The Missing Hours

by Julia Dahl

  Standing there, Claudia thought: I’ll never have that. She knew that she could only begin to imagine all the ways the last two weeks would knock her around. Every night for the rest of her life she was going to close her eyes and get it from one side or the other: what they did and what she did. One side would press and the other side would press and eventually her brain would break. Who wants to be a family with that girl? That girl shouldn’t procreate. That girl will only sow misery.

  In the morning she went to the kitchen and from the window above the sink Claudia could see the long bridge over the Hudson River. According to Google Maps, she could walk there in less than an hour.

  Claudia felt like she was watching herself, like in the window on the train. She walked toward the leafy, stone-walled campus; down Main, the drag that held the pizza shop and the wine shop and the coffee shop and the diner and the bookstore and the laundromat; and farther, the barber shop and bodega and cell phone store. She turned toward the river and the part of town the students rarely ventured through. It was early and the sidewalks were mostly empty. She walked past gas stations and boarded-up town houses, municipal buildings and a public park. Hadn’t there been a serial killer who lived nearby? Yes; Claudia remembered that one of Edie’s friends did an art project about the victims for her senior thesis. That word again.

  Where the pathway toward the bridge turned into the walkway across it, Claudia encountered a green-and-blue metal sign: LIFE IS WORTH LIVING. And a phone number.

  She walked out to the middle and put her face into the wind. Below, the water was mesmerizing; churning, running eventually to the harbor in the city, to the foot of Liberty Island, to the ocean, to Europe. Those first nights alone in the hotel Claudia had made the mistake of Googling. She read about a girl in Canada who gassed herself in the family garage after some boys sent around a video of her. And another in the Midwest who jumped off the top of an abandoned factory. Claudia held onto the railing and closed her eyes, tilting her face to the sun. When she felt the warmth against her cheeks she knew she wouldn’t do it. Chad Drake was not going to take anything else from her. She was hard now, she was careening; maybe she always would be. But she was not going to give up sunny days on the water. She was not going to let him steal that, too.

  She started walking back toward town, past the LIFE IS WORTH LIVING sign. What did the rest of the girls do? she wondered. Where were the articles about the girls who lived with it? If life was worth living after this, where could she find out how?

  * * *

  Claudia walked from noon to sundown all the next four days. Over the bridge to New Paltz and back; down to the old cemetery; through parks along the water. She brought home frozen dinners and ate a few bites. She closed every shade and turned on every lamp and checked the locks on every door and window. Her old phone was off but the new one was always with her, available to dial 911 if Ridley’s SUV came rolling up. At night she stared at the television, or the front door. Only when the gray light of a sunrise began to creep into the house did she retreat to the spare bedroom and fall into a black, dreamless sleep.

  On the fifth afternoon there was a woman on the front steps when she came outside for her walk.

  “Claudia?” The woman was white, fifties maybe, wearing a flowered dress and pantyhose and carrying a heavy key ring. “Are you Edie’s sister?”

  It was Nathan’s mom. She’d driven by the night before and seen the lights, she said. When she called her son to ask if someone was staying at the house she found out they were frantically searching for Claudia.

  “They’ll be so glad to know you’re okay!”

  Claudia considered her choices. In theory, she could keep moving. She could go anywhere. But she was far too tired. Nathan’s mom left and Claudia sat waiting in her sister’s living room. Would they forgive her? They might not. Maybe what she’d done was unforgivable. But maybe they’d still take care of her.

  An Uber brought her parents and her sister and her brother-in-law and her niece to the house a few hours later. Edie jumped from the car and ran toward her. No one had touched her for more than a moment since the night she still couldn’t remember, and when Edie pressed her chest into Claudia, she expected to stiffen, but her sister’s arms around her felt like nourishment. As if Edie’s body were a door closing against the draft Chad and Jeremy had left blowing cold inside. Maybe she could finally get warm.

  On the drive back to Manhattan Gabe called the police in Edgartown and told them the family didn’t wish to press trespassing charges against Trevor. Claudia got on the phone with Lt. Braga.

  “It was a misunderstanding,” she said. “I told him he could stay there.”

  Lydia was quiet through most of the car ride but awoke screaming as they crossed the George Washington Bridge.

  “Is she hungry?” Claudia asked, looking back. Edie and Nathan were sitting on either side of Lydia in her car seat in the SUV’s third row. Claudia and her parents took up the seat in the car’s middle. Mom and dad and daughter. Mom and dad and daughter. For the past hour she’d been watching her niece sleep in the window’s reflection. She couldn’t stop staring. What horrible things awaited this little girl? What people would cut her low? What people would fail her? What moments would define her? What mistakes would she carry forever? Did she have any control at all? Did anyone?

  In the living room Edie plopped down, unhooked her tank top, and wrestled the wailing child across her chest.

  “Smell that?” asked Michelle, setting her purse on the breakfront. “I think she needs to be changed.”

  “There’s wipes right here,” said Gabe.

