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If I Disappear

Page 19

by Eliza Jane Brazier


  Your mother coughs. I freeze. The ground hovers below, down the tilted staircase. I wait for the sound to settle; then I hurry. I can feel the wood grain under my feet as I tiptoe down the stairs. The statue of Christ seems to glow in the dark, holding its hands out as if to say, Search me.

  And I glide through the kitchen, where your mother’s herbs are lined in neat rows, like the bottles in her greenhouse, and I step into the living room, where the computer screen spits rainbows on sleep mode.

  I slip into the chair, careful not to let its legs scrape the floor, careful not to make a sound. I shake the mouse.

  The screen beams to life, washing me in its electric glow. The Internet browser is open, about thirty tabs running across the top, like your father doesn’t know how to exit out of a screen. My heart pounds as I prioritize what’s most important: confirming that Grace is still alive.

  I click on Facebook. It’s already logged in to Homer’s account; he must have signed in when he came for dinner. I type Grace Combs in the search box, then think she might have switched back to her maiden name, then click search anyway.

  Five results pop up. The first is a picture of a girl with big blond hair and a big blond smile. She hasn’t shared her location but I am sure she is Jed’s wife; she is Texas personified. Homer is not friends with her, and when I click on her account, it comes up private.

  I’m not sure what to do. There are no visible updates. I check if she has an Instagram, or a Twitter, but nothing comes up.

  I consider sending a friend request through Homer’s account. It makes more sense than logging out and requesting her through my account. She’s never met me. She might have met Homer; she would at least be aware of him, and people have accepted friend requests based on less. If I friend her through his account, would that be so strange?

  But if she accepts, the update will go to Homer, and he will know someone has been in his account. But maybe he wouldn’t care. Maybe he would think he’d requested it and forgotten about it. I hit add friend quickly, like it doesn’t count if I do it fast.

  Then I minimize the browser and activate a file search. The desktop is piled with photos and files. What search would take me to your files? Your name? The name of your podcast? But your files are probably hidden, so I need to be specific, and, more important, I need to be fast.

  I type: April Atkins. The name of your last victim on your last podcast. I click return. I almost gasp when a folder pops up, hidden in plain sight on your parents’ computer. The folder is titled “84,” which leads me to a hidden cache of numbered folders, stored inside an extension, 81134567—UBC. And I have them. I have found your case files. I want to go through every one, but I don’t have time.

  So instead of starting at the beginning, I start at the end. I start with your last case. The folder labeled “85,” the case you were investigating when you disappeared.

  I double-click. I scan your notes; little details pop:

  family relocated from West Texas

  34yo woman, appx 5’6’’ /125 lbs, thick blond hair (possibly extensions?)

  I know before I find her name exactly who you are talking about:

  Grace Annabeth Combs

  Grace is never going to accept Homer’s friend request. Grace was the case you were looking into when you disappeared.

  * * *

  —

  My first impulse is to go to Jed, not to question him but to comfort him, like he doesn’t even know she’s gone. But he must know. If she is gone, then he hasn’t spoken to her; he has been lying to me. He can’t have heard from her in months. But then what was he doing in Abilene? I try to think of what he said, his exact words. He said Grace wouldn’t see him, but what about her parents?

  My blood runs cold. What if they don’t know she’s gone? What if they think she’s still here? Maybe that is why he is stuck out here, why he says he can never go back, why he doesn’t have a choice. I think of Episode 67: The Murder of Laci Peterson. I am Amber Frey. Jed knew his wife was missing and he lied to me. It’s so obvious and yet I can’t believe it, like I am protecting him still, because he is a man, because of the way he looks, because I like him.

  And I’m angry. This is not the person I came here to be; this is not the person I want to be, the mistress of a possible murderer. Then I realize, Is that what I really think? That Jed killed his wife? It would explain the drinking. It would explain the darkness.

  And you were here for months after she left. And then you started investigating her disappearance, and then you disappeared too. I have been wrong, wrong from the beginning. The one person I trusted was the one person I shouldn’t have trusted. Maybe you were drawn to him too. Your father says I wasn’t the first woman taken in by his charms, his Southern accent and his helplessness, and I slept with him. I slept with a murderer. And the worst part is I knew. I told myself I only suspected but didn’t I really know? Didn’t I want to be part of your story? Didn’t I want to be somebody so bad that I did the only thing that would make me somebody? I slept with a man. I slept with a murderer.

  I think, oddly, of what Clementine said: But then, young girls do dumb things. It turns out old girls do too.

  It all feels hazy and surreal and then the pressure mounts; the tension ratchets up. What do I do now? If Jed was involved in your disappearance, how do I prove it? I have listened to enough of your podcasts to know what I need: evidence. And the best, strongest evidence is a body.

  I get to my feet, my knees limp, and I walk, off-balance, to the window. I peer through but there is only darkness on the other side. I think about telling your parents about my suspicions, that you were investigating Jed, that Jed is the person you were looking into when you went missing, but the only response I can conjure from them is laughter. Wildly, I think that I could bring them a body, I could show them the murder weapon, and still they would laugh, but that’s wrong, that’s twisted. That can’t be true.

