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He presses the release button on the trunk and it springs open. Inside, Stace has stacked the kids’ swimming shit. It smells funky, like she threw the kids’ towels and water wings and stuff in there when they were still damp. The twins’ pool noodles—one pink, one blue—crisscross over top of the other swim stuff. Stacy’s on a kick to get them to learn to swim without lifejackets. The thing about a lifejacket, though, is that you don’t have to keep your eyes on your kids every second they’re in the pool. When they’re floating around on some sort of flutter board or hanging onto a pool noodle, they could just let go and drown.
Reuben should have fucking known better than to let Cam get involved. Correction—he didn’t let him get involved, he asked him to. Practically begged.
Reuben grabs his daughter’s pink pool noodle from the trunk as though it’s a baseball bat. Swings it once in the air, then slams it against a tree. The thwack of foam against the tree is weak. Not particularly satisfying. Reuben swings again. Again.
The hair tested positive. He’s got the vic’s DNA, but he can’t trace the fucking vehicle. He’s got a witness who claims she knows about domestic violence, but won’t come forward, an IP address that hit a dead end. He pushed his perp too hard and the guy’s not talking, has a whole team of lawyers making sure he never gets questioned again. And now his one in with the perp is ruined. And some know-it-all with big tits at the station is trying to talk him out of his hunch. Probably talking to all his junior detectives, too. Making them question whether Reuben even knows what he’s doing.
Whack! The pool noodle splits in two. Reuben pants, trying to catch his breath. His blood pressure is probably sky-high. He looks down at the broken half of the pink noodle, still clutched with two fists. The other half lies limp on the grass beside the tree. Some weapon.
HIM
I DIDN’T EVEN HAVE TO TRY THAT HARD.
“Hello?” Your little sister sounded like she’d just woken up.
“Uh, yes, I’m calling from Scotiabank Mastercard, can I speak with Natasha Bell please?”
“She’s not home right now.”
“Is there a better time to phone? Perhaps this evening?”
“She gets home around eight-thirty.”
“Alright, thank you, I’ll call back then.”
“No problem.”
I mean, I used a pay phone just in case she remembered the unusual call and mentioned it, in case anybody ever tried to track it. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t remember anyway.
Same thing with the message board. When you’re dealing with stupid people, you don’t even have to try that hard to cover your tracks. I just had to distract them a little bit, get them to stop thinking about the watch.
You thought you were so smart, didn’t you? Stashing your watch under the floor mat like that, with a chunk of your hair. I hope it hurt when you ripped it out.
2009
KATIE CAN’T HOLD IT ANYMORE. SHE SHOULD HAVE peed at the gas station, but she didn’t anticipate getting lost. At least she’d filled her tank up an hour ago, she tells herself. At least it’s light out. Sooner or later she’ll find her way back onto the main road. But not before she pees.
She pulls over, exits the car, walks around so the car shields her from the road and unzips her denim shorts, slides them and her thong down over her hips. She squats, leans forward. God forbid somebody show up in the middle of nowhere right as she’s baring her ass. Pee quickly, she tells herself.
What’s this blue plastic thing on the ground? Katie yanks her shorts back up, then bends to pick up the item. A baby’s soother—caked with dirt.
It’s not like there are garbage cans anywhere near here. Katie brings the soother with her back into the car and drops it into the empty paper coffee cup in her cup holder. She’ll throw them both out later. When she finally figures out where the hell she is.
JUNE 2013
The rain to the wind said,
‘You push and I’ll pelt.’
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged—though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.
—Robert Frost
TRACY: I’m here tonight with the family of Natasha Bell, who was just twenty-nine years old when she went missing in 2002. With me is her father and stepmother, Paul and Kathleen Bell, her stepsister, Dr. Kayla Cox, and her best friend, Josie McKinnon. Next month marks eleven years since Natasha was last seen. Paul, for those viewers who are unfamiliar with your daughter’s story, can you give us a recap?
