She sits back, ruminating. “It would help if you told me where you found it.”
My stomach twists. My shame keeps finding new depths. What can I tell her? That I went digging through the trash to find your dead cat because I thought he was your best friend? That sounds insane and they both look at me—they both look at me like they pity me.
“Never mind the list,” I say with all the efficiency I can muster. “I’m here because of Rachel.”
Clementine rocks back in her chair. “Because of Rachel? What do you mean?”
“Her podcast. I used to listen to her podcast.”
Clementine’s eyes flit from Jed to me, confused. “You moved all the way out here and got a job at Addy’s ranch because of a podcast?”
“I need to find out what happened to her.” It seems almost silly under her smile. “Addy said that people were harassing her, chasing her in a big black truck.”
“Everyone out here has a big black truck. Did Addy tell you who it was?”
“No.” This just keeps getting worse.
She drums her fingers on the table, once. “How would she not know? This is a small town.”
“Why would Addy make it up?” I can’t believe Addy is my key witness.
She sits back to think, gazes at the coffee machine like it’s a window onto someplace else. “I wonder if that was what Rachel told her.” She catches my disbelief and scoots closer in her seat. “Maybe Rachel wanted to leave, but she didn’t know how, so she created this wild story—she was always good at telling stories. Maybe she thought it was the only way her mother would let her go. If she thought she had to leave, for her own safety. If she was in danger.”
“Then why did Addy tell me she was dead?”
“Addy and Rachel were very close. I think it’s hard for her . . .” She drifts, but catches herself. “I think it’s hard for her to admit that Rachel would leave her. Or maybe she just doesn’t like you asking questions.”
This has a ring of truth, but everyone tells a different story. I try to tell myself that’s a good thing. If it was a conspiracy, they would all tell the same story. But the question is, who can I believe? I thought Clementine was a “good person,” but it feels like she has never even considered any of this, like she is making it up on the spot. Is she really so content with her life that her sister-in-law can disappear and she never even questions it?
“Have you heard from her?” I clench my fists.
“I—no—but that’s not unexpected. We aren’t really close.”
“So you think she’s still alive?”
“Of course she’s alive.” She gives me an earnest look. “I wouldn’t worry about Rachel. She always took care of herself.”
I bite my lip. I can’t believe it. Can it really be that simple? Did you just leave? I drop my chin and spy the paper on the table. “What about Florence? Florence Wipler?”
Her eyes dance back and forth. “What about her?”
“Didn’t she disappear too?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“It meant a lot to Rachel, didn’t it, her disappearance?”
“It meant a lot to everyone. When you’re a kid, that kind of thing stays with you.” She pauses, but when I don’t respond, she resumes talking. “Florence became a kind of local celebrity, had her picture posted everywhere. I think Rachel— We all were affected by it. Rachel, maybe, more than others, but she was always very . . . just more than everyone else.”
I am very careful with what I say next. I feel it tight in my nerves as I breathe. “Tasia told me about the argument.”
Clementine shakes her head and sits back. “None of us knew what was going to happen. If we had known . . .” She power-sighs. “It all seemed like such a big deal then. . . . Moroni felt terrible about it.” A bolt traces my spine. “Terrible.”
I feel my heart beating in my chest. Does she mean what I think she means? Even Jed is quiet.
“He was young,” I say weakly, trying to seem like I am on her side, even if I don’t know, don’t have any idea, what she’s talking about.
She exhales, relieved. “Exactly, exactly. They were both so young.” She breathes unevenly, like this is her mistake, her burden. “And I know Tasia feels bad about it, but it was her boyfriend, and she was—what? Fifteen? Fourteen? We just couldn’t understand why Florence would do that. I mean, what was her intention? But then, young girls do dumb things. I try to remember that, with my girls.”
I put the pieces together in my head. Florence and Moroni hooked up. The other girls found out, got angry, and Florence ran off and was never seen again.
“And Tasia still married Moroni.”
“Yes, well.” Her laugh has a slightly hysterical edge. “If we didn’t forgive them, we’d all be single.”
She scoots forward in her chair, taps the list. “Can I ask you something?” She runs her hand down the list. “Did you find this in Bumby’s collar?” My heart drops, like I am the one who has been caught. Humiliation heats my jaw. I remind myself she doesn’t know Bumby’s dead, that I crawled into a dumpster to find this “evidence.” “I remember when she made it.” Her voice is reassuring. “When he was a kitten. She put all of our names down because she was so paranoid that he would get lost; she wanted to make sure someone was contacted.” She sits back, warmed by the memory. “It was sort of sweet.”
I think: Idiot. I feel myself sinking and I know Clementine thinks she’s disappointed me and she has. I should be happy for you. I should be glad to think you’ve escaped, that you’re out there somewhere, alive and well. Instead I feel crazy, unmoored, like losing you is tantamount to losing my mind.
How can I be so wrong about everything? It’s like my senses have rearranged themselves, like I am just off track. Somewhere, in the past few years, I lost whatever it was that made me like everyone else, and now I am lost, so lost that I am seeing crimes that aren’t really there. Murder, Missing, Conspiracy. What if there is no bad guy? What if I’m the bad guy? What if I am the victim and the villain of my own life?
Episode 53:
Murder of a Jane Doe 2
Her body washed up on the coast. What was left of her wore a beat-up pair of jeans, a T-shirt tied at the waist and a friendship bracelet, the kind they make at summer camp.
My footsteps are heavy as we walk back to Jed’s car. I wish I hadn’t let him drive me. I can see that he is pushed back, away from me. I know he thinks I’m crazy. It makes me think of my ex, in the days after I lost the baby, the look on his face like what I had been telling him all along was finally confirmed: that we were different. That I was different.