So, I say, “I know.”
There’s a long pause.
“I’m glad you understand.”
Now, I want more than ever to drive to the Malcomb Place and be with her. Consume her. Steal more time from fate. But that will be harder on her. I’ll keep the trip to Boston planned. For seconds, I sit on the phone, listening to her breathe.
“Are you there?” I know she is. I just need to hear her voice.
“Yeah.”
“With your butter knife?”
“Yes.” But her voice is hushed. Subdued. Sadder.
I should ask if she’s all right. But that, too, would only make things harder.
“I’ll see you when I get back from Augusta.”
“I’ll be here.”
It’s an hour drive, and we’re ten minutes out. Ryan calls the State Police to let them know.
He’s been quiet the whole trip. Hell, he’s been quiet since my sister got into town.
“What’s up with you?” I say, attempting to forget about Alex, better now than later.
Ryan’s got the oh-shit handle in his grip. “Nothing. Why?”
“Well, for starters, since Merit came to town, you’ve been like a fucking spotted turtle.” Spotted turtles are a threatened species in Maine. “And you’re quiet. You’re never quiet.”
“I don’t know. Just working.”
“You’re lying. Merit said you wanted her to do a field study for you?”
I see the confusion in Ryan’s face. He tries to hide it, but I know him too well. I also don’t push him either. He’ll talk when he’s ready.
“Yeah, on … Little Pond.”
“That’s funny because she said Rangeley Lake.”
“Both.” Ryan rolls his eyes.
I chuckle.
“What about you and the famous author?”
“Filed the divorce papers on Monday.”
Ryan takes his fist and punches me in the arm. “Attaboy.” He side-eyes me. “Sex?”
“No. Not going there with you.”
“See, I’m fine. Just proving a point.”
“Right. You’re totally fine. Just like the time you fell through ice when we went ice-fishing when we were fifteen. We pulled you up, your lips blue, chattering, and you said, ‘I-I-I’m f-f-f-fi-i-ine.’” I mimic his fifteen-year-old self. “Whatever you’ve got to tell yourself.”
“A small price to pay for what I caught that day.” He smiles and stares out the window. “That salmon is still on the books at Bucksport in Augusta.”
We pull up to State Police Headquarters in Augusta and park in the back. We meet Sergeant Poll and Lieutenant Abbey at the back door.
“The Richardsons filed a missing persons report today for their daughter, Lila Richardson. They’re pretty shaken up.”
Poll eyes Abbey. “Guess they waited to file because their daughter’s captor threatened her life. Anyhow, they’re in room one.”
Lieutenant Abbey motions us to the room with a thick file in his hand and we head in.
Ryan and I take a seat across the table from the Richardsons in room one.
Eileen is distraught. Her face is visibly gaunt and pale. Her eyes are red and puffy. Old, wet tissues sit in front of her. Her worry is reflected in the bags under her eyes. Her lips are sullen, as if someone took string and pulled down at the corners.
“Mr. and Mrs. Richardson, my name is Warden Ryan Taylor, and this is Warden Eli Young.”
John’s thick eyebrows are the focal point of his face. The crow’s-feet that build off his eyes are a fixture, like they’ve been there for years.
“Nice to meet you.” He extends his hand to Ryan and me.
Eileen toys with an old tissue in her hand, not looking up.
“I’m sorry. But we need to talk about the boat and campsite you left up at Tolman Pond,” I say.
Eileen chokes back a sob. “We will pay the fees. Talk to the land owner. Whatever’s needed.” She looks at her husband. “We just need our daughter back.” Her voice is broken, suffocating.
John reaches across the back side of Eileen’s shoulders and pulls her to him, kissing the top of her head. “Lila … Lila tried to call us, and her captor caught her and got on the phone, threatening to kill her if we went to the police.”
Ryan and I take down a few notes.
As Ryan and I discussed on the way to Augusta, we’d start with easier questions. These are probably questions Detectives Abbey and Poll have already asked.
“Did the voice on the other end sound familiar?” Ryan asks.