PAUL: Thanks for having us, Tracy. Well, it was a beautiful night during the Calgary Stampede, there were many visitors in town, everyone was in good spirits. Natasha was at her home with our younger daughter, Abby, who was spending the night. Natasha left to go for an evening jog—she lived a very healthy lifestyle, she was very athletic. Anyway, after some time, Abby became concerned because Natasha had not returned. This was very out of character. Abby called the police, and they began an investigation. But, you know, it was an extremely frustrating case, right from the get-go, because we had virtually no leads. Initially, there was no evidence of a crime, because she left the house, and no one knows exactly where she went.
TRACY: Tell us about the new evidence uncovered in 2008.
PAUL: Well, basically, her watch was found in the remains of a vehicle—a grey pickup truck—that had been sent to the junkyard. It was reportedly found underneath the vehicle’s floor mat, which aroused suspicion for two reasons; one, because it was somewhere that it could not have fallen—it would have had to have been placed there deliberately—and two, there was a large quantity of hair alongside it, which also seemed to have been put there deliberately. The hair tested positive for Natasha’s DNA. This was the first real evidence we had that we were dealing with a crime here, although it was something our family really knew all along. To me, it’s clear that she knew she was in danger, and she left evidence behind in the hopes that it would be found and could lead to her recovery.
TRACY: And tell us, Paul, what happened with that evidence?
PAUL: Unfortunately, by the time the watch was located and reported to police, the vehicle had been dismantled. All we know was that it was a grey pickup truck. Because it had already been taken apart, we were not able to test the rest of that vehicle for evidence, such as blood or fingerprints.
TRACY: That’s so unfortunate! You know, back when this tragedy happened, I read that there was some suspicion that Natasha’s ex-boyfriend could be involved. Is there any truth to that?
PAUL: The police looked hard at him, Tracy, because Natasha was the one to end the relationship, and, in cases like this, it’s usually a male who was in an intimate relationship with the victim. He certainly had a motive.
TRACY: That motive being—
PAUL: It’s possible he tried to get back together with her and she rebuffed him. We will never know because she hadn’t talked to us about it. They started dating when they were teenagers. I wish I had been more involved. Asked her more about how things were going, if she had any concerns. I always had a funny feeling about him, that something was not quite right. Also, in 2008, there was an anonymous tip that he had been violent towards Natasha prior to her disappearance. This tip was left on the message board that we still run—
TRACY: Yes, we have that link running on the bottom of the screen now, findnatashabell.com.
KATHLEEN: Hindsight is 20/20. He claimed that the information was falsified, and he acquired a team of lawyers. We asked him to take a polygraph, but he refused. I mean, why would somebody just make something up like that? It doesn’t make sense.
TRACY: He refused a polygraph? On what grounds?
JOSIE: Because they’re inadmissible in court. But I still feel he should have taken it. For Natasha. For us. I mean, why not take it if you have nothing to hide?
TRACY: Now, Josie, you are Natasha’s best friend. The two of you go way back, is that right?
TRACY: Understandable. I hear you were instrumental in the case in the beginning, orchestrating searches, soliciting donations, maintaining a presence in the media. Tell me what you’ve been told about the investigation, where it stands at this point.
JOSIE: At this point, we’re not very much further than where we were in the beginning, and I think the relative lack of evidence—
KATHLEEN: —complicated by police incompetency—
JOSIE: Without a crime scene, we didn’t really have any specific area to focus, to really search. When we did obtain leads, like the discovery of her watch, it almost made things worse because it would get our hopes up and then just…go nowhere. And the more time that goes on, the more frustrated and devastated we become. Without her.
KATHLEEN: It’s been such a strain on our whole family. It has really just hurt us all, so so much. Really. I still have panic attacks, I have been prescribed anti-anxiety medication. I see a therapist regularly. No one has any idea the kind of pain I have been through.
