by Lorena May
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
SHE’S GONE!
First edition. April 1, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Bree Branigan and Lorena May.
Written by Bree Branigan and Lorena May.
© Copyright 2018 by Lorene May-All rights reserved.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.
Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.
She’s Gone!
By Lorena May
I think back to the last time I held Cassandra. Her stiff, screaming body. My hands vibrating – wanting to shake and shake and shake her. But I hadn’t – had I? The force with which I’d thrown her into her bed couldn’t have hurt her, could it? It was only a few inches. Then – was I passed out in the closet? For how long? Was there something I did that I wasn’t remembering? My heart aches, filling my whole body, making me numb and immovable. I’m a heavy, solid, unfeeling rock.
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Chapter 1
SHEA, SEPTEMBER 13, 2018
The screaming! That incessant screaming. Searing. Tearing at my brain. A jackhammer pummeling and drilling thru my body. I hunch into a ball, clenching my fists around my calves. “Pleaeaeaeaease!”
I don’t know how long I sit there, fingers tearing at my hair now. My insides jangling. Her screeching piercing and crashing in my head. “I have to do this.” I take deep breaths; slow, deliberate. I shut the outside world out, concentrating on my heaving chest. Slow down! Breathe in. Out. In. Out. Gritting my teeth, I lower my legs to the floor, my feet sinking into the soft carpeting. Head bowed, eyes closed, I remain a moment longer, fingers splayed across my forehead. I can do this. I MUST do this.
I shuffle across the living-room and down the hall to the baby’s room, my breathing shaky, my body limp. Stopping for a moment, I close my eyes and suck in shallow breaths. The hallway is dark. I feel suffocated. The world is closing in on me. When I touch the door handle, turn it … I’m assaulted by loud shrieks. My eyes scrunch shut for a moment. When I open them I see her there in her crib. Red-faced, stiff-bodied. Grabbing the half-full bottle of milk from the change table I move to the crib and slip it into her mouth. She squirms away from it, squealing. An ear-splitting sound. I place my hands under her arm-pits and pick her up, holding her against me. Her body is stiff. Her crying relentless. I hold her away from me. I want to shake her. “Shut up!” I roar, vibrating her little body. She gapes at me. A look of horror. And I pitch her into the crib and run. I run from the crib, through the doorway, across the narrow hallway into my bedroom where I throw open the closet door and fall to the floor, huddled there, my head on my knees, gasping for breath. My head is spinning. I feel myself shaking, and the tears come in little gasps.
I picture Ben, an image of his anxious face looming in my head. Hear his voice, cracking, concerned. “Shea, be happy. We have a beautiful baby girl.”
Has it only been seven weeks? The birth was hard and long. Two epidurals did little to relieve the pain. But when she finally came the relief was like lying in a soothing stream on a hot summer day. I remember how we laughed giddily over her funny little face twitchings. Counted her perfect tiny fingers and toes. One – two – three … Cassandra, we called her. Our beautiful girl child. Her eyes a deep blue, and her nose a little button on a tiny heart-shaped face. Already she had a mass of softly curling, dark hair. Her soft, pink skin felt, talcum-like, and her little seven-pound body with its creases and tiny rolls fit into me like a part of my own.
What has happened? Her screaming is muffled a little by the clothes hanging around me, the doors slammed behind me. But they continue in the distance; piercing me with guilt and anguish. I reach into the pocket of my robe, my fingers grasping the smooth capsule. Gathering saliva in my mouth I pop it in and swallow. It feels massive in my throat. I swallow again and again. In my mind I see the pharmacist’s eyes boring into me. Suspicious. Superior. “Take only the prescribed amount,” she’d said. But I need this.
I’m drowning in angst. Ben’s face swims before my eyes, his eyes alert. Anxious. “It’ll be all right”. NO! It’s not! I shove another pill into my mouth. Another… And, finally, oblivion.
I AWAKE FUZZY-HEADED. Silence surrounds me. I’m lying on the closet floor now, surrounded by shoes that dig into my ribs, hips and legs. Sniffing, I catch a faint scent of fabric softener. The carpet below me is scratchy and nubby. Have I slept here? For how long? Slowly I bring myself to my knees and stand, moving away from the clothing that has cushioned me from the world. Dream-like, I walk through the bedroom into the hallway. There is no sound. My baby has fallen asleep. I breathe deeply, relieved. Sunlight shines filters through the hallway from the kitchen and I hear the soft tap-tap of rain falling. I tip-toe to Cassandra’s door, and slowly open it. I’ll just check on her. There is no sound. Silently I creep toward her crib. I see a hump of sheets and blankets. I look down. She’s gone.
Chapter 2
SHEA, JUNE 13, 2005
“She’s gone! Our mother is gone. Because of you!” My sister pointed an accusing finger at me, and burst into tears.
“Alyssa! I’m sorry!” And I was crying too. I knew it wasn’t fair.
