Don't Try to Find Me: A Novel (18 page)

THERE’S THIS ONE REPORTER
who keeps hanging outside our house. Paul says he’s a print journalist, so he’s solo. No boom mikes or cameras, just the Lone Ranger and his smartphone. He sits on the hood of his Prius and scrolls for hours. Every time Paul leaves, they have what appear to be friendly exchanges, but I don’t trust him. He must think there’s a scoop here. Also, he wears a beret; how affected is that? Because of him, I never go outside.

It’s been tense between Paul and me. I didn’t tell him that I used his password, and he didn’t ask.

The volunteers are back and serve as a buffer. I asked what it is they’re doing these days, and Paul said they do “outreach.” They also follow up on various tips to “screen out the nut jobs.”

Some of the calls are about me. Paul’s gotten anonymous tips from people who claim outrageous things, like they saw me throwing a pair of Ugg boots into a Dumpster. If they’re calling my husband, they must have called the police, too. I don’t doubt that Strickland’s been searching Dumpsters.

Paul tells me that he isn’t feeding into that kind of craziness, and I shouldn’t either. Easy for him to say. No one’s claiming they saw him with Ugg boots.

I wonder if any of the people calling used to be my friends, or people I thought were my friends. They’ve stopped calling to check
on my welfare, I notice. Dawn is loyal, though. She’s the only one who knows about Michael, and she swears she’s never told anyone else. But would it shock me to learn that she’s been tweeting anonymously about me? Not really. I’ve got a nice low-grade paranoia going, since I can’t trust Paul, or Michael, or the police . . . Add another to the list.

Strickland came by this morning. He and Paul huddled up for a while; neither of them seemed eager to talk to me. I should find that comforting, the fact that Strickland doesn’t have any more questions for me. But it feels like he might be stockpiling ammunition, and one of these days, he’ll blow my world sky-high. My own husband is either colluding or doing nothing to stop the blast.

No, Paul is merely cooperating with the police. It’s his way of protecting his family, Marley and me both.

I need to believe that. As Paul said, what’s the alternative? It’s not like I have proof of anything else.

But I find my brain backtracking to that day at the fair, when I got a glimpse into the real Paul. It was just before Marley started seeing Dr. Michael. We were an hour from home, in the sweltering Central Valley. It was hot enough that the asphalt parking lot had acquired a watery shimmer. We were trying to circle for a space, but so was everyone else, so it wasn’t really circling; it was sitting. There was so little movement that Marley could read a book in the backseat without threat of carsickness. Since she was occupied, it seemed like a safe time to initiate the conversation with Paul.

“I’m thinking maybe I could take some classes,” I said.

He shot me a look of instant irritation. “Classes in what?”

“Just anything that seems interesting.”

“So read books about what interests you. What is that, exactly?”

It seemed unnecessarily stinging. I glanced back at Marley, who, fortunately, didn’t seem to be paying attention. “Maybe we should talk later,” I said.

Paul eyeballed the gridlock, which seemed unrelenting. “Maybe we should just go.”

“Marley’s supposed to meet up with Sasha at three, remember?” We’d planned the whole day around a band Marley loved. They were playing the main stage. Sasha was probably already inside with her family.

“So?” Now it was his turn to look back at Marley. “More disappointments might toughen her up.”

He did that sometimes, criticized her when she was within earshot. It makes me wonder now if he leveled worse criticisms when I wasn’t there to hear—took aim at her and fired like a sniper.

“Let’s just not talk,” I told him then.

“No, we’ve got the time.” He gestured to the stopped cars around us. “So you want to take classes.”

At least, I thought, he wasn’t talking about Marley anymore. But maybe I was the one in his rifle scope.

I’d pictured coming to him with an embryonic idea—I’ll take some classes!—and fleshing it out together. I figured at a minimum, he’d offer lots of suggestions. Foolishly, I’d assumed that he had my happiness and best interests in mind. I was about to learn otherwise.

After ensuring that Marley was still engrossed in her book, I tried to explain, in a low tone, what I was feeling. That I finally had more of a handle on motherhood and it was time to use other parts of my brain, other parts of myself. Time to be engaged again in the world outside Marley.