TRACY: Of course, of course. Undoubtedly this has been such a tragedy. Mrs. Bell, can you elaborate on the, uh, the police incompetency, as you say?
PAUL: I can speak to that. From the get-go, we were disappointed by the lack of police presence. That first night, we had a missing, endangered young woman, and the Calgary police sent a single detective to the house.
KATHLEEN: Not to mention our eighteen-year-old daughter was the last known person to see Natasha before she went missing, and I feel like the police should have had a psychologist present during that interview. She was very vulnerable at that time.
TRACY: How is she doing today?
KATHLEEN: Wonderful, she’s wonderful. Of course it was awful for her to lose her sister—they were extremely close. But through it all, she went to college, she’s raising her little girl—our beautiful granddaughter, Summer—here’s a picture of her, isn’t she adorable?
TRACY: So precious! Let’s zoom in on that. Thanks for sharing, Mrs. Bell.
KATHLEEN: Thank you. We just love her to death.
TRACY: Now, let’s go back, then, to the investigation. You say you feel police mishandled some things?
KATHLEEN: Yes. And we were kept out of the investigation, which was so frustrating. We hired a private investigator, but that didn’t give us any more information than we already had about her abduction.
TRACY: Her presumed abduction, yes.
KAYLA: Not to mention we were taken advantage of, by the private investigator, you know, financially. When you’re in this position, you really have no resources. You’re completely exposed. Everyone is a vulture. We eventually fired him. So that was money wasted.
TRACY: It must be exceedingly frustrating—ten, going on eleven years later. Tell me, each of you, what do you think happened to Natasha? In your heart of hearts?
KATHLEEN: You know, I really, really think that she’s gone. It kills me to say that, but I just feel, deep down, that she’s no longer with us. Maybe it’s mother’s intuition.
TRACY: And how about you, Paul?
PAUL: I just—I’d rather not speculate.
KAYLA: I have to agree with my mother. And, I think statistically, when someone has been missing for this amount of time, that’s usually the case. We have to face the facts.
TRACY: Yes, statistics can be sobering. And you, Josie—you’ve been so active in the investigation from the beginning—do you have any feelings or suspicions, based on what you know, about what has happened to your friend?
JOSIE: You know, I have to disagree with Kathleen and Kayla. I just feel strongly that…you know…there are always exceptions. There have been several cases recently, in the States and in Europe, where missing people have been found after years and years, having been imprisoned, or held against their will. There is also the possibility of sex trafficking. I don’t want to assume I know what happened until I know for sure. I want to follow all possible leads. Leave no stone unturned.
ABBY
REMEMBER WHEN MY MOTHER USED TO DRAG ME HOUSE hunting? Every summer she tried to convince Dad we needed an upgrade. Seriously, what kind of kid wants to wander around someone else’s abandoned mansion trying not to touch anything or leave footprints on the newly steam-cleaned carpet?
I was mad at you for having a tennis lesson, or a date with Greg, or whatever else it was that allowed you to have fun while my mother tortured me, asking realtors questions about square footage and ensuite bathrooms, always ignoring my whining about how much longer before we could go. One time, I said I needed to go pee and I snuck into the family’s den, stole a Sharpie, and doodled an angry face with Xs for eyes and a zigzag mouth onto the underside of the desk where probably no one would see it until they moved.
This is what Cam and Jess’s McMansion reminds me of. Ruining things.
Parked out front, I spit on my thumb and wipe a smear off the dashboard, as though this somehow makes my car clean, somehow negates the breakfast bar wrappers in the console, the dark stain where I once spilled wonton soup on the passenger seat, Summer’s smelly dance leotard and duffel bag strewn in the back.