  I want to pace, but they might hear me, so I crouch on the chair and I press my fingers into my palm and try to think, try to come up with a solution when I still haven’t defined the problem. Are you murdered? Are you missing? Or is this a conspiracy?

  I exit out of your files. I open the browser so everything is as your father left it. I get to my feet, careful not to upset the chair. I walk toward the back door.

  You have been gone since April. If your notes are accurate, Grace hasn’t been seen since December. And Jed is out there.

  I think of how he has inserted himself into my investigation. How many times did he tell me to drop it? He’s had his eyes on me since the moment he returned from Texas, to “divorce” his missing wife.

  I need to catch him. I need to confront him. I can’t waste any time. I trip over your father’s boot. My breath catches as I steady myself. My head swirls and I think I’m going to throw up.

  I remember what Jed said to me that day on Eagle Rock: You think I’m a murderer, and you rode all the way up out here, to the middle of nowhere, alone with me, and I’m armed, and you ain’t. So you could ask me about it?

  What am I trying to do? Am I trying to save you or am I trying to kill myself? Maybe all of this is my way of looking for a way out.

  Do I want to find you or do I want to find your killer? Do I want to save you or do I want to be the next victim? Do I want there to be an episode about me?

  I turn the knob until it clicks, and the cold air seeps over my bare skin. I don’t have a jacket. I’m not wearing shoes. What is my plan, exactly? To confront him? And then what will he do? Deny it? Kill me too? And then no one will be saved, and nothing will be stopped. I have no evidence. I have nothing.

  “Sera?” I hear your mother’s voice calling me from above. “Is that you?”

  I feel it like a rod through me. Like I am the killer. Like I have been caught.

  “Sera?” she says again. Your father has stoppe
d snoring.

  I let the door click back. I walk out toward the stairwell. “Sorry,” I say but my voice shakes. “I was hungry.” I think she will like this, that I wanted more of her food. “I—I’m coming up now.”

  Jed is out there and I am in here, trapped.

  * * *

  —

  Shaking, I return to my room—your room. I lie down on your bed. I realize this has gone too far, all of this. I have no reason to believe Jed killed you. No legitimate reason, really, to believe any crime ever happened. Maybe you left. Maybe Grace left. Why am I still here? All I have is a death wish and this needs to stop. I need to stop. I need to stop digging.

  But that’s not entirely true. I do have one thing—one real, physical thing. I sit up on the edge of your bed and drag my backpack carefully out from under it. I dig through, searching for the rock, but I can’t find it. I rifle through the papers, then empty the entire bag.

  The rock is gone. The threat has disappeared. I question my memories—did I put it somewhere else? Did I hide it? Did I leave it behind when I moved? But I know that I didn’t. It was in my bag when I left the yellow house that afternoon, when I went back to the staff cabin and found Jed. Did I have it when I moved to your house? I’m not sure. But it’s gone now, which means somebody took it. Either Jed or your mother or your father. They are the only ones here. One of them wants me to run. And that’s the only reason, the only real, concrete reason, why I can’t.

  Episode 65:

  Once a Runaway

  Her mother reported her disappearance to the police but she made a mistake. She mentioned that Ella had run away before. So the police classed her case as a “runaway.” They didn’t investigate. Years and years passed and she never came back and the police wouldn’t budge. “She’s a runaway,” they said. “It’s not a crime to run away.”

  I have breakfast with your parents the next morning. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days. I shotgun coffee. My eyes feel stapled open.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Well, Sera, you just did.”

  I force myself on. “Jed’s wife, Grace. She left.”

  “That’s not a question,” your father teases.

  “She didn’t even last a week,” your mother says.

  “Did you see her go? Did she say goodbye?”

  “No—,” your father starts.

  “She didn’t say goodbye or thank you,” your mother interrupts. “But none of them do. We’ve had a lot of crazies out here—that’s for sure. Never said goodbye or thank you. Just run off in the middle of the night.”

  “What did Rachel think about it?”

  Your mother’s brows drop. “What does Rachel have to do with it?”

  I realize my mistake. You are so on my mind, sewn through my brain, that I sometimes forget other people aren’t thinking of you. “I just thought she might be curious why she’d left.”

  Your mother tosses her hands on the table. “Why would she be?”

  “I . . . I just noticed in her room all her old school papers. It seemed like she was interested in disappearances.”

  “Grace didn’t disappear; she went home.” Your mother huffs in disapproval, crosses her arms. “I don’t want you looking through Rachel’s things.” I think of how they were left, in the middle of the room, in the middle of the floor—how could she expect me not to look at them? “Emmett, we better move those files upstairs. Better yet, throw them out!”

  “You don’t have to. I won’t look at them,” I vow stupidly.

  “No, no, you’ve got to be careful. Shouldn’t have that stuff around. People are easily influenced out here.” She pats my hand. “We wouldn’t want Rachel’s attitude to bleed into you.”