  Claudia watched her family mobilize around Edie and the baby. When was the last time they were even together in the house? When Lydia finally quieted there was silence, and they all turned toward her.

  “Are you hungry?” asked her dad.

  “No.”

  “Tired?”

  Claudia nodded.

  “What can we do?” asked her mom, stepping toward her.

  “I don’t know,” said Claudia.

  “Get some sleep,” said her dad. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  Upstairs she took pajamas from her bureau, changed her clothes, and went into the bathroom she and Edie had shared for the past decade. It was just as Claudia had left it the last time she was here, a few days before spring break started. Her face wash and her lotions and her toothbrush evenly spaced on the marble countertop; dried eucalyptus in the ceramic vase she’d made in elementary school; thick gray towels, tastefully mismatched glass pulls on all the drawers; every stray hair or stain wiped away by Valeria, the woman whose job it was to make every surface in their house look beautiful all the time. But nobody could wipe away what had changed on the face she saw in the mirror. Her eye and lip were almost completely healed, just the faintest blue shadow remained on her eyelid, but what she saw when she met her own eyes was someone who had never been in this house before. A stranger to everyone but herself.

  TREVOR

  Claudia’s family had come and gone, he was told.

  “She’s been hiding out in one of their other houses,” said Officer Cross when he brought Trevor a tray for dinner.

  “She’s okay?” he asked.

  Cross shrugged. “Apparently.”

  The relief was delicious: He hadn’t gotten her killed. He hadn’t driven her to suicide. It was all going to be over soon. Claudia would explain that they’d had a plan to meet at her house and the cops would let him go and he’d be back at the dorm by tomorrow.

  Trevor spent that night in the cell, but instead of being released, in the morning he was escorted into a van and to the courthouse down the road. In a little room in the basement he met with Amy Monroe, a lawyer appointed to represent him in the arraignment. She had sweat stains on her blouse and carried a Citgo travel mug so big it probably held an entire pot of coffee.

  “How do you want to plead?” she asked.

  “Hasn’t anyone talked to Claud
ia?”

  “Who?”

  “Claudia Castro?”

  “You’re going to have to give me more than that.”

  “It’s her house. I was in her house but she told me I could be there. We’re friends. Can someone call her?”

  “You were arrested at the Whitehouse property.”

  Trevor stared at her. “She lives there. I mean, I think…”

  “Oh right,” said Amy, flipping pages in the file with his name on it. “Her mom is a Whitehouse. Claudia Castro. So, not guilty? You’re friends with her? She said you could stay?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the resisting charge?”

  “I wasn’t resisting.”

  “Not guilty?”

  “Can you call her? She should know I’m here.”

  “What’s her number?”

  Did anyone know anyone’s number? “It’s in my phone.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Do you know anyone on the island?”

  “Besides Claudia?”

  “Besides Claudia.”

  “No.”

  “Can someone post bail if you get it?”

  “I don’t know. How much?”

  “Probably two to five thousand.”

  He was going to crush his parents. “Maybe.”

  Amy left, and about thirty minutes later a guard came in.

  “Trevor Barber, you’re up.” The guard was carrying handcuffs. He was going to be walked into a courtroom in handcuffs. Where the fuck was Claudia?

  The guard walked him up a stairwell and through a door in the back of the courtroom. Amy Monroe was at the defense table, tapping away at her phone. When she looked up, she stood.

  “Your honor,” she said. “I respectfully ask that the bailiff uncuff my client. It’s completely unnecessary and frankly, prejudicial.”

  Trevor stopped. Should he keep walking?

  “Keep moving,” said the bailiff, motioning to the seat next to Amy.

  “Everyone sit down,” said the judge. He was entirely bald, with a long, thin face and wire-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his nose. “Mr. Farmington? Did you request this defendant be handcuffed?”

  “I did not, your honor,” said the man at the prosecuting table. Trevor could only see his profile. His stomach strained against his belt, and something—a tissue, maybe—poked out of his pants pocket.

  “Bailiff please uncuff the defendant,” said the judge. “Mr. Farmington, please state the case against this defendant.”

  “The people allege, your honor, that two days ago defendant Trevor Barber broke into a private home in Edgartown. The home belongs to Michelle Whitehouse and Gabriel Castro. When confronted by police, Mr. Barber lied, and later resisted arrest. Mr. Barber has no connection to Dukes County. He is a student at New York University and his family lives in Canton, Ohio. This morning we received a call from the New York City Police Department whose detectives would like to question Mr. Barber about an assault in Manhattan. Given that, I think it would be prudent to hold the defendant without bail.”

  “Is the defendant a suspect in this Manhattan assault?” asked the judge.

  “Not that I’m aware of, your honor.” The prosecutor took the white cloth from his pocket and wiped his nose with it.

  “That’s not a particularly helpful answer, counsel. Did the detectives say he was a suspect?”

  “I’m sorry, your honor. No, they did not go into specifics.”

  “Yes or no, please.”

  “No.” The prosecutor sneezed into his tissue. “Excuse me, your honor. I’ve got a bit of a cold. They did not say he was considered a suspect.”