Earlier that day she’d waited for me at school. Junior Highs dismissed earlier than us fifth-graders. I knew she’d much rather have been hanging out with her few friends like a normal kid. Like she wasn’t the person mainly responsible for me. Walking home, she’d been silent and brooding. I merrily told her about the science project we’d done that day; building towers of different shapes. Rectangular, triangular, cylindrical. “And then we’d put weights on them to see which held the most.” I chattered on, just happy to have an audience, no matter how unresponsive she was. But when we arrived at our embarrassingly run-down home we both knew something was wrong.
Mom’s car was gone, but otherwise the difference was so subtle I couldn’t say what it was. Blankets hung across the windows. As usual. The wooden steps were crooked and sagging, as usual. Our rented house sadly lacked paint. Weeds and tall grass grew thick in the yard, the dandelions out in full yellow. I guess it was the lack of any action inside that clued us in. Not that it normally was sparkling with life.
“Mom?” we called as we entered. Only floppy bean-bag chairs, a sagging, stained couch, overflowing ash-trays, dirty dishes, towels and discarded clothes greeted us in the dank little living room. I stood, dreading what we might find beyond. Alyssa marched into the kitchen. “Mom?”
I followed. Alyssa stood there reading a note held in her lean, brown hands. Her lips moved slightly as she read. Then her face filled with anguish and she raised her eyes to glare at me. She was right. It was my fault.
That morning we’d had another fight. Mom was still in bed as we rac
ed around gathering our things for school.
“Where are my gym shorts?” Alyssa yelled.
“I put them in the laundry after I used them three days ago,” I called to her as I searched through the rubble for my shoes.
“You wore them? They’re mine!” She tore through the laundry basket, yanking them out and holding them up before her face. They were covered with dirt and grass stains. “What did you do to them?”
“Well, if I had some shorts that fit me I wouldn’t have to wear yours!” I stuck my head in Mom’s room as I spoke – loudly. I saw her stir amongst the blankets hiding her soft body.
Fury overtook me. I stormed into the darkened little room and looked down on our mother. “Can’t you do anything?” I yelled. “Why can’t you be like normal mothers? Why are you even here?!” I kicked the bed and marched out of the room, slamming the door.
And now she was gone. Alyssa’s green eyes hardened, her angular face a mask of wrath, as she shoved the note into my face.
Alyssa and Shea,
You’re right. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.
Mom
Chapter 3
SEPTEMBER 13, 2018
It was 12:45 pm when Detective Darby Greer received the call. A distraught father. “Fuck!” Her dark eyes flashed and she slammed the pen she’d been holding down onto her desk. “A baby!” Shrugging herself into the faded jean jacket hanging on her chair, she turned to Mel, her grizzled long-time partner. “A baby’s been kidnapped! CSI is already at the house. Let’s go!” She was out the door by the time he rose and walked deliberately behind her.
The parents sat on the sofa in the living room. She was wrapped in a fleece blanket. He’s wrapped her up to protect her. Darby could tell. The husband, Ben Anderson, sat hovering solicitously over his wife. Mrs. Anderson trembled violently, but appeared alert and anxious to cooperate. What a beauty she was! Tiny – fragile appearing – she sat with her legs curled up against her chest. Most notable, at first, was her spiky black hair tipped with red. Her face was perfectly heart-shaped, her features fine. In her nose looped a small silver hoop. Huge violet-colored eyes framed by long dark lashes, now luminous with tears, looked entreatingly upon the detectives. This girl sincerely wanted answers. She wore black leggings and an oversized sweat-shirt. Darby could see just the edge of a tattoo on her collarbone. They’d question her first. She was the one home, it appeared, when the baby was taken.
Darby looked at her, willing her usual brash manner to soften. This girl was delicate, she could see. And she genuinely pitied her. “Mrs. Anderson, tell us about when you discovered Cassandra was missing.”
Shea Anderson drew in a deep breath, and her eyes widened. “I – she’d been crying and I – I was in the closet.” Her face flushed a deep red. Her husband cleared his throat a little and gazed down at her for a moment. He turned slightly to look Darby in the eye. “My wife – Shea - suffers from post-partum depression,” he said, his voice so quiet it could barely be heard.
Darby nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on Shea, the wife. “And when you came out of the closet …?”
Shea lowered her eyes, her shoulders curling over her chest. “I thought she’d fallen asleep. The crying had stopped, so I went to her room just to check on her.” She wrapped her arms around her legs, visible tremors coursing through her body. “I thought maybe someone had heard her crying. Maybe my neighbour, Diane, or our boarder, Kyle. I thought maybe they’d picked her up.”
Darby glanced at Mel who sat stolidly, non-committedly staring at the woman. “Then what did you do?” she asked.
Tears streamed down Shea’s porcelain cheeks. “I walked around the house calling their names, but there was no answer.”
“And then …” Mel spoke gruffly.
“I ran downstairs to Kyle’s suite and knocked but he wasn’t there. Then I went next door to Diane’s house and she wasn’t home either. I thought maybe she’d heard Cassandra crying and took her home. I called both their cell phones and neither answered. Then I called Ben and he called you.”
“Kyle and Diane are …” Darby asked.
Ben answered for his distraught wife. “Kyle rents the suite in our basement, and Diane is our next-door neighbour; a good friend to my wife.”
