Page 3

CHAPTER 3

August 10 th

5:44 PM

S ARA S TEERS HER car down the dirt path to Sungila Lake. The path is long and helical like a vine, nauseating by the fourth curve. The dreamcatcher hanging from her rearview mirror, a craft made by her niece, tangles around itself hopelessly. We come to a clearing where the other searchers have parked. The number of cars surprises me. I expected a dozen or so do-gooders to show, but judging by the makeshift parking lot and the crowd congregating at the shoreline, there must be over a hundred searchers. A hundred people who think my mother is worth looking for. For the first time since arriving in Annesville, I have a reason to be hopeful, even if all I expect to find is a pile of sun-bleached bones.

The familiar faces overwhelm me. Eileen Capito, a miserable old crone nearing eighty, petting a search dog whose orange vest clearly warns against touching them. Connor lingering at the back of the crowd with Coach Romanoff, both wearing Cornhusker baseball caps. The four Nelson boys, rifles slung over their backs, eyeing everyone from a distance, ready to spring into vigilante action at the first sign of distress. Mitesh Jadhav, owner of another Annesville liquor store, limping along the path to the shoreline on the arm of his teenage daughter, Karishma. Scar tissue mottles his neck. Tallying the attendees in my head, I note four conspicuous absences: my father, my sisters, and the Tillman County sheriff.

I start to ask Sara if the sheriff is expected to show, but she is no longer at my side. She embraces a tall, sinewy tribal police officer manning a table of search equipment. I surmise it’s her brother, Daniel. I offer a wave but keep my distance. I’m not keen on standing too close to the water anyway. I can’t swim. Anything deeper than a bathtub makes me nervous.

People stare and whisper. They recognize me. I’ve always been trouble, and now, spangled with dozens of tattoos, one of which reaches all the way up my throat like a turtleneck, I look like it too. My smiles are met with uncomfortable nods and averted eyes.

As I turn back toward the car, deciding to wait there until the search commences to save myself further discomfort, I see her. Zoe Markham.

To me, she is not the promising young congresswoman the politicos fawn about, profiling her in digital think pieces with headlines like Is This Nebraska Congresswoman the Future of the GOP? and Meet Zoe Markham, Republican Rising Star . As she descends the slope down to the waterfront, her arms outstretched like a gymnast crossing a balance beam, I see us, seventeen years old, entangled in a passionate embrace in the back seat of her car. I remember everything about her in breathtaking detail: her peach blonde hair and how she always smelled of vanilla, and the mole beneath her breast, and, loveliest of all, her one green eye and one blue eye, two separate pools to drown in. She is painfully vivacious, like staring straight into the sun. My pulse thrums in my ears as she draws closer, her name caught in my throat.

She recognizes me and graciously rescues me from the embarrassment of calling her name. She casts a glance over her shoulder as she approaches, her glossed lips curling into a cautious smile. “Providence.”

“Zoe.”

You always imagine it will be a policeman on your doorstep to deliver the catastrophic news of a missing loved one. For me, it was a stilted phone call from a girl I used to love. Zoe had sputtered through thirty seconds of pleasantries before the words burst out of her: “Your mom is missing, Providence. I didn’t want you to see it on the news.”

She mistakes my silence for despair as I drink her in. “We’re going to find her. I’d bet you anything. Everyone in the county wants to bring her home safe.”

“I wish I was that hopeful.”

“Look at all these people,” she says. “When’s the last time you saw Annesville band together like this for anything?”

Her optimism scrambles my brain. No one with a lick of common sense expects to find my mother alive. I can’t tell if she’s blinded by hope or if she’s trying to comfort me. I change the subject. “How’s Congress? I always figured you’d be a teacher, something like that.”

“Beats my old law practice.” She shrugs. “Civil litigation got old fast. One more landlord-tenant dispute and I would have begged to be disbarred.”

In the distance, two figures snatch my attention. I’m not sure how I know it’s my sisters, but I do. Harmony and Grace walk shoulder to shoulder, their heads lowered in conspiratorial conversation. My father is nowhere in sight. If there is any moment to chase after them, it’s now.

But Zoe’s honeyed voice, scarcely above a whisper, draws me back in. “You look beautiful. Your hair especially. I always thought you should grow it out.” She reaches for my hair, but instantly thinks better of it. Her face flushes so deeply it’s visible beneath her makeup. “I should get a flyer,” she says. “Maybe check in with Mrs. Capito. She’s been asking me about opening a VA medical office in Carey Gap for the last year. Her husband passed away in April—did you hear?”

“Is this really the time to catch up on local gossip?”

Zoe brings a palm to her forehead. “Some things never change. I always put my foot in my mouth.”

“Maybe you could make it up to me with lunch or—or coffee.”

The wheels in her head spin as she evaluates the political considerations. “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”

“Because of me or because of us?”

“What happened with your mom, that’s between you and God. But our history is a minefield.”

The religious invocation turns my stomach. “No one knows, Zoe.”

“Connor Crawford knows.”

“He doesn’t care. There’s nothing taboo about girls loving other girls anymore.” I pause. “Is this about your family?”

Quick as a bolt of lightning, she hardens. “Why do you think I’m a politician, Providence? Jehovah’s Witnesses can’t even vote. I was disfellowshipped.”

