Page 31 of Forget Me Not
I unlock the door to the guesthouse now, my feet swollen and throbbing in my shoes. Then I step inside, an object in the kitchen stealing my attention. Something that wasn’t there when I left.
I walk closer, eyeing a large basket perched on the counter. It looks like a picnic basket, woven straw with a cloth lining inside, and I peer over the lip once I’m close enough to see, realizing it’s all the things from my list: bug spray and sunscreen, a few other supplies I requested from the store. I remember giving the list to Liam, swapping it for that sticky note with the network and password scribbled in ink, but what Ican’tremember is if I locked my door this morning.
I rack my brain, replaying the events of the day: sipping my coffee on the dock before trying to talk to Marcia on the porch, Mitchell walking outside and breaking us up. It’s possible I forgot,my mind pulled in so many directions, but I’m slightly unsettled at the thought of someone coming into my space uninvited—still, maybe Mitchell just didn’t want to leave it outside. There’s food in here, perishables that would attract animals and bugs, so I shrug away the unease and walk back to my laptop, opening the lid and tapping it awake.
I navigate to the county website first, simultaneously pulling up Google Maps on my phone. Then I find Galloway’s address from the first time I drove here and type it into the property records page now loaded onto my screen. I hit Enter, leaning back in my chair as I wait. The connection in this corner is painfully slow so I drum my fingers against the keys, watching the little timer spin as I attempt to justify my own nosiness, still not sure why I care so much about these details that probably don’t even matter at all. Maybe it’s my profession, an entire decade of being trained to be curious and dig for answers. A phantom itch that’s now begging to be scratched. Or maybe it’s pure boredom—the long, lonely hours of the last few months spent trapped inside my own wandering mind—but something about all this just doesn’t feel right. It’s an instinct, barely there, but based on that diary, Mitchell was practically penniless when he met Marcia in 1983… although somehow, less than a year later, he managed to make enough money to buy fifty acres of land.
Petty as it may be, I want to know how.
The results appear and I lean forward, taking in the information on the screen—and there it is, right in front of me. The land was acquired by Mitchell Galloway on October 3, 1984, for a deed price of forty-five thousand dollars. It all seems perfectly legal and I let out a low whistle, doing the math in my head. In today’s market, this land has to be worth at least a couple million. They could sell it and make a fortune—though, of course, they live here, too. It’s their home, their livelihood.
I scroll down some more, looking for information on the previous owners. Before Mitchell, it was owned by a man named Steven Montague, and before that, Andrew Montague.
So ithadbeen family land, before, for some reason, it was sold to Mitchell.
I flip back to Google, typing in the nameSteven Montagueand hitting Enter, already knowing it won’t get me anywhere. The search terms are too vague, but I don’t have anything else to go on so I scroll through a few pages, just to be safe. It’s mostly LinkedIn profiles and random obituaries, a few mug shots and an attorney’s office out in Washington state. None of them seem relevant so I pull my notebook out of the desk and flip it open to a clean page, scribbling the name at the top of the paper and making a note to revisit it later.
Maybe the diary knows who he is.
I shrug off the thought, fighting the urge to dip back into its pages and instead turning toward the laptop again, typing inMitchell Gallowaynext. There are a few relevant results, mostly articles about the vineyard. A nice fluff piece from a few years back about how this place is a hidden Southern staple, a reminder of the simple pleasures in life. Still, I can’t find anything of value, anything that might shed some light on his past, and I’m about to close my computer and figure out what I should do for dinner when my arm suddenly stops in midair as I realize there’s still one person I haven’t yet searched.
I lift the lid again, replaying our strange interaction this morning, before typingMarcia Gallowayinto the search bar and watching as the cursor blinks on the screen.
I chew on my lip as I think back to the diary again, the only real details about her I have. Then I hit Delete and rephrase my search toMarcia Rayburn,her maiden name, before addingDraper, South Carolinain at the end.
I hit Enter, waiting impatiently as the results load. It takes too long—twenty seconds, at least—but a new page finally appears and I feel my eyes widen when I see what’s there. A handful of articles now fill the screen, and while their headlines vary, the gist is the same, so I click one at random and hold my breath as it loads. The link bringing me to an archived page ofThe Draper Daily Heralddated March 18, 1984.
I lean forward, trying to wrap my mind around the words on the screen.
DRAPER, SOUTH CAROLINA, TEEN GOES MISSING
RAYBURN FAMILY DESPERATE FOR ANSWERS
CHAPTER 20
A creeping unease slinks up my spine as I continue to stare at the headline, my gaze traveling next to the black-and-white picture printed beneath. It’s a portrait of a family, grainy and old. The caption identifying them as William, Jane, and Marcia Rayburn.
Beneath that, a short article.
Local family William and Jane Rayburn are requesting the public’s assistance in the continued search for their daughter, Marcia, who disappeared from her bedroom in the middle of the night on Thursday, March 15. According to the family, Marcia was last seen by her parents the night before. They state she retreated to her room as usual, but in the morning, they grew concerned when she never appeared.
When her mother went upstairs to check on her, she found nothing in her room but an open window.
I blink, that familiar sense of déjà vu like my body is submerged in lukewarm water, waves of recollection caressing my skin as I relive that morning in August 2002: my mom and me sitting at the kitchen table, the rhythmic clink of my cereal spoon and the moment she finally succumbed to the silence.
Ascending those stairs, that gentle knock. Her panicked scream splintering the stillness and the clatter of her mug when she realized Natalie was gone.
I continue to read.
No note was left behind, nor were there signs of a struggle or break-in. However, when pressed about whether anything appeared out of place, the Rayburns admitted to a missing duffel bag, as well as a recent change in behavior from Marcia.
Despite this, they do not believe she left of her own accord.
I swallow, picturing the black bag that disappeared from Natalie’s closet. Her sour stare as she glowered at our mother, the slam of her door like a slap to the face.
“Marcia is a good, righteous girl,” William Rayburn said in a recent press conference held by the Draper City Police Department. “She had no reason to leave like this. She was loved. She was happy.”
I stare at the screen for so long the lines of text start to blur in my vision before clicking back to the search results and opening up a couple more. It’s a futile exercise; I know I won’t be able to find anything else. The articles are scarce and they’re all from local papers, as well as all published in 1984. Marcia’s disappearance didn’t appear to gain much traction outside of a small cluster of towns and I suppose that, without the prevalence of the internet, it was a lotharder back then for news to travel. Despite all its flaws, that is one strength I can’t deny: the world is better at sharing knowledge now.
