Page 40 of Forget Me Not

I crash into my car before cranking it on, immediately reaching for the air and turning it up as high as it will go. Then I lower my face to the vent, a new sickness settling into my stomach. A rolling nausea like I just consumed something foul.

I force myself to take a deep breath, willing the cool air to travel in and out of my lungs.

Then I close my eyes, attempting to fight the blinding light now funneling into my vision; the bright white spots in the corners of my eyes.

I feel like I’m about to pass out. My head is spinning, my body numb, as I try to make sense of all these things I just learned.

I think back to that summer, the way Natalie had been acting so different, so strange .

Screaming at my mother and sneaking out every night; spending all that time alone in her bedroom before slipping through the window and disappearing in the dark.

Then I feel my phone start to vibrate in my pocket and I pull it out quicky, finding an unknown number on the display.

I ignore it, not wanting to break my concentration as I keep racking my mind for more details.

For every single thing I now know about Galloway, every last thing I’ve come to learn.

I picture Liam walking me around on my very first day; spouting out facts as we picked in the vineyard and the picnic we shared beneath the shade of a tree.

Places like this don’t exactly do things by the book, he had said, an attempt to get me to open up, share a few details about my own life . We’ve employed plenty of people with shady pasts.

My mind goes still as I look to the side, Natalie’s shoebox still propped up on the seat. Then I lean over and open it, sifting through pictures until I come across the one of her and Jeffrey, Bethany’s words still whirling around as all these different currents pull me in too many directions.

Did anyone else go with you? I had asked, this very same picture at the forefront of my mind.

A couple other people. I think they were mostly her coworkers.

I blink a few times, a new clarity uncurling as I realize that Jeffrey and Natalie must have been coworkers. He must have worked at Galloway, too. That must have been how the two of them met and I pick up my phone again, tapping on the map before typing in an address.

Then I crank my car into reverse, backing out of my spot before speeding my way off the island. Heading in the direction of my hometown.

The Claxton Police Department is a tiny red building of chipped brick, as small and unremarkable as the town itself. It took me close to an hour to make the drive here and I ease into a parking spot outside the front door, turning off the engine before taking a deep, steadying breath.

I force myself to step out of the car, my legs walking me into the lobby as if they’ve developed a will of their own.

“Hi,” I say, approaching a receptionist tapping away at a keyboard, a series of closed doors in the hallway behind her. “I have some information regarding an old case and I was wondering if there was a detective available that I can speak with.”

The woman looks up, chewing gum gnashing between her back teeth.

“Chief DiNello is taking lunch at the moment. Do you have an appointment?”

I pause, surprised to learn that not only is Detective DiNello still here, but also that he’s Chief DiNello now…

but then again, once I stop to think about it, that doesn’t actually come as a shock.

People tend to stay put in a town like Claxton.

He had seemed young when I met him, probably somewhere in his thirties when he first worked Natalie’s case.

He must have spent the last twenty-two years climbing the ranks, his small role in Jeffrey Slater’s arrest the most scandalous thing our town had yet seen.

“No,” I say, though I now realize this might actually work to my advantage. “But I only need a few minutes of his time.”

The woman glances back at her computer, apparently not inclined to let me in.

“My name is Claire Campbell,” I add, willingly offering up my full name for the first time since I can remember, knowing it’s likely my only way in. “I’m Natalie Campbell’s sister.”

Five minutes later, I’m sitting in Eric DiNello’s office staring at a collection of plaques on the wall.

There are newspaper clippings of various cases he’s worked, a matted diploma in the center of it all, and some pictures on the periphery flaunting his various stages of life: an official headshot in a navy-blue suit, shiny bronze badge pinned to the lapel.

One of him on a horse with rolling hills in the distance, another of him shaking hands with the mayor.

“Claire Campbell,” he says, almost like he can’t even believe I exist. I turn my head, my attention directed at him on the opposite side of the desk.

I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist seeing me, talking to me, considering the last time he’s actually seen me in person was when we both sat in my kitchen the day my sister disappeared. “Look at you, all grown up.”