John looks at his wife and shrugs. Eileen shakes her head and looks at me and then to Ryan.
“Oftentimes, people over the age of eighteen who are kidnapped know their assailants,” I say. “Was she dating anyone?” Again, another question that the police have probably asked.
“I don’t think so. Nobody she brought home yet anyway.” John places his hands together on the table.
Eileen is still sitting back in her chair, toying with her tissue. She stops as if I just asked the question again. “His voice. It was a male’s voice. It was familiar—not like we talked to this person all the time, but it was one I’d heard before. But the tone didn’t match how I remembered it. Does that sound funny?” She chokes back more tears. “I feel like I’m going crazy, John.” Her exhausted tone is evident as he pulls her in once more.
“When was the last time you spoke with Lila?” Ryan asks.
“Nine days ago,” Eileen says. “God, we waited too long, John.” Her voice drops as if her hope is barely hanging on.
I clarify, “The last time you spoke to Lila was nine days ago. What about the phone call you received from Lila’s phone?”
“Eight days ago,” John says.
Ryan nods, taking down the notes.
Neither of us, Ryan or me, says it, but nine days is a long time to wait to file a missing persons report.
Ryan stops writing for a moment. “Did she have someone in her life who was an avid hunter?”
Eileen looks at John. “One of the Malcomb grandchildren—Brent’s son, Lowell, I think.”
Red flag. I look at Ryan.
Lowell Malcomb has been on our radar since he was thirteen. Collects dad’s money and buys drugs. His father bounces back and forth from Massachusetts to Maine. Does it mean Lila, too, is into drugs?
Ryan jots this down. “Anyone else?” he asks, not picking up his head.
John looks to Eileen. “None that I can think of.”
“Oh, maybe that new guy she mentioned. Did she give us his name?”
John looks to his wife. “I don’t remember a name.”
“Lila just said that he was nice and worked in Granite Harbor,” Eileen says.
Ryan finishes writing and bites the side of his lip, tapping his pencil. “Mr. and Mrs. Richardson, was Lila on drugs? The only reason we ask is so that we can get a full picture of her life.”
Eileen looks at John. Tears fill her eyes again. “Started on that math.”
“Meth?” I correct.
John nods, and his eyes, too, fill with tears. “Yeah, that. Started on that a few months ago. Oh, my baby girl …” he chokes out.
Now, it’s Eileen’s turn to comfort her husband.
As she rubs his back and tears flow freely down her cheeks, she speaks, “Warden Taylor, Warden Young, just because our daughter is on drugs doesn’t mean she deserved this.” The weakness in her voice has left. Strength resonates and shines through.
Ryan leans forward and touches her hand. “You’re right. Lila didn’t deserve this. And we are going to do our best to find her.”
Twenty
Alex
October 19, 2017
The sun is just beginning its ascent as we pull into the Amtrak Downeaster Train Station. I still can’t get used to the sun rising over the Atlantic.
Give it time, are the words that come to my mind. Give it time, and the rest will follow.
Because the truth of the matter
is, I love it here. I love the small-town feel. I love the beautiful colors that Maine provides in the fall.
Once, I said this to Clay, and he said, “Wait until winter.”
I’m unsure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. But I love the maples that line Main Street in Granite Harbor. I love all of it. But, mostly, I love how my heart feels when I’m with Eli.
You’re leaving eventually, I tell myself. You have a book to finish writing. You’ll go back to California, I say to my lovesick heart as Eli puts our backpacks in the overhead compartment and crashes down next to me, sliding his hand to my leg.
He, too, glances out the window, his head next to mine. “Beautiful train station, huh?” A cheesy grin is on his face.
“Smart-ass,” I say, still staring out the window as the passengers load the train.
Because what I’m looking at right now isn’t outside. What I’m looking at is a lifetime full of Eli. I want his future. I’ll take his past, no matter what’s in it. I hope he’d take mine.
He wears the uniform, my head says.