  “Well, maybe just a little!” Your father bursts into his inexplicable laughter.

  I want to stop them from taking your files, but I don’t see how I can. And I know who you are anyway; I don’t need your story on paper.

  I go out to feed the horses. I plan to avoid Jed as much as possible until I determine my next move, so of course when I hop on an ATV and drive to the barn, I find him leaning heavily against the tack room wall.

  I figure he is drunk, so I snap as I pass him, “What are you doing here?”

  His face is hidden beneath the rim of his hat, but when he looks up, there is blood caked below his nostril. When he moves away from the wall, he limps.

  I temporarily lose track of everything, except this moment. The grass smells raw. The birdsong is piercing, like the sharpening of tiny knives. I rush toward him. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “I think I might have . . .” He sways, darts a hand out to grab onto something but finds only dead air. I swoop in to steady him. “How d’you know if you have a concussion?”

  I check his pupils and they seem dilated, but they’re the same size. I think. I walk him to the tack room wall, and he falls against it. I leave him propped there so I can scan the periphery. There is no one around, but I still feel watched.

  “Let’s go into the tack room.” I help him in, find a saddle rack he can lean on. I shut the door behind us. The air is close, thick with dust and mold, the room illuminated only by the thin light between the wood slats.

  My first impulse is to pity him, but it is immediately followed by the thought, Isn’t this convenient? The second I decide it’s him I should be investigating, he shows up battered and bruised, playing the victim. But that’s crazy. He can’t read my thoughts. He doesn’t know what I know.

  I cross my arms. “What happened?”

  “Don’t you worry about it, darlin’.”

  “I’m not.”

  He scowls in surprise. “Coldhearted woman. You’re a coldhearted woman.”

  “You’re trashed.”

  “I haven’t been drinking that much. I’ve been slowing down.” He is so disoriented that I find that hard to believe.

  I find myself scanning his person for some kind of evidence, some kind of mark that says he’s a killer, like I believe good and bad can be printed on people. I think of every episode of your podcast, how every answer was the same. We can never say conclusively; all we have are suspects and verdicts. All we have is evidence. “Just tell me what happened.”

  “I was down by the creek—”

  “Why?”

  “Do you want me to tell you or not?”

  “I just don’t understand why you would be down there.”

  “I was murdering someone, Rachel. What do you think?”

  “I’m not Rachel.”

  His eyes unfocus and refocus. “I know that.”

  “It’s the second time you’ve done that.”

  “I’m trying to tell you—”

  “Were you in love with her?”

  “My God. What the hell is this? I’m sorry. I expected a little bit of pity.” A button of blood escapes his nostril and he wipes it away.

  “I know you did. I know you do, and maybe I’m tired of giving it to you. Maybe it’s the last thing you need.”

  He hacks a throaty cough. “You think I did this to myself?”

  “Well, it is kind of your MO.”

  He shakes his head, fans his face with his hat. “What the hell is going on?”

  “When was the last time you talked to Grace?”

  “What . . . is this? Are you jealous or something?”

  “No, I’m not jealous, Jed. Your wife—did she go back to Texas or not?”

  “The hell you talking about?” He shoves himself up, then slides back.

  “When did you last speak to her?”

  He shrugs. “Couple weeks ago.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Not really. You can look on my Facebook, if you wanna know exactly what I said and when, although I do fail to see how it’s any of your fucki
ng business.”

  “Facebook?” I think of her account, the unanswered friend request. But what if she did accept it? What would that prove? “Have you talked to her on the phone?”

  “You know what? Mind your own business, Sera. How about that, for a change?”

  He tries to move along, to move past me, but I grab his wrist so hard, he flinches. “You went back to Texas, right? You didn’t see her, but has anyone else?”

  “My God, you have lost it.”

  I’m stung, but I don’t release his wrist. I’m tired of people telling me I’m unhinged. I know when something is wrong; it’s not my fault no one else does. “Was she back in Abilene or not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you were there!” I squeeze him so hard that he yips, jumps back and takes his wrist away from me.

  He shakes his arm out. He won’t meet my eye. “I didn’t go.”

  “What do you mean? If you weren’t there, where were you?”

  “I was . . .” He clears his throat like that will make it right. “I was at a hotel in Willow Creek. I was too drunk to drive and . . . I guess I just kept getting drunker.”

  “Then why did you tell me you were in Texas?”

  “Because that’s what I told Addy and Emmett. They’re my employers—what was I supposed to tell them: ‘I’m sorry. It’s not enough I’m drunk all day at work. I need a vacation so I can be drunk all day in bed’?”

  “Have you talked to her family since she left? Have they contacted you?”

  “O’ course I haven’t. You think they wanna talk to me?” I can see the beginning of worry cresting under his eyes, can see the way he swallows it back down. He is so selfish, so slavish to his drinking that his own wife might’ve been murdered and he never even suspected.

  “You need to call them. You need to ask them where she is.”

  “I know where she is. She’s in Abilene. I told you, I talked to her on Facebook, a few times.” But his eyes are worried.

 

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