I take him in slowly. I can tell he’s quite tall, even when seated, long arms resting on the top of the desk and a neck as thick and sturdy as a trunk.

His hair is brown, cut short on the sides, and I glance at the wall again, the steady progression of his career, as I wonder if anything even mildly interesting has happened over the last two decades or if Natalie’s case was his professional peak.

I would bet on the latter; Claxton, South Carolina, doesn’t get much murder.

Our violence is petty crime–related, drug-related, and rarely ever involving a child…

although, as everyone liked to remind us, Natalie was, at eighteen, technically an adult.

“What brings you in today?” he asks when I don’t respond, threading his fingers on top of some papers. “Does your mother know you’re in town?”

“She knows,” I say, not exactly the truth, considering she thinks I’m back in New York. “But I’m actually here because I have some new information pertaining to my sister’s case.”

“New information,” he repeats, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“I just ran into Bethany Wheeler. Do you remember interviewing her? She was Natalie’s best friend back then.”

“I remember Bethany,” he says, nodding. “Sweet girl, very helpful.”

“She told me something I didn’t know before. She told me Natalie had been spending a lot of time over at Galloway Farm.”

I watch as Chief DiNello narrows his eyes, his silence a cue for me to go on.

“Are you familiar with Galloway?” I ask. “The muscadine vineyard on Ladmadaw Island?”

“I am, yes.”

“She worked out there for a few weeks,” I say. “She quit sometime early that summer, but Bethany just told me she kept going back, even after she was no longer employed.”

“Okay…” he says, the word trailing off like he isn’t sure where this is going.

“I guess I was just wondering how you found Jeffrey,” I say. “I mean, what led you to do that search of his car?”

“Bethany did,” Chief DiNello responds as he leans back in his chair. “She was the one who told us Slater was seeing your sister.”

“But she just told me she didn’t know who Natalie was seeing. Only that it was someone older. Someone with a car.”

“Right,” he says. “And we found your sister’s blood in Jeffrey Slater’s car. We found her prints, and her hair—”

“Did you ever look into Jeffrey’s employment records?” I interrupt, his terseness starting to prick at my nerves. “Did he work at Galloway, too?”

“That never came up, no,” DiNello says, and I feel myself deflate until I remember again what Liam had said, how they don’t exactly do things by the book .

“It’s possible there was no record of it, that he was paid under the table—”

“Claire,” Chief DiNello cuts in, a skeptical expression like he’s having a hard time following my train of thought. “I’m sorry, but what exactly is this? Your sister’s case is closed. Slater’s in jail.”

“I know,” I say, growing increasingly more frustrated at how I’m sure this is starting to sound. This man probably thinks I’m delusional, still in denial all these years later despite the evidence staring me straight in the face. “But Jeffrey never confessed. He never brought us to her body—”

“Of course he never confessed!” DiNello barks, his expression now shifting into one of amusement. “This state has the death penalty. The only reason he got the sentence he did was because we never found her body.”

I stay silent, refusing to acknowledge his point.

“That asshole got lucky,” he adds. “If it were up to me, he would be dead already.”

“But Mitchell Galloway,” I continue, slogging along, despite his reaction. “The owner of the vineyard. He has a history.”

“A history,” he repeats, his voice dull and flat, and I get the sense he’s only humoring me now.

“I can link him to cases of other missing girls. Multiple girls. That seems like a coincidence we shouldn’t ignore.”

Chief DiNello is silent, his teeth gnawing on the inside of his cheek.

“Which cases?” he asks at last, his attention piqued for the very first time.

“A girl out in California named Katherine Ann Prichard,” I say, talking too fast but suddenly eager to get it all out. “And his wife, Marcia Rayburn, was reported missing in the eighties. I think there’s someone else named Lily, though I don’t know her last name—”

“This is one hell of an accusation,” he says, cutting me off as he leans in close. “A serious accusation. You have proof of all this?”

