Don't Look for Me(4)

“Yes,” I say.

The passenger window of the truck closes and the girl disappears. But now I hear the click of the locks opening. I reach for the handle of the door to the second row, desperate to be out of the storm. Desperate to get back to my family. To forget what I have almost done. This storm might have killed me. The wind and the cold. Then the guilt would be theirs to carry. John, Nicole, Evan. How could I be that selfish after everything I’ve already done to them? I will never think of it again.

I climb inside, close the door. Relief fighting with despair.

And before I can clear the rain from my eyes and see what’s really before me, I hear the click again. The doors locking.

Locking shut.





2


Day thirteen





The phone rang. Stopped. Rang again.

Nicole Clarke awoke, felt a body beside her. It didn’t stir.

The ringing was loud. The daylight bright, even through closed eyes. Remorse crept in as her hand reached toward the sound.

She pulled the phone to her ear, eyes pinching tightly together, then moved herself closer to the edge of the bed so she was no longer touching the stranger she’d brought home.

She managed a hello. Her voice was hoarse.

“Nicole Clarke?” a woman asked. She seemed nervous. “I’m calling about the disappearance of a woman in Hastings.”

The name of that town. Adrenaline, nausea. Nic didn’t answer.

Then came the flashes from the night before.

Vodka shots … the man at the end of the bar … now in her bed.

She’d told him to leave in the early morning hours. Or maybe she’d passed out before she could.

The woman continued.

“My name is Edith Moore. I hope this is the right thing to do, but I may have something … I may know something about that woman—your mother, right?”

The man groaned, draped a heavy arm over her chest. Nic pushed it aside.

There had been a moment last night when his arms couldn’t hold her tight enough. Now they repulsed her. It was always the same.

She rolled onto her side and pulled her knees to her stomach. “Hold on,” she said, waiting for the nausea to recede.

The calls about her mother had begun to slow. Most of the crazies had moved on to other things. Other ways to feed their appetite for attention. The psychologist had explained it to them, why people feel drawn to these stories, to other people’s grief, and why they seek ways to get involved even if they muddy the search for the truth with their lies. Their made-up stories. Their bullshit.

There was also the reward money. A million dollars for her mother’s safe return. Five hundred thousand for tips leading to her “whereabouts.” Nothing brought out a liar like cash. Her father had hired an investigator to manage the tips.

The woman continued.

“I live in Schenectady, which is two hours from Hastings—over the border into New York. I was on my way home from a trip to Manhattan. I met some girlfriends there. That’s why I was on the road.”

Nic began with the questions that would likely end the conversation. What day? What time? What road?

The callers never did their homework. They usually got the town right. Sometimes the make and model of her mother’s car—an Audi Q5, light blue. Stopped just before the gas station.

Edith Moore rattled off the answers. It was the last one that made Nic pay closer attention.

Hastings Pass.

Most people said they’d seen Molly Clarke on Route 7. That was where her car was found. That was the road that led to the casino where her credit card was used. It was always the best guess for the crazies. And the liars.

This was something new.

“What were you doing on Hastings Pass?” Nic asked. Her tone was harsh. “It’s completely out of the way if you were heading to Schenectady from Manhattan.”

Nic knew every inch of that town. Hastings. She knew every road, every field, every abandoned well her mother might have fallen down as she sought cover from the hurricane.

“I was trying to stop for the night because of the storm. There’s a place there, the Hastings…”

“Hastings Inn.” Nic was sitting up now.

“Yes—the Hastings Inn. I got to the inn around seven, but it was already boarded up. I knew I had to get out of the storm path, so I turned around, back toward Route 7. I was on Hastings Pass and I think I drove right past your mother.”

Now came another voice. The man in her bed who’d overstayed his welcome. Who’s on the phone?

Nobody … you need to go.

Nic waved at him, then toward the door, then to his clothes littered across the carpet of her bedroom. When he looked at her with confusion, she made it clearer.

“Please—just get out.” But then, “I’m sorry.”

She said it again. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, until he started to move.

And she was sorry. For last night and the nights before and the nights to come. She was sorry for so many nights since Annie died.

Back to the woman on the phone.

“Why didn’t you come forward sooner? It’s been two weeks.”

“Like I said, I don’t live in the area. And I don’t really follow the news. But then a few days ago, I was catching up with one of the friends I met in the city and she asked me if I got caught in the storm, and then she mentioned a woman who went missing.”