There’s risk. I think, with any job, there’s risk. When you pack a gun, I know there’s more risk. When you deal with people breaking the law, situations become dangerous. But, if I walked away from this out of fear or loss, then what?
The sarcastic side of me chimes in, I’m glad you narrowly escaped a lifetime of true love for potential heartbreak.
“What are you thinking about?” He leans into me.
“Fear.” Because that’s what all of this comes down to, right?
Eli moves back, so he can get a look into my eyes. “Fear? Why? What are you scared of?” He toys with my hand. “Don’t worry; there are no snakes on this train.”
I laugh.
He whispers into my ear, “I love to watch you laugh.” He kisses my forehead. “What’s with the fear, Cali?”
“Maine Man.”
Now, he laughs, pulling me into his arms. “Tell me about your fear.”
The train quietly takes to the tracks with ease, gaining speed.
I take a deep breath. “Let’s say there’s a bunny.”
“Rabbit.”
I look at him.
“It’s technically called a rabbit. I’m sorry. Go ahead.”
“Let say there’s a rabbit. It’s just before winter, and she’s stocking up on food, quietly moving in and around her hole. But she knows, on the other side of the fence, she’ll find carrots and lettuce, peonies, tomatoes—do rabbits like tomatoes?” I ask Eli.
He smiles. “I’ve never asked.” I feel his lips on the side of my head. “Wait. Why peonies?”
I shrug. “They’re my favorite flower.”
“Noted.”
“Anyway, the last time the rabbit was over the fence, collecting items for winter, she narrowly escaped being eaten by the farmer’s dog. She knows that could happen again. She knows, by taking one step over that fence, it could be all over. But, if she stays safe on her side of the fence, eating the not-so-decadent and delicious whatever-rabbits-eat-that-aren’t-vegetables-and-tastes-rather-twiggy, she’ll be safe. It might not be what she wants, but it’s safe. She can’t take a chance on losing her life, right?”
Eli puts his face to my hair and takes a deep breath. “It depends on how good the lettuce is.” He’s silent for a moment. “Will the risk be worth it?”
“Yes.”
“Then, I’d say she needs to do it. Just fall.”
By this last statement, I know he knows what I mean. Just fall in love. Take the chance. Eat the lettuce.
“But—” I try.
“Shh. No.” He gently touches my throat and kisses my lips, slowly, patiently, as if nobody is watching. His tongue explores my mouth, but the need grows, the hunger grows, and he quickly pulls away. “Yeah, that’s not going to work on this train.” He removes his arm from behind me but not his hand from my leg. “I can’t kiss you like that right here.” He kisses my mouth once more. He sighs. “I think I’ve already eaten the lettuce, Alex, and I don’t think I can turn back.” His eyes are hooded. His stare is hard. “I can’t help it.”
My faces turns to heat.
“You’re blushing. And your face is as red as a beet!” He laughs
“Whatever.” I nudge him.
“Oh, Peony Red, what am I going to do with you?”
My heart explodes. I love his nickname for me. “Way better than Cali, Maine Man.”
We arrive at South Station in Boston, and it’s quite overwhelming. People are moving about with luggage, backpacks, staring at the electronic reader board above the big sliding glass doors whooshing every five seconds to accommodate the thousands of people who use South Station every day. People are eating at one of the many places to eat. Talking. Texting. People are everywhere. It’s loud and cold, and it echoes. The ground is cement. It’s like you’re outside, but you’re inside.
Pigeons walk about, unafraid of people, asking in their best bird voices, Care to spare a piece of bread? Popcorn?
Eli’s phone rings, and he holds a finger up to me. Hang on, I’m going to take this, he mimes the words.
I nod and stare at the circus before us.
There’s a breeze through the station, and it’s enough to say, Glad you’re here, but please keep moving.
My phone chimes, and it’s a text from Bryce, which reminds me that I need to call my mom tonight and check in. A nervous feeling grows in my stomach as my mind wanders to my dad. How many times has he assembled the entertainment system? Who’s cutting his hair?
I read Bryce’s text.
Bryce: How’s it going with Warden McHot?
