Page 32 of Forget Me Not

My hair is dripping by the time I get back.

Once I was sure Mitchell and Liam were gone, I finally allowed myself to let out a breath while simultaneously scolding myself for how close I just got to getting caught. Then I had waited a few seconds before tiptoeing down the rest of the stairs and peering out the front-door windows.

I could see their two bodies making their way to the shed, presumably to grab supplies for the storm. Then Mitchell went in first as Liam glanced back at the house, hesitating for a second before he took a deep breath and stepped in after.

Only then did I bolt to the door, twist the knob, and fling myself out and into the rain.

In the few seconds it took for me to get between the two houses, the skies opened up with a strength that was startling.

The pelting drops sharp as nails as I jogged across the yard and into the relative safety of my room.

I know this kind of weather isn’t unusual in July—I’m familiar with these microbursts that come out of nowhere, violent little spurts that appear and disappear in the blink of an eye—but right now, despite my soggy clothes and rain-drenched hair, I’m just thankful for the distraction.

For the opportunity to get out of that house, away from Mitchell.

The excuse to hole up in here and plan my next move instead of having to act like everything is fine.

I attempt to dry off as soon as I step inside, twisting my hair into a towel before my attention returns to my phone. It’s vibrating in my pocket again and I pull it out, Ryan’s face and name appearing on the screen.

“Claire,” he says as soon as I answer. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all morning.”

I look down at the display to find a smattering of texts. They must have gotten stuck in the ether while I was walking around the property, the spotty service going in and out keeping them from getting through.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and light, though even I can hear the shake in my throat. The adrenaline pushing its way out after those tense few minutes as I hid on the stairs. “I’ve been… busy.”

“Doing what?” he asks, and I feel myself flinch at his brusque tone—still, it’s a fair question.

Ryan thinks I’m back at home, back with my mom.

I’ve led him to believe I have nothing at all going on in my life, nothing stealing my attention for hours at a time, so of course he’s curious about where I’ve been disappearing to, day after day.

Why I’m suddenly unable to pick up the phone.

“Claire, you’re starting to worry me,” he says when I don’t answer, his voice softening into concern. “It sounds like you’re out of breath.”

“I’m fine,” I say, though it’s painfully obvious that I’m not.

“I picked up your mail,” he continues. “You got a letter from your mom.”

I freeze, a lump lodging itself in my throat, because whatever it was I was expecting Ryan to say, I know for a fact it wasn’t that.

“How do you—?”

“Her name was on the envelope along with a Claxton return address.”

“What does it say?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I didn’t read it, but why is your mom sending you mail if you’re staying with her in her house right now?”

I sigh, running my fingers through my wet hair.

“Claire, what is going on?” he asks as I glance out the window, the rain lashing hard on the glass.

The storm is picking up quickly now and I can practically feel the chill in the air, the temperature dropping as the sky grows dark.

The wall of gray clouds gathering in the distance offering no glimpse of imminent relief.

“I’m not at home, okay?” I say at last, finally deciding to just come clean.

I’m too tired of the secrets, the lies—and besides, it’s starting to feel like I’m in way over my head here.

It feels like I should tell Ryan about these things that I’ve found so maybe he can somehow help.

He’s a journalist, too, after all. The two of us working together could get to the bottom of this, whatever this is, in half the time.

“I left right after I got there. After my first night back.”

“Then where are you?” he asks, his voice suddenly sounding afraid. “You’re not back in the city, are you? Where have you been living?”

“No,” I say, pulling the gun from my pocket before looking around, trying to decide where to put it. Then I walk over to the desk and place it inside the drawer, staring down silently like I’m afraid it might spring to life on its own. “I’m not in the city.”

The line is quiet as I try to decide how I should start, until I eventually start at the beginning: turning into my neighborhood that very first night, all the odd feelings that reared up in my chest the second I stepped into my childhood home.

The memories bashing me like a tidal wave, dragging me down, and the nightmare I had that scared me away.