  “Thank you,” said the judge. Trevor’s body was nearly frozen with fear but he could see that while the prosecutor was trying to make him look like a menace, the judge wasn’t necessarily buying it. Might he get lucky? “Is the defendant accused of doing any damage at the home he allegedly broke into?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  “You don’t know what he’s been accused of?”

  “I’m sorry, your honor. I meant that Edgartown police are currently looking into…” The prosecutor sneezed again, and this time he didn’t get his tissue up in time. “Excuse me, your honor.”

  “Let’s move this along, shall we?” said the judge. “Mr. Farmington, I do not appreciate you bringing your virus into my courtroom. After this case, please arrange to have one of your associates take your place until you are well.” Before the prosecutor could respond, the judge turned to Trevor’s table. “How does your client plead, Ms. Monroe.”

  “Not guilty on both counts, your honor,” she said, standing.

  “Mr. Barber?”

  Was he supposed to speak now? To stand? Amy put her hand on his shoulder indicating he was.

  “Yes,” he said, getting up. “Not guilty.”

  Should he sit down?

  “You may sit down,” said the judge. “I suppose you think I should set bail, counselor?”

  “I absolutely do, your honor. As I’m sure you know I’ve just been handed this case but my client assures me this is a big misunderstanding.”

  “How so?”

  “My client says that Ms. Castro is a friend from school and they’d made plans to meet at the house.”

  “And what does Ms. Castro say?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to speak to her yet,” said Amy. “Like I said…”

  “I know, you just got the case.” The judge turned to the prosecutor. “Mr. Farmington, has anyone from your office talked with Ms. Castro or her family?”

  The prosecutor did not answer immediately. Trevor turned his head to see what was causing the delay and saw that the prosecutor was holding his tissue over his nose and mouth and whispering with a woman in the first row of benches behind him.

  “Mr. Farmington,” said the judge.

  “I’m sorry, your honor. Yes, we have had a message from the family. It came in overnight.”

  “And?”

  “I’m sorry, it appears to have been missing from my file.” He sneezed again. “Excuse me. But my clerk is telling me that Ms. Castro called and confirmed she had told Mr. Barber he could stay.”

  “Well, that seems like pretty important information, Mr. Farmington. Let’s see if I can do your job for you. Is the family here now, on the island?”

  Trevor turned toward the back door. Was she going to walk in? What would he do if she walked in?

  “They are not, your honor,” said the prosecutor. “But I should also point out that the defendant is charged with resisting arrest. As you know, we take the safety of our law enforcement personnel seriously in Dukes County, and until I am able to speak with the officer and the Whitehouse family I’d like to make sure this man doesn’t get on the ferry and deprive our citizens of justice served.”

  “Bail is set at two thousand dollars,” said the judge. He banged his gavel.

  The bailiff took Trevor by the arm.

  “I’d like a moment to confer with my client, please,” said Amy.

  “Not on my time,” said the bailiff. “You know where he’ll be.”

  “Call somebody for that bail,” said Amy as he walked away. “I’ll talk to the family.”

  Trevor sat alone in the basement of the courthouse for hours, his mind wobbling among the problems in front of him. What was he going to tell the NYPD? Had someone actually seen him in the Mews? Trevor hadn’t even considered the possibility that there were security cameras in the alley. He was in so far over his head. Was he caught on tape? Was there a screenshot of his face beneath that purple cap being emailed to cops all over the city? He thought of that image and then he thought of his parents seeing it. Seeing him in the act. Seeing how badly their boy had fucked up, right there in black and white. They would shoulder the responsibility again; search themselves for ways they’d failed. They’d spend the rest of their lives searching.

  Could he ask Boyd for the bail? Boyd probably had $2,000 available. But would he have t
o come to the island and actually post the money in person? That was a big ask. Trevor’s parents had to physically retrieve him from the jail in Canton, but he’d been underage then. Probably there was some way to pay online now. Pastor Evan would come, but Trevor couldn’t ask the church for money. Claudia could afford it. Would she say yes if he asked?

  At the end of the day, Trevor and a woman his mom’s age were driven back to the jail building. Trevor wondered what the woman had done to end up there and what she was guessing about him.

  The officer on duty told Trevor to wait while he took the woman upstairs. When he returned, he uncuffed Trevor and handed him a file.

  “Your bail has been paid,” he said. “Take this. You’re due back in court May eleventh.”

  “Who paid it?”

  “Your lawyer. He’s waiting outside.”

  Ridley wasn’t in the backseat of an SUV this time, but standing casually beside a white Tesla.

  “Ready to go home?” he asked. “We can still catch the ferry. You’ll be at the dorm by midnight, latest.”

  “I’m not getting in your car.”

  “Oh, come on, I’m not going to hurt you. They know I paid your bail. I’m waving, look, I’m waving at the surveillance camera. Hello! Yes, I’m taking this young man to Manhattan. If anything happens to him, I did it.” He started walking toward the driver’s side. “Satisfied? Let’s go. I don’t want to miss the ferry.”