“That”—he flicks his key chain—“is a very good question.”
“Was she?” I repeat, undaunted.
He shakes his head, looks out over the river to the opposite side, where deer have gathered on a natural salt lick. It’s majestic, picturesque. It’s beautiful, like everything here is, except us. We don’t fit.
“This is a funny place. People just snap.” He snaps his fingers. “One day they’re peachy keen. The next, they’re acting a little . . . shall we say, erratic?” He gives me a withering look, at odds with his words, at odds with the moment. Your father is a matching game where nothing goes together. “And then swish!” He wriggles his fingers. “They’re gone.”
“Was there anything she was upset about? Was there anything unusual that might explain why she would leave?”
“Nothing above the usual unusual,” he jokes, and then he starts the car abruptly. Whatever moment I had of lucidity, of seriousness, is gone. “Hey, don’t you worry about Rachel. We’re just so happy you’re here. Addy and I are so happy you’re here.”
He steers back toward the highway as another car appears around the bend. Instead of waiting, he sails in front of it, then brakes to cut the car off more effectively and the horn blares and your father ignores it. And I think: You’re dead. And I think: They killed you. And I think: That’s crazy.
I am at the end of the line. I am at the last of your clues. I have talked to every available person on your list. I have met your family. I have talked to the police. I have ridden your horses. I have lived on your ranch. I have taken apart and cleaned every window. The only thing I haven’t done is get inside your yellow house.
I think of the house. I think of the windows. I realize how easily I can take them apart.
* * *
—
As we pull up the drive, I feel bile clawing up my throat. I hear the phone ringing in the lobby. I think, Are they ever going to get that? But I feel too sick to say it. Your father drops me off in front of the staff cabin.
“Thank you.” I stagger out of the car. “Thank you for driving me.”
“You need to watch yourself, getting lost all the time,” he says in his silly voice. “All the way in Happy Camp!” He hits the steering wheel for emphasis, sweeps his eyes over an imaginary audience, then peels away fast.
My heartbeat is drumming in my ears. I wait until his SUV disappears behind the lodge. Then I take the trail to your house. I am careful to stay in the woods. I pass Jed’s house. I drop down the path to the creek, swing smoothly down the switchbacks. I follow the fire road around the bend and your house appears; a patch of sunlight turns the apex of the roof a deep red. I remember all the pictures you took, of Bumby, of the house, but I’m not sure if I ever saw the interior. I wonder why you said it was yours if you lived with your parents. Most of all, I wonder what is inside.
I step onto the porch. I try the door first, but it’s still locked, so I move to the windows. I have been taking apart the same windows all week, in the lodge, in every cabin. They are all the same make. These screens are missing pull tabs but I take the Buck Knife out of my pocket and use it as a counterweight until I pop one out. I set the screen down on the porch, then move to the window. I place my fingers exactly as I have a dozen times this week, and I press hard, deep with my shoulders, and I try to open your window. It doesn’t budge. I try again, press hard with my shoulder. And again. But it doesn’t move. It looks the same as every other window, but there is something different. I step back and peer up at it. It’s almost like it’s sealed. I try another one, and another. I try every window on the first floor. Not one will budge.
I step back from the house, breathing heavily. I gaze up at the eaves and I am so frustrated, so tired of getting nowhere, of always being wrong, of dead ends, out here and out there. Why can’t I just break through?
I look around me, the meter rising in my veins, clogging them, packing them with adrenaline. What if I broke the glass? They do it all the time in movies. What if I hit it as hard as I can? What if I kicked it?
I punch it once, as hard as I can, without even stopping to think. My knuckles soften but I don’t even make a dent. What am I thinking? I’m lucky the glass didn’t break; I could have severed an artery. And if I had managed to break through and not injure myself, what would I have done then? Crawled through the hole my fist made? I need to get ahold of myself. I need to think.
Pop! An enormous rock zings past my head, hits the yellow wall so hard that it leaves a mark, then topples to the floor at my feet.
I gasp, wheel around, so the yellow house is behind me, pressed beneath my fingers. I scan the scene, but there is no one there. There is, I remind myself. They are just invisible to me.
“Hello?” I say. Was that rock intended for me? Were they trying to hit me? Will they try again?
Oddly, in the face of actual danger, I feel calm, brave even. I step forward on the porch. “Is anyone out there?” I say as if there’s a chance the rock grew wings.
I can’t hear anything over the babble of the river. But I think, There must be, there must be someone out there watching me.
“You can talk to me,” I start. “You can tell me—”
I jump as three birds dart into the air. I hurry forward in their direction. I hear an engine—out on the highway or up the fire road—hear it roar and then cut out, like it has disappeared around a bend.
I wait. My heart pumps in my shoulders. Then I look down at the rock, my evidence. It’s hefty enough that it’s hard to lift. Whoever threw it must be strong. Or they must have been close. I flip it over in my hands and see one word written in thick black marker. My heart rate rises. My blood rushes with the river. The message thrills me.
RUN.
Episode 57:
Last Call
Before she disappeared, Leah made one odd phone call, to her best friend, in the middle of the night. It was after three in the morning but Leah didn’t apologize. She spoke like it was any normal time. She complained that she had been feeling sick all week. At four oh one a.m., she said she needed to lie down.
I go to Jed’s house. I knock on the front door, call softly, not wanting anyone outside to hear. I have hidden the rock sealed in a plastic bag in my backpack, just like you taught me. I will preserve the evidence.
Jed doesn’t come to the door. There is no sound inside. I step back, try to see the whole house at once. And I question myself.
If I am thinking like you taught me, Jed should be the prime suspect, the one who threw the rock. He lives the closest to the yellow house. He could have seen me pass. And he has been encouraging me, all along, to leave. Maybe he finally wanted to up the ante. I glance at his open garage and start—his truck is there, parked beside his broken motorcycle. Was it there before? And if he is here, why isn’t he answering the door? I knock again. “Jed?” And then, “I can see your truck.” And, “I know you’re in there.” A funny feeling creeps into my veins, like I am being watched.