I tell him about the pictures of the vineyard I found in the shoebox, reminiscing about Natalie’s summer job.

Overhearing my mother and the snap decision to come to Galloway before learning about their guesthouse, the two thousand dollars.

The way it felt like a solution to all my problems until I found that diary pushed deep in the vent.

I tell him about how it’s consumed me slowly, a secret obsession I can’t understand. Marcia’s words like a parasite chewing away at my brain, keeping me awake well into the night.

“There’s something going on here,” I say when I’m finally finished, Ryan’s breath heavy on the other side of the line.

Then I plop down in the chair, sliding the drawer shut as my pants drip water onto the hardwood floor.

“I’ve been thinking it from the second I found all those articles, but just now, I snuck into their house—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says at last, stopping me mid-sentence. “You snuck into their house ?”

“I went inside to talk to Marcia, but she was asleep, so I started looking around.”

“Jesus, Claire.”

“I found a bag,” I continue, ignoring his tone. “A bag stuffed beneath the floorboards of their bedroom. It looks just like the bag Natalie took the night she disappeared.”

Ryan is quiet on the other side of the line, the silence stretching on for so long I look down at the phone, wondering if I lost him.

“What did it look like?” he asks at last, the weight of the information hanging over us both.

“It’s just a black duffel bag.”

“Did it have her name on it? Any identifying proof?”

“No,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m not even sure if it’s hers, to be honest—I mean, I can’t remember exactly what hers looked like—but the cops always thought Natalie left with a bag.”

“Claire—”

“A black duffel bag .”

“Everyone has a black duffel bag,” he argues. “ I have a black duffel bag.”

“Hidden beneath the floorboards of your bedroom?”

“No,” he admits. “But what makes you think it could be Natalie’s? It could be anyone’s.”

I fall silent, thinking of the article that reported on Marcia’s disappearance; the fact that she went missing with a bag then, too. Now I’m suddenly doubting myself, realizing that Ryan is probably right.

The bag could be anyone’s.

“Maybe they’re the kind of people who hide money in their mattress or something and that spot is like a makeshift safe. What else did you find in there?”

“The deed to their property,” I say, Liam’s voice emerging in the back of my mind as he talked about Mitchell and all of his quirks. He does seem like the kind of person who would distrust a bank, instead opting to keep his valuables hidden at home.

Not a big fan of modern medicine… or anything modern, for that matter.

“Okay,” Ryan says. “Seems like the kind of thing they’d want to keep safe. What else?”

“A wallet,” I say, and I can just see Ryan nodding, his theory cementing itself even further. “But the wallet had someone else’s license in it.”

“All right,” he continues, though I can hear a subtle shift in his voice. “There could still be an explanation for that. Anything else?”

“A gun,” I say, my eyes darting to the desk next, trying to decide if I should mention I took it. “Why would they have a gun hidden in their floor?”

“Because you’re in the middle of nowhere in South Carolina,” he says with a laugh. “Everyone around there has a gun.”

“Okay,” I concede, though my frustration is starting to mount, the fact that he clearly isn’t taking this seriously. “I get your point, but I’m telling you, Ryan. There’s something not right here. I’m worried about Marcia. I’m worried she’s being held against her will or something—”

“Claire,” he says, cutting me off, and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek as he lets a small sigh slip through. “You realize what’s happening here, right?”

I stay silent, not sure what he’s getting at.

“This story in the city, the one from the bar. You said it was similar to what happened to your sister. That it dredged up a bunch of bad memories.”

I begin to ruminate on my last two months in New York, that case on the news consuming me slowly as I stayed up late, pored over evidence. The past and present beginning to blur.

“Do you think maybe you’re doing the same thing here?” he continues as I think next about how I’ve been draping Natalie’s voice on top of Marcia’s words; seeing glimmers of my sister in the most mundane details and that dream slowly morphing until she and Marcia were one and the same.

“But the bag,” I argue, trying to steady my voice. “The tea, and the articles—”

“All of that stuff is entirely circumstantial,” Ryan continues. “You’re worried about this woman because, what, she sleeps a lot? Maybe she’s sick. Maybe she’s battling some kind of disease that’s none of your business.”