I wasn’t in the habit of stating my needs, and I suppose I’d always labored under the delusion that once I did, Paul would be supportive.

He kept his voice low, too, but that didn’t mask that he was negative bordering on hostile.

He didn’t know how I had so much “free time” to “go finding myself” between my job and Marley and handling all the household tasks. “I hope you’re not planning to cut back on your hours at work,” he said, bristling, even though I’d said nothing about that, even though we didn’t need the income. He mocked the idea of meeting new people and bemoaned nights spent studying instead of being
with the family. “You won’t be able to handle it,” he finally said, with utter certainty, and that cut the deepest. It hurt to hear how little faith he had in me, that he didn’t think I could take on anything else without crumbling to dust, and that my fulfillment as a person meant nothing to him.

Then I did something I’d never done in my entire life. Well, Marley’s entire life. Once we finally parked, I walked ahead to the entrance, paying no attention to anything but my own wound. I don’t know what Paul was doing, but it wasn’t watching Marley. Because she got lost. We lost her.

It seemed like there were hundreds of people milling about, churning up the dead brown grass, and I scanned the swirling maelstrom for Marley. “Let’s just stand still,” Paul said. “She’ll find us.”

“Or she’s standing somewhere, waiting for us to find her.” I knew she wasn’t a five-year-old anymore, that it was unlikely that anyone would snatch her, but Paul was so blasé. The thing about five-year-olds is that people will step in to help them. “You stand here, and I’ll walk around.” I wasn’t used to issuing orders to Paul, but he wasn’t used to my being visibly angry, so he listened.

After an increasingly frantic half hour, I finally found Marley, way off to the side, sitting on a bale of hay. She was reading her book, unperturbed, it seemed. Had she been there the whole time? I thought it was my second time covering that ground, but could I have somehow missed her?

I was grateful that she wasn’t upset but bothered by my own wasted emotional energy. “There you are,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. She mutely followed me back to the entrance line, where Paul was, her thumb stuck in the book to hold her page.

At his first opportunity, Paul whispered, “You’ve got a handle on this motherhood thing, huh?”

I felt like he’d filleted me. First the lack of support in the car, and then the scathing remark, like it was my fault Marley got lost. But the truth was, Marley was always more my responsibility than his, and
we both knew it, and I had failed. I was mad at Paul but ultimately I agreed: I wasn’t able to take on any more; I was in over my head and didn’t even know it.

Sometimes, I can still hear just the way he said it: “You’ve got a handle on this motherhood thing, huh?” It’ll be at a moment where I’m really flailing, where I’m lost myself.

I’m sure he blames me for Marley running away more than he blames himself. I do, too.

I’VE DECIDED TO GO
back to work on Monday. Other people’s problems now seem preferable to my own.

Since I don’t know what else to do with myself, I decide to review the phone bills again. They’re covered with different-colored highlighters: yellow, green, blue, purple, pink, to distinguish the numbers most frequently called and texted. Purple is Trish, and the bill is covered in purple. Same as last time. Nothing new has materialized.

But as I look more closely, I see that there’s another number for Trish, one that appeared so seldom that it didn’t get its own highlighted color. I think back to my talk with Trish and their falling-out and its precise date. All that purple started
after
their friendship supposedly ended. I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner.

Either Trish was lying to me, or Trish’s phone is being used by someone else.

What number did I call Trish on the last time we spoke? It was the non-highlighted one that’s programmed into my cell phone.

I can’t believe it. I’ve found a lead that Paul and Strickland both missed. It could be the key to something. But first, I have to call Trish to make sure it’s not too good to be true.

“Please,” I say when she answers, “I need you to be completely honest with me. A lot hinges on this.”

Trish is the kind of girl who loves when things hinge on her answer. “Okay.”

“This number I’m calling you on, is that your current cell phone?”

“Yeah,” she says, like it’s obvious. I guess it is, since she answered.

“And this other number”—I recite it—“what’s that one?”

“That’s my backup cell, from before I had my iPhone.”

My heart is scampering ahead of me. “Did you give it to anyone? Anyone who might be in touch with Marley?”