Darby’s attention turned to him. The husband was a fresh-faced, compact, athletic-looking man, clean-cut, well dressed. Good looking in a professional, conservative way. Not at all like his wife.
“Your wife called you, then, at what time?”
Sadness clouded his features. He glanced at his watch. “It was just after noon,” he said. “My partner and I were interviewing a client.”
From the corner of her eye Darby watched the CSI team combing the hallway, the bedrooms, the kitchen … plucking tiny clues into bags, their voices murmuring; muted. What will they find?
“How did your wife sound?” Mel asked him.
Ben balled his fists. Tears sprung to his eyes as he looked directly at the older detective. “She was crying – could barely speak. She sounded devastated.”
Mel turned to face Shea. “For how long were you in the closet?” he asked, his eyes boring into her.
She inhaled deeply, visibly upset. “I don’t know.” Her head fell to her chest.
Darby moved to lean toward her, every fibre of her body exuding empathy. “Shea, I know post-partum depression can be overwhelming. Just try to think back. What happened before you found yourself in the closet?”
Shea’s face expression closed up. She stared into space. Her speech became almost mechanical. “I fed Cassandra, but she kept crying. Colic, the doctor says. I tried to feed her again, but she wouldn’t take the bottle. I couldn’t bear the crying any longer and I shut myself in the closet.”
Darby’s eyes narrowed as she looked at the shaken woman. What isn’t she telling me? “How long were you in the closet?” she asked.
Shea pulled at her spiky hair, avoiding Darby’s quizzical look. She glanced at Mel glowering at her and quickly looked away. “I don’t know,” she muttered, her eyes downcast. “I must have fallen asleep.”
A clattering door, strong foot-steps interrupted the interview, and a tall, muscular man entered the room, a curious expression filling his handsome, rugged face. “What’s going on?” he asked. His voice was deep; pleasant. He looked frankly at Mel, then Darby, to Ben and finally his warm, brown eyes rested on Shea. “Are you okay?” he asked, bending down to look into her eyes.
It was as if a dam broke loose within her. His obvious caring and closeness freed her from any constraints she may have felt earlier. “Cassandra’s gone!” she cried, her body shaking. The large, blonde man wrapped his arms around her, murmuring comforting sounds, rubbing her back, while she cried and cried. Ben stiffened a little, watching.
Darby felt herself growing impatient. We don’t have time for this! She stood and tapped the newcomer on the shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said,” but the sooner we can investigate the better. You are . . ,?”
He turned a tear-stained face toward her, and with a final sympathetic nod toward Shea, he stood to face the detective, holding out his hand to shake hers. “Sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Kyle Bannerman. Ben and Shea’s downstairs tenant.” His face was open and honest. A kind-looking man.
Darby understood Shea’s obvious ease with him. She nodded. “Were you home this morning at all, Mr. Bannerman?”
He looked down at Shea with anxious eyes. “No, unfortunately. I had a meeting with a client.” He paused, turning his attention now to both detectives. “I’m a social worker, and I’m out and about a lot.” He cocked his head, looking Darby in the eye. An intense, disarming look. “Find that little girl, Detective.”
She scanned the house as they moved to leave. CSI agents knelt here and there, their practiced eyes intently focused on any evidence they could glean from what looked pretty ordinary to Darby.
It was a house with a baby, after all, and baby blankets, a few discarded bottles, soothers, so
ft toys and all the contraptions that come with them littered the family room and kitchen. A baby swing, a jolly jumper, a mat where the baby could lie and reach shapes dangling down. The sink was half-filled with dirty dishes, but all in all the small kitchen was clean and cozy. From the corner of her eye she watched Mel stop to thumb through a pad of paper that sat on the granite-covered island in the kitchen. She followed, ripping off the top page and sticking it in her pocket.
As they descended the stairs to the back entrance only Ben accompanied them. Presumably Kyle had stayed to comfort his landlady.
“Shea said that the neighbour, Diane, might have the baby?” Darby asked him, her brow raised.
“Diane is her friend next door. She often pops in. She’s been a great comfort to Shea through her problems recently.”
“And was Shea expecting her to be home today?”
He nodded, his brow knitting a little. “I think so. In fact, I was planning to come home from work early so that they could take a painting lesson together. But Shea’s been unable to reach her. Do you think …”
Darby was quick to answer, shaking her head slightly. “We don’t know what to think at this point, Mr. Anderson. We’ll be in touch.” As they walked out the screen door, Darby glanced back. Ben stood there looking forlorn and helpless.
The neighbourhood was an older one with mature trees and a hilly landscape; a nice, middle-class neighbourhood. Like most of the houses on the block, Diane’s was an average-sized bungalow. Rain fell, a steady drizzle. Tugging her jacket tightly around her, Darby darted across the lawn, while Mel walked to the car. She rang the door-bell, hearing the echo of it in the stillness of the house. Bending sideways to peer into the front room, she saw a fluffy calico cat sitting on the back of a chair, looking at her through the window. Another tabby lay on a couch across the room. It was a tidy, warm-looking room with no sign of human life in it. Diane clearly had not returned. Had she heard the baby crying and rescued it? Why couldn’t anyone reach her?