Most of the time, I hate Cam. And even when I don’t completely hate Cam, I hate that I have to share my daughter with him, that she goes over to his house and the three of them—Summer and Cam and Jessica—eat dinner together like a little family, and I sit in my car, waiting for her to come out, waiting to get her back. I wonder if someday she’ll want to spend time with their family versus just with me. A real family—a mom and a dad and a kid—not an accidental, split family. Not just her and I eating penne noodles with butter and Parmesan and watching reality TV, me doing her hair.
I don’t want to marry Cam. I don’t even want to be with Cam.
No, seriously. I don’t.
I just want to sleep with him whenever I want. Because I can. And because I’m pretty sure Jess still doesn’t know, although I’ve heard him arguing with her on the phone, and he talks about her like they fight all the time. Like he doesn’t even like her. So maybe she suspects something. But it’s been five years, on and off. So maybe she’s just naïve and stupid. He tried to call things off with me after the wedding, and I said, “Yeah, good luck with that,” and then two months in, they had a big fight, and surprise surprise…guess he can’t resist.
Anyway, he was mine first.
Yesterday morning, when the alarm went off, Cam rolled over and hit the snooze button before I could. I deliberately set the alarm with a cheerful tune, thinking I wouldn’t wake up so cranky. Now, every time I hear “Sweet Home Alabama,” I want to strangle someone.
“Get dressed,” I whispered. “I’m going to wake up Summer.”
He groaned. “I don’t have to work today. Why am I up this early?”
I rummaged beside the bed for my T-shirt. “Why don’t you have to work today?”
He stretched, yawned a morning breath yawn. “I took a personal day. I have to pick Jess up from the airport at three; our place is a mess, I forgot to book the cleaner, I have to—”
I stood and slid my T-shirt over my head, reached for my crumpled bathrobe. “I’m going to wake up our kid and I don’t want her to know that you’re here. So put your clothes on.”
Most times, Cam doesn’t mention his wife. Most times, Cam doesn’t sleep over, either. But Summer had the flu last week and Cam had a work deadline and we hadn’t hooked up in over a month, and with Jess out of town, it was just easier. Still, I made him park down the street. Summer could recognize his car. I’m not putting her in the middle of this. Someday maybe I’ll start dating someone for real, and kick Cam to the curb, and she’ll never have to know. Or maybe he’ll leave Jessica. It could happen.
“Stay,” he said, and reached out, lazily, grazed my thigh with the back of his hand, hooked his pinky into the waistband of my panties. �
��You know, if we sent Jess and Summer out together some time, we could do this more often.”
I yanked my hand away. “Uh, no. No way am I going to let your wife bond with my child just so you can—”
He narrowed his eyes. “So I can what?”
I pulled my robe tighter, tied the belt. “You should go.”
Maybe Cam slept with Jess after he picked her up from the airport and before he picked up Summer from school. Maybe he slept with both of us in the same twenty-four-hour period. He told me once, “Remember when you were a kid, and your parents let you stay up past midnight like, one time, and only because it was New Year’s Eve, and you knew you better enjoy yourself because it could very likely never happen again? But then you’re so fucking exhausted that you don’t even want to stay up for it? That’s what sex is like when you’re married.” True? Maybe. Or maybe just what he thought I wanted to hear. How would I know? I’m not the marrying type. Nobody would want me that much.
I’m the same age now that you were. Well, technically, you were twenty-nine years, seven months, and twenty-five days. Next year, people will ask me, “How old are you?” And I’ll have to say, “thirty.” And it will hurt, every time. Because you never got to be thirty. Or thirty-one or thirty-two or thirty-three or thirty-four…
My Summer-girl springs from the door of her father’s house, her hair in waves hanging around her face. Did she curl her own hair? Or did Jess? Dear God, she looks like a teenager already, even though she’s not even eleven until next month. I unlock the car door and my daughter slides in beside me.
“Ready?” I say.
She clicks her seat belt into place. “You know what’s gross?”
I turn the key in the ignition. “What?”
“Dad has to go get his sperm tested.”
“What?” I pull the car out into the street.