie?” the voice called out from the phone. It was Linda, one of her girlfriends whom she played poker with on weekends, whom she had partied with in the old days. “Connie, you still there?”

  Connie couldn’t answer. Words eluded her. She couldn’t stop trembling. She felt like she was going to explode—go supernova right there in her kitchen and burst into a billion pieces.

  She sat the cordless phone on the table and dropped her head between her knees. That’s what you were supposed to do when you were hyperventilating, right? Her legs had gotten pale during these past winter months. She barely recognized them.

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” the tiny voice said above her from the handset on the table as she sat unmoving. “Maybe it isn’t Bill. Maybe it’s somebody else.”

  Connie closed her eyes. Her throat became even tighter, as if someone had wrapped a rope around it and was pulling for dear life.

  “Mama, what the hell are you doing?” Connie expected Yvette to say when she walked into the kitchen and found her mother silently sobbing with her head between her knees. But then Connie reminded herself that Yvette wasn’t home. Yvette hadn’t been home in two days.

  She’s probably with him, Connie thought, finally sitting upright. Her head lolled to the side drunkenly. She’s probably with the son of a bitch who killed my Bill.

  * * *

  He’s never coming back, Connie thought, letting the finality of that knowledge settle into her hours later as she stared blankly out her shop window at Main Street. She watched the festival goers as they lollygagged along, toting balloons and stuffed animals. Two blocks down they were holding a fake calf roping contest, where four competitors hopped on inflatable plastic horses and lassoed a straw “calf” before hopping back down the street. The crowd roared with laughter. Some took pictures of the contest with their camera phones.

  How could people go about their business, like the entire world hadn’t ended?

  It didn’t matter to her that Sam had called the shop to tell her not to lose hope.

  “We’re letting the medical examiner look it over,” he had said in that annoyingly calm voice of his. “We haven’t confirmed the identity yet. It’s so disfigured that we’ll probably have to use dental records.”

  “What the hell do you mean ‘disfigured’?” Connie had yelled into the phone.

  “I can’t go into more detail right now, Connie. When I get a chance, I’ll sit down with you and Janelle. I’ll explain everything, but things are a little crazy over here right now.”

  He hadn’t sounded like things were crazy. He had sounded like he had his feet up on his desk and he was flipping through the latest issue of People magazine. Meanwhile, Bill was dead, and the people who had killed him were going unpunished.

  “Let’s just wait to see what the analysis says,” Sam had continued. “I don’t want anyone jumping to any conclusions.”

  “Well, while we wait, are you following up on that thing I told you about? About Tyler Macy?” she had a
sked. “What are you gonna do about that, Sam?”

  He had paused for a long time. “I’m sorry, Connie, but . . . there’s nothing to do. There’s still nothing connecting Tyler to this. Look, I know you want someone to take responsibility for what’s happened to Bill, whatever has happened to him,” he said, when she loudly started to grumble. “But we can’t just blame people at random. I can’t—”

  “Yeah, well, thanks for the update, Sam. Or should I say, thanks for nothing?” she had spat before hanging up on him, feeling hot tears of fury slide down her cheeks.

  Blaming people at random . . .

  Don’t jump to conclusions . . .

  She knew the truth in her heart. She knew Bill was dead and Tyler was behind it. Sam could believe what he wanted.

  She was tired of hoping and praying. She just wanted the worry to end, and with news of a body discovered in the woods, Connie finally had her ending. And with that came an anesthetizing acceptance. She would never get to make amends, to make up for what she had done to Bill last July.

  * * *

  When she had gone out to the bar with Linda for a girls’ night out—the first since her engagement—she hadn’t intended to meet anyone, let alone bring a man home. But that’s what she ended up doing, and it was doubt, not the five shots of tequila, that made her do it.

  Am I making the right decision to marry Bill? Will I mess this up like I always do? Am I good enough for a man like him?

  The constant questioning made her so nervous that she had started to break out in hives.

  “Something irritating your skin, honey?” Bill had asked as he ran his fingers over the red bumps and welts on her back and shoulders while they sat in bed the night before.