Bryce has a way with words that makes me laugh out loud.
I text back.
Me: We’re in Boston. Here for the Warriors game.
Bryce: You lucky dog! Will you be bringing home the warden when you go to Belle’s?
All the air that I breathe in the train station leaves me. Home is the only word I hear.
All good things come to an end, Alex; you know this. All good things don’t last. They come for a bit, stay awhile but just long enough for you to get comfortable, and then they leave, leaving your sadness in its wake.
Me: No.
Bryce: Why not?
Me: Because not all good things can last.
I feel the uncertainty, the heat of sadness, wash over my skin. I feel the defensiveness of the situation fill my insides with sand. Heavy sand. I could eat the lettuce. I could stay longer in Granite Harbor. Eventually, we’ll need to return to our lives and stop playing house.
Right?
I feel Eli’s hand slide across my shoulder.
“Hey.” He leans down and kisses the space between my collarbone and my ear. “You okay?” He looks down at my phone’s screen and sees my text back to Bryce.
I’m not sure if he reads what I wrote or understands the context in which I said it, but I know he understands not all good things last. I take in his scent, as the steady breeze is a constant through the station.
Time and three thousand miles, I tell myself. That will heal my heart when I leave.
He pulls my hand into his, and I fall in line next to him, my shoulder right behind his, my body protected by his.
“Who was that on the phone?” I ask.
“Merit. I told her to call me when Pop woke up. Just had her check in.”
“How’s he feeling?”
“Good. Stronger. Mer said he tried to cut firewood yesterday. She told him that I’d do it this weekend.”
Boston is beautiful. I buy a few postcards on the Freedom Trail, which traces through the city and is about three miles long. It’s loaded with history, and I get more than I bargain for. From the site of the Boston Tea Party to Mamma Maria’s restaurant, its rich history attracts me. I’ve been standing in spots that have defined our history.
We take a selfie in front of Cheers, which, much to my surprise, doesn’t look the same as it did in the show. We walk through Boston Common, a bea
utiful park in downtown where street musicians play and fat squirrels beg for food.
We’re at lunch at Mamma Maria.
“You’ve been quiet,” I say, taking the last bite of my salad.
The waiter sets the bill down, and Eli grabs it before I can.
“Please let me pay this time.” I give him the puppy-dog look, bottom lip out. Sullen eyes.
“Your beauty will not work on me, Alex.” He smiles.
“That’s not what you said last night.” My leg rubs against his under our table.
“This is my treat. I wanted to bring you here and stuff you with good food and great entertainment. You aren’t paying a dime.”
I stop before I put my wallet back in my backpack. “Hey.” I reach across the table and find his hand.
Eli looks at me, his eyes hidden behind hurt. I see it. Though he never lets on to that. “What?”
I see him contemplate, his wheels turning. His clean-shaven, long jaw grinding.
“You’re grinding your jaw, Eli.”
There’s a short silence.
“Let’s make the best of today. Let’s pretend like we have the rest of our lives to sort out our tomorrows. Time doesn’t exist, and we have these moments only to take as our gifts into the future.”
He saw the texts. He knows what they mean.
What I want to say is, I’ve eaten the lettuce, Eli. I want to tell you I want to take it back, so it will make things easier for you to forget me when I’m gone.
But I can’t say it, and what comes out is, “I love you.”
Eli coughs and then stands. He grabs me by the hand, his grip hard, and leads me outside to the cool sunshine Boston has to offer in October. He rushes me to an alleyway made of brick and sets my back against it, both soft and hard at the same time.
With one hand against the wall and one against my neck, he leans down and crashes into my mouth. His tongue is magic, at first moving slowly and savory. Then, his hand idly moves to my collarbone, and I feel the weight of his body, the world, against me, against us. He pulls away without opening his eyes but comes back for more. His lips tenderly linger on mine, and then he comes at me full force again, knowing we’re in public, knowing he can’t do what we both want to do. He pulls away.
Peony Red (The Granite Harbor Series Book 1) Page 19