“It’s more than that.”

“Okay, then is it because they live in solitude? Maybe they enjoy their privacy—which, by the way, you’re completely disrespecting, snooping around their house like that.”

I swallow, embarrassed by the pitch of his voice. Ryan has never talked to me like this. He’s never scolded me like a child, doubted the validity of the things I’ve told him.

“Is it because she ran away with him when she was eighteen?” he pushes, talking faster now. “Because if so, she was eighteen, Claire. That’s perfectly legal. He didn’t kidnap her. She wasn’t a kid.”

“Natalie was eighteen,” I counter, immediately regretting it.

“See, this is what I’m talking about!” he barks, his voice growing louder, more desperate.

“They’re not the same! This woman and your sister are not the same.

What happened to Natalie was terrible, Claire, and I understand the desire to equate the two, but not every older man is a murderer, you know. ”

“Then what about the deed,” I push, grasping at anything I can possibly find. “The deed didn’t have Mitchell’s name on it. It was the deed between the previous owners.”

“Okay…” Ryan says, not sure what I’m getting at.

“Why would he have the property deed from before it even belonged to him?”

“I don’t know,” Ryan concedes. “But there could be plenty of reasons. Maybe they’re family with different last names and he inherited the place after they died.”

“But Liam said it’s not family land.”

“Who is Liam?” he asks, sounding exhausted, and I feel a sudden spasm deep in my chest. A strange hesitation as I struggle to respond.

“My point is, you don’t know these people,” Ryan continues when I don’t answer. “You don’t know anything about them.”

I nod, swallow, finally realizing he’s right. Other than the diary and the few cursory details I found online, I don’t know anything about them at all.

“You’re making up a story based on a diary written by a kid,” he says. “A diary that’s over forty years old.”

“I thought you just said Marcia wasn’t a kid,” I mutter, unable to help myself.

A fierce protection for this girl I don’t even know flaring up like someone struck a match in my chest. I can’t even explain why I’m doing it, either; why I have a burning desire to defend her like this.

I suppose it’s because my sister was discounted, too.

Because I spent my childhood listening to people make up excuses to explain what happened, biting my tongue as the cops called her difficult, troubled.

Impossible to control. As if that somehow meant she deserved what she got.

“Claire,” Ryan says, and I look down at the pity in his tone, my eyes drilling into my damp jeans.

“I think you’re jumping to conclusions because you still haven’t come to terms with what happened back then.

That you’re turning this woman into your sister, and now you’re trying to save her because you feel like you couldn’t save Natalie. ”

The sharp sting of tears pricks at my eyes, nothing but sheets of rain on the roof and the low growl of thunder masking my breathing.

“That dream,” he continues. “The one you had on your first night home. I think it’s pretty obvious what it means.”

“Please don’t psychoanalyze me, Ryan—”

“Your hands were holding the pillowcase,” he continues, trudging along, despite my reluctance. “In that dream, you were killing her, Claire. You feel responsible for your sister’s death, for whatever reason, but you need to know it wasn’t your fault.”

I feel a catch of something in my throat now, a sharp intake of breath at hearing those words. It wasn’t your fault.

Nobody has ever said that to me before.

“There’s nothing you could have done,” he continues, but I’m shaking my head now, back and forth, because I know that just isn’t true.

There are so many things I could have done, should have done, had I been brave enough to speak up.

“I think that’s what’s driving all of this,” he says. “Some unresolved sense of duty to your sister. But once you accept it wasn’t your fault, you can drop this and start to move on.”

“But it was my fault,” I whisper, suddenly unsure if I’m still talking to Ryan or just needing to get the words out myself.

“No, it wasn’t,” he argues. “You were eleven years old. How could it have possibly been your fault?”

I sigh, pushing my fingers into my eyes. Then I open my mouth and start to talk, the memory of that night seeping out like the slow bleed of a reopened wound.