Don't Look for Me(18)

Yes, Nic thought. It felt good to think that about her mother. That’s where the rage was coming from. Blaming her mother was the only thing that eased her own guilt, and the hatred she held for herself.

Then there were the facts. The driveway sat on a blind corner. Her mother had been slowing down to make the turn. Estimated miles per hour, under ten. Skid marks from the tires suggested they were employed immediately. The wheel turned as far as it could go—away from Annie. Her phone tucked in a briefcase. She’d come home the way she did every day. Safely, responsibly, even though her head had been full of worry.

Responsible was how she’d lived her entire life.

Until the night of the storm.

“Did we do this?” Nic asked now. “Did we secretly blame her and did she know? Could she feel it even though we said it wasn’t her fault?”

Her father took a moment to answer. Then, “I don’t know, sweetheart. I honestly don’t. I know it could have been me behind that wheel. It could have been anyone coming around that corner. But it wasn’t. It was her. And nothing we do can change that.”

Nic pressed a palm into her forehead and turned it slowly, back and forth.

Her father and his mind-numbing therapy.

Her head resumed its screaming. She had to end this call. He had to understand why she was here and let her do what she needed to do.

“I have to find her, Dad.”

He sighed again, long and hard.

“It’s not as though I’ve stopped looking. The PI is working on this every day, all day—monitoring her credit cards, social security number, passport—he’s going state by state contacting train and bus stations, airlines.”

And yet, Nic thought, he ordered that sandwich. Then he went home. Went back to work. He walked the dogs and went to the gym and fucked his mistress and then came home to watch TV in the same bed he had shared with his wife for twenty-four years.

“You want me to get over Annie and get over Mom and go to college, and now I want you to get over me looking for her. I guess that’s a draw.”

He said nothing for a long moment.

And then, finally, just, “I love you, Nicole.”

When all else failed, there was always this last mantra in the box. Even if he meant it.

“I love you too, Dad.” Then she hung up.

Nic went back to the bed, under the covers. Her father’s words lying right there beside her.

She unlocked her phone again and sent a reply to Evan.

I’m fine. Don’t be worried.

Where r u?

At the Inn.

And then, something strange.

The one with the fence?

What fence?

Nic got up and walked back to the window. She couldn’t see a fence.

Dad said he saw it when he was out searching for Mom. He said it was creepy. He said they had to stop when they got to it. IDK.

Nic stared at the woods. They went on forever.

U ok?

I guess.

She wondered then what he really thought about their mother. Was it easier for him to believe she’d left them? Was he relieved that she was gone? They had never talked about it. They texted, mostly, about everyday things. Nic asked him about football. She’d promised to make it to watch the playoffs, though being there without their mother was an emotional hurdle she wasn’t sure she could clear.

Dad wants me to come home.

The reply came quickly, and without a hint of the banter that was normally part of their conversation.

No. You have to find her.

And there was the answer to her question. She wasn’t alone.

She replied, Promise.





7


Day two





I stand with Alice by the window in the living room. She doesn’t understand why I’ve run to watch the man drive away.

Drive away with my purse inside.

The truck kicks up dirt from the driveway. It’s dented in the back. A taillight is broken.

“Do you know what happened to his truck?” Alice asks me.

I don’t care about the truck. I am thinking about my purse, and now the fence—the one that attaches to the gate at the end of the driveway. The gate that is chained shut. The fence with the coils of barbed wire.

“No,” I say. My voice is perky as though I can’t wait to find out.

Alice takes my hand and pulls me until I am looking at her with all of my attention.

“Well,” she begins, and anxiety fills me head to toe.

But she continues. “Someone was following him too close. You’re not supposed to do that. You’re supposed to stay far away from the car in front of you. Then he slammed on his brakes, and the car behind him crashed right into the back of him! And it was one of those really little cars so it got all dented. And then the driver of that stupid little car said she was going to call the police, but then he told her that when you hit someone from behind, it’s always your fault. Always.”

My heart pounds as she rambles on. I try to be patient. I don’t want to agitate her. But I am finding it difficult.

Alice keeps rambling.

“And then she gave him a lot of money so he wouldn’t go to the police or the insurance people—and you know what else?” She giggles then. “He gets to keep all the money when that happens.”

I open my mouth, am about to ask her what she means by this and how she knows. Is he filled with rage? Is he proud of making people crash their cars?