“I …”

“It destroyed my relationship with my family, whatever happened between us,” she says. “It can’t destroy my career too.”

Whatever happened between us , so insignificant it doesn’t deserve a name. How can it be meaningless for her? Does she not think of it at all? But she must, because if not, she could have defended herself and, cunning and charismatic as she was, saved herself from being disfellowshipped. I understand little about Jehovah’s Witnesses, but I remember Zoe telling me that with enough contrition for your sin, you can avoid being disfellowshipped. Her brother narrowly escaped exile for shoplifting a pouch of beef jerky. All I can manage is a listless “I’m sorry.”

“It’s …” She squeezes her eyes shut, then shakes her head. When she opens them again, she has slipped into her politician’s skin. “We’ll bump into each other again before you go home, I’m sure.”

“I can pretend like I don’t know you, if that’s what you’re getting at. I don’t want to ruin you.”

“No, no. We can be civil. It—”

“It’s not you, it’s me, right?”

“Sweet Christmas, don’t tell me you haven’t moved on. I’m sure I’m not the only person you’ve loved.”

I’ve had other relationships, pretty girls all across Kansas City, and a few of them I even loved. But I’ve never carried a torch for anyone like I do for Zoe. “You don’t like knowing that you’re special to me?”

Despite herself, she smiles. She squeezes my shoulder as a goodbye before joining the masses, where an older couple ensnares her in a heated conversation. I’d take offense to them using my mother’s search as an excuse to corner their congresswoman for a screed about potholes or mail delivery, but really, I’m no better. While I groveled at Zoe’s feet, my sisters slipped through my fingers like running water. I look all around, but they’ve disappeared.

Daniel begins dividing the searchers into groups with arbitrary chops of his hands. One lackey distributes my mother’s flyers while another lectures us on search party protocol, his words drowned out by the murmurs. I join Sara’s group so I don’t have to be alone.

Our group is assigned to the nearby meadow. We march forward in a straight line, a dozen abreast. We are told to deviate from our path only if there is a tree or other impassable obstacle blocking our way. The deputy leading our group with an overeager search dog has forged so far ahead that we can no longer see him.

After half an hour of searching, one of the Nelson boys calls out for us. “Hold up, guys! I found a bone!” We converge upon the bare patch of earth he squats over. My heartbeat is deafening.

Mitesh Jadhav pinches the object between his thumb and forefinger. He holds it up to the setting sun for examination before throwing it back at the Nelson boy.

“It’s a chicken foot, you idiot.”

The search produces nothing of value. We return to the rallying point sweaty, exhausted, overheated, and a little less hopeful than we were a couple hours ago. I drink half a bottle of water in one swallow before dumping the rest over my head to cool off.

“It’s Providence, isn’t it?”

Up close, Daniel looks straight out of central casting for a handsome but jaded police chief, late thirties, his jaw square and his eyes cold. A bald patch, skin cloudy from scar tissue, cuts along his five o’clock shadow. He has eyelashes long enough to make women jealous. I make sure to shake his hand firmly.

I don’t care if you’re a girl , my father’s voice booms in my head. You shake hands like a man.

“It’s nice to put a name to the face,” he says, though his biting tone makes it clear the last word he would use to describe our introduction is nice . He winces at the large moth tattoo on my thigh. “I’ve heard about you for years. Sara told me they called you Teeth in prison.”

“They sure did.”

“Why?”

I repay his brusqueness with a lie. “I used to have ugly teeth. I looked like a goblin. We were too poor for the orthodontist.”

He pours his own bottle of water over his head. If I’m hot in shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, he’s flirting with heatstroke in his starchy, all-black uniform. “She wanted me to give you an update myself. I can’t speak for Sheriff Eastman and Tillman County, but as for the reservation, I can tell you we’re going to send divers into the lake tomorrow, see if they find anything.”

“You’re looking for a body.”

“I don’t want to be grim.”

I lower myself onto a cool patch of grass. Ants tickle my hands. “Grim is fine, as long as it’s honest.”

“Again, I can’t speak for Tillman County, but … yeah, our focus is on recovering her remains. We have a couple patrols on the roads just in case, but I think it’s better to be realistic.”

“Do you think her body is on the reservation?”

“Where better to dump a body?” he asks. “Too much land and not enough cops. We’re six times the size of Tillman County.”

I appease him with a nod. “Did you talk to my sisters?”

“I don’t know them. I’m talking to you as a favor to Sara.”

Behind him, people head for their cars. An older woman I don’t recognize balls up my mother’s poster and drops it on the ground. “She didn’t tell me how charming you were,” I quip.

“I don’t like you staying with her,” he says. “I’d rather she leaves prison behind completely.”

“You don’t have to like it. She’s my friend.”

“And she’s my sister.”

I raise my hands in surrender. This is a tussle I can save for another day. “I’m here to find out what happened to my mother. Sara was kind enough to make sure I didn’t have to sleep in my car while I look for her. She’s a good friend.”

“Maybe a little too good.” He offers me his hand as I stand up, but I pretend not to see it. How magnanimous of him, being chivalrous to a felon. He shakes his head at my petty rejection and smirks. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t feel the same way if the shoe was on the other foot. I’m looking out for my family. You’d do the same.”

“If that’s what you think, you don’t know the first thing about me. Family is just a word.”