Page 8 of Bitter Falls

“I can start by talking to the parents,” I tell her. “They’re in Louisiana?”

“The mom’s in Knoxville, which is why I’m sending it to you. The dad’s still living in their house in Louisiana. Running the business.”

I’m already nodding. “In case the kid shows up at the family home,” I say. “I’ll talk to the mom first, then.”

“Tread lightly, and be gentle. Their marriage isn’t in good shape.” That’s also not surprising. A lot of couples fall apart after the disappearance or death of a child. Especially an only child like Remy Landry.

“I’ll be careful. Did they ever find anything else? Something that didn’t make it to the file?”

“No. No cell phone traces, no leads from friends, nothing from bar patrons. Nobody saw anything. Like I said...it’s frustrating. Like chasing shadows. But if we can offer some closure to this family...”

I don’t like being anyone’s last resort. “And if I can’t come up with anything new?”

“Then maybe that’s also an answer. Maybe they’ll finally let go,” she says. “Sometimes we’re just there to mark the boxes and cash the check. It’s part of the job, Gwen. Like it or not.”

“Okay,” I tell her. “I’ll go over everything one more time.” I hesitate. “And...what if I find something?”

“I sincerely hope you don’t, unless it’s a real breakthrough that helps us find him,” J. B. says. “But I’d like to give these parents whatever peace we can, one way or another. You find anything, you bring it to me and we’ll do our best.”

“You don’t think he’s alive, do you?”

“Three years on, without a single confirmed sighting, with his credit cards and phone unused? What young man does that?”

“No history of mental illness? Drugs?”

“Casual drugs, same as most college kids. But negative on mental illness. Whatever happened to him, I don’t think he had a sudden psychotic break in a college bar.”

She’s right, of course.

“And...you’re going to keep digging into who hired us, right?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “Back to you as soon as I find out more.”

I thank her for the work and get off the phone, and then I start to dig.

Remy Landry seems like a normal young man for his age. A little wild, but nothing out of the ordinary. A bit of a player with a string of ex-girlfriends, but none of them seem more than normally annoyed at him. Like J. B. said, his friends admitted to club drugs and pot use, but Remy was body-conscious; whatever he took, or drank, he did it in relative moderation. I look at his selfies and watch videos on his social media pages. He’s a handsome guy with a bright, easy smile and the confidence of someone who’s never doubted he’s going to succeed. He was loved. His friends clearly enjoyed his company.

What makes a guy like that disappear from a crowded bar in the middle of a night out? My instinctive answer isa girl, but I don’t see him paying special attention to anyone on the footage.

I spend a couple of hours combing through files, making notes, then review the attached video surveillance footage from the bars twice more. J. B. has noted where my guy appears on the recording, but I log into the cloud and start the full video from the time that Remy and his friends arrive at the club. I want to watch every camera and every second. Maybe someone missed something. Maybe someone around him seems suspicious. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I know that if it’s there, I’ll see it.

Only I don’t. I don’t see anything.

By the time my personal phone rings at two in the afternoon, I’m tired, achy, and yawning; I put the camera footage on pause and snatch up my phone because I’m half-desperate for a break anyway. I check the number.

It’s my son. He never calls from school unless there’s an emergency—usually with Lanny, who’s more of a trouble magnet than Connor.

I answer and feel my heart kick-start to a faster rhythm. “Connor? What is it?”

I hear noise, but not my son’s voice. Then an adult—a woman—says, “Ms. Proctor?” She sounds scared. I feel the whole world lurch around me. This isn’t okay. Not at all.

“Is my son all right?” My voice comes fast and full of dread.

“Yes,” she says. “Well. Relatively. This is Mrs. Prowd, I’m your son’s—”

“History teacher,” I say. My mouth has gone dry, my hand tense on the phone. “What’s wrong?”

“There was an, ah, altercation during our drill—”

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