“No. It’s in my drawer.”

It’s too quick to cook up a lie, unless she had one ready. Unless she and Marley didn’t have a falling-out and are in this together, but that seems like a long shot.

“Are you telling me the complete truth?” I ask.

“I don’t have any reason to lie. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her umbrage is so genuine that I feel like shouting for joy. “One last favor. Could you check in your drawer? I don’t think the phone’s there.”

I hear her moving around, rummaging. “It’s gone.”

“I think it’s been missing for a while. Since Marley stayed at your house.”

“
Seriously?
She stole my phone? That’s fucking great!” Then, more quietly, “Sorry. It’s just—it’s rude. I was her friend. I let her stay here. I would have given it to her if she’d asked.” A second later, “Probably.”

“Thanks so much for your help, Trish. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

“And please, don’t have the service shut off on that phone.” If we could trace it, find the person she’s been in touch with these past few months . . .

I run down the stairs, cracker crumbs flying off my sweater, since that’s the only thing my stomach’s been able to handle today. In the dining room, the volunteers look up, their cell phones perma-plastered to their ears. Paul is in the living room talking to Candace, probably arranging their next media blitz.

“I’ve got something,” I say rapidly. As I explain, I look from one
to the other like a dog that doesn’t know who’s holding the Frisbee. I want recognition from someone. I want credit. I’m not a liability anymore. I’m the devoted mother who’s going to crack the case and bring her daughter home.

They stare at me blandly.

“Do you really not get what this means? Marley stole that cell phone and gave it to someone. That’s the person she spent hours texting and calling. So either she’s with that person right now, or that person is likely to know where she is.”

“Did Trish have an idea who it could be?” Candace says.

“I didn’t ask her.” I feel like I have to defend myself, even here: “Because Trish didn’t give her the cell phone. Marley stole it. Trish and Marley weren’t really friends anymore. I think maybe Marley went there that weekend just so she could steal the phone.”

“Why would she want the phone so badly? Couldn’t her other friend buy a cell phone?” Paul looks like I’m bothering him, as if he and Candace are the ones laying the plans that will bring Marley home and I’m a distraction.

“You’re not thinking this through,” I say. “You don’t want me to be right.”

“I’m just asking questions.” He shoots a quick look at Candace.

“Do not do that. Do not patronize me.” My voice is loud enough to carry to the volunteers. I’m too fired up to care. “If you think about it, there are good reasons why Marley wouldn’t want a new number to appear on the phone bill. She wouldn’t want us to ask questions when we saw the phone bills every month. She wouldn’t want us to notice a new area code and then figure out a possible location for her once she ran away. She’s been planning this for months, Paul.”

It finally dawns, and Paul nods. “Good work, Rachel.” I have to smile. He said it like he’s the lieutenant and I’m an especially promising deputy. “We need to call Officer Strickland. Maybe he can trace the phone. Maybe Marley’s with this guy.”

Of course. She ran off to be with a guy. It’s so obvious. She fell in
love, and that trumps everything. We’re not lousy parents, after all.

Paul’s already phoning Strickland.

As I half-listen to them talk, I’m thinking about this guy of Marley’s. It must be her first boyfriend, and she didn’t tell me anything about him. She was into someone enough to run off across the country and she never said a word. So I’m a lousy mother anyway.

Isn’t it a little strange, then, that she was making out with Kyle en route? Maybe the person isn’t a boyfriend, just a friend. Or maybe Kyle was lying. Or maybe this is going to be a dead end. It’ll turn out that Sasha’s been using that phone. No, not Sasha. Sasha’s not that bright. She was always the third leg in the tripod—necessary but not sufficient.

Then again, who would have thought Marley would have plotted all this? In a way, I almost respect it. No, I actually respect it. She pulled this off. She’s eluded the police and the nationwide woman-hunt her father has initiated.

Unless she didn’t pull anything off, and the person who has this cell phone is her captor. Or her killer.

“Officer Strickland wants Trish’s number,” Paul says. “He wants to talk to her and follow up.”

So either he’s taking me seriously, or he’s looking to punch holes in my theory. I give the phone number and then say, “Does he think this might be something?”