Page 11 of Last Seen
Catriona Handon is dangerous.
And according to the FBI database, which holds a missing persons report, she hasn’t been seen since 2002.
Fifteen years. She’s been gone for fifteen years.
Where is she?
Chapter Five
Come here.
Come closer. Closer.
Do you see it? That small hunk of weathered stone, just there?
It glistens, the edge damp with only a trace of wetness. Dew? It is still humid, but last night’s rains were too long ago to leave behind moisture. Perhaps ... tears? Hmm. That is an interesting thought.
Now, take a step back and watch as the stone takes shape. Another step, and another. You can see that gentle arch now, can’t you? Look at the contours of the stone. They are covered in moss, the rest still hidden, tangled in the lushness of the overgrowth. Is that what you think it is?
Pull back a bit more and focus. See how the stone reveals itself? I’m proud of your close attention. Yes. You were right. It is a headstone. This is a grave. A lonely, simple grave, given over to the ravages of deciduous and coniferous intimacy. Lost—hidden?—in a forest. Forgotten. Untended. So very solitary. But what difference does that make? Its isolation is simply a construct of time and loss; time has no more meaning to this object, and the loss is unattainable, irrelevant to you. Isn’t it?
Come closer, again. Run your hands along the weathered granite. The face of the stone is blank, with no name or dates carved on its surface. Without the telltale shape of a headstone, you might miss that this is a grave. Now a few more steps back. Yes, that’s right. You can almost see it from this perspective, but take one more step back, and one more. There. Perfect. The stone stands alone, a bulwark in the late summer grass. Odd, you think?Why would a grave be here? Who, you might wonder, has died, and been hidden here, at the edge of the forest?
These are excellent questions. If you are very good, if you behave, I will tell you everything you need to know. But for now, if you look to your right—no, not quite that far, back a bit—yes, there you go. See? At the edge of the cliff? Yes, that is a person, standing alone. A young woman, I believe, with dark curly hair.
Is she screaming? Shhh, listen closely. Oh, it’s so hard to hear over the crashing of the waves. But if we are silent as the grave behind us, we might hear—yes! A thin wail rises above the ruckus ... She is! Screaming, crying, thrashing in the spindrift, pulling at her hair.
Did she discover the grave?
Did she discover the truth?
Should you approach? Oh, no, no, I don’t think that’s wise. She seems quite distraught. Offers of help might be misconstrued. She is deranged, can’t you tell? A stranger interfering could end badly. Just imagine yourself in her place.
You are standing on the edge of a cliff. Something has upset you terribly. A storm is building, the sky graying around the edges. An intense wind blows you off your feet, shrieking past in a gale. Sounds blur. Waves crash. The scream is deep, from your core, building, rising. You tear at your hair, forcing your voice into the world, but the wind whisks it away. No one can hear you. No one can help you.
If you go over that sharp edge, whether wind or madness at your back, no one will know.
Except us. It’s our little secret.
Now. Leave the screaming woman and the lonely grave and your questions for later. We have a job to do. A story to tell. You must pay close attention. Do not worry about the things you’ve seen, what you’ve heard, or that unsettled feeling in your core.
Let us glance back at the grave once more, take it all in, then leave this scene.
I will take care of you. I won’t let anything bad happen.
Why would I lie? I have nothing to hide from you.
Are you hiding something from me?
Chapter Six
Catriona
Brockville Artist Colony
Literature Workshop
2002