“Well, no,” I say, reddening slightly as I watch him shrink. “Not definitive proof. Not yet, anyway. But I’ve read all these articles—”

“Claire,” he says again, holding up his hand as he stops me mid-thought. “There’s a principle you should understand called Occam’s razor.”

“I know what Occam’s razor is,” I spit.

“Okay, what is it?”

I stare at him, put off by his blatant patronization until I finally decide to just play along.

“The most logical explanation is likely the one that’s also the simplest.”

“Right,” he says, nodding gently. His tone now softened into one of concern. “We were told by Natalie’s best friend that your sister was seeing an older man and that they spent a lot of time in his car. Jeffrey Slater is an older man, and your sister’s blood was found in his car.”

I stay silent, the bluntness of his statement catching me off guard.

“Jeffrey Slater was a criminal,” he continues. “He sold drugs. He spent time with minors. He is the simplest, most logical explanation. We got our guy. Justice was served.”

“But Bethany was acting like there was something about Galloway that drew in my sister,” I continue. “I’m wondering if maybe she met Jeffrey there—”

“I do remember her being a bit jealous,” he says, as if he just realized it himself. “Before she learned what happened, that is.”

“Jealous,” I repeat, tilting my head.

“That Natalie was outgrowing her,” he explains. “That, all of a sudden, her best friend was spending all this time with someone who wasn’t her.”

I bite my lip, familiar with the feeling. After all, that was the way I felt when I saw Natalie and Bethany together, envious of the bond the two of them shared.

“So, was Bethany resentful of the place? Yeah, maybe,” Chief DiNello continues, a lump lodging itself in my throat as I remember when I first noticed Natalie took off my necklace, when she started to ignore me when we passed each other in the hall.

“Did Natalie meet Jeffrey there at some party, then all of a sudden, she started spending less time with her friend and more time with him? Sure, it’s possible.

But I seriously doubt it’s anything more than that. ”

We sit in silence for a few more seconds until he sighs, his eyes flicking down to the desk below him like he’s suddenly eager to get back to work.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

He stacks a few papers, my mind churning at how I can reel him back in before it becomes abundantly clear that I’ve already lost him.

Natalie’s case is over two decades old; not only that, but it’s the case that built the foundation of this man’s entire career.

Of course he’s not going to consider reopening it with nothing more than a hunch.

I need proof. Real, solid, concrete proof.

“No, that’s all,” I say, standing up before making my way back to the door. “Thanks for your time.”

“Not a problem,” he says as I extend my hand to reach for the handle, his voice cutting through the quiet one last time. “And tell Annie I said hello, would you?”

I freeze, fingertips hovering over the knob.

“Annie,” I repeat, turning around as my skin bristles like the prickling of hair just before lighting strikes.

“Yeah,” he says, glancing up at me before his expression falls. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot she doesn’t go by that name anymore.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about…”

“Your mother,” he says, a scarlet flush creeping into his cheeks like he’s suddenly embarrassed, like he hadn’t actually meant to say that out loud. “It was what people called her around here, back when we were kids.”

I stare at him blankly, all these loose pieces slipping into place as Eric DiNello stares uncomfortably in my direction, fidgeting his fingers on the top of his desk.

“Truth be told, it was a terrible nickname,” he continues. “Given, you know. That both her parents died young.”

“People called my mother Annie,” I repeat, my mind conjuring up an image of Marcia sitting out in that field, Lily playing dreamily with her long hair.

And Annie? she had asked, looking around once she realized she hadn’t seen the other girl in weeks. The shy, quiet girl who kept to herself.

“I didn’t come up with it,” DiNello adds, hands in the air as he comes to his own defense. “And she was a good sport about it, didn’t actually seem to mind…”

He waits for me to say something, to rescue him from his own mistake, but still, I stay silent. That scene from the diary swirling around like a fat cloud of translucent smoke as I imagine Lily sliding a flower into Marcia’s thick braid. Long fingers trailing their way down her spine.

Orphan, she had said. But don’t worry about Annie. She won’t be coming around anymore.