Page 40 of Forget Me Not
We’re both silent, a mounting discomfort as Liam stands in the doorway, neither of us sure what to say next.
“Anyway, I was just coming to check on you,” he says, his body shifting like he’s suddenly embarrassed. “I figured I’d bring you some coffee, but I can leave you alone.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, reaching out to touch his arm. My mind is muddled with new information because now I realize that Liamis right—Mitchelldidtell me what he was giving me, I had the option of turning it down—so I lift my hand and take the mug from his grip, feeling the pinch of warmth on my palms. “I’m still just a little rattled, I guess.”
“Can’t blame you for that. Those things can be scary.”
“I just need a few minutes to get ready,” I say, glancing at the clock on the counter as a new wave of exhaustion works its way through. Not only is this physical work, hours on my feet in the unbearable heat, but I’m now acutely aware of how little sleep I’ve been getting. My nights consumed by the diary, that dream. The deprivation starting to seep in like a stain.
“No need,” Liam says. “You should rest more, take the day off.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, looking over his shoulder at the vineyard in the distance. All that work I’ve been hired to complete. We’ve barely made a dent, my second day cut short after I got that bite, but Liam is already shaking his head.
“Positive,” he says, turning around before making his way toward the direction of the vines. “I’ll just be out there if you need me.”
I linger in the doorway as Liam walks away; then I turn around and head straight toward the kitchen, pouring my untouched coffee down the sink.
It’s tempting to stay in here all day, the cool of the air-conditioning and the rest of the diary beckoning me back, but at the same time, I need to think through how to make the most of this time. I have the entire day to myself, a luxury I’m not sure I’ll get again, and while the diary is tempting, this forbidden glimpse I’m getting into the past, its contents have so far led to more questions than answers and I’m starting to wonder if it’s time to take action, time to take matters into my own hands.
I walk to the bed, the outline of the book rippling the sheets as I think back to the moment I found it; dust and cobwebs coveringit completely like it had been lost for a long, long time. It would be logical to assume that whoever hid it like that hadn’t wanted it to be found—but now I wonder if it might be the opposite.
I think back to my first morning here, Liam leading me around the grounds as I inquired about their workers, surprised to learn it was only him.
We used to hire a handful of seasonals,he said had.Give ’em each a couple hours a week, but now, with only one, we can put them up in the guesthouse.
I know I’ve only been at Galloway for a few days, but I realize now that I’ve never once seen Marcia leave the property… and I get the feeling she never does. I’ve never even seen her leave the house; the farthest she’s ventured is out onto the porch, but even then, she’s still watched by Mitchell. Her movements monitored like he doesn’t trust her at all in his absence. This place is secluded, completely cut off, and I wonder now if she put her diary in here in hopes that someone would someday find it. If she knew there would be a person living in the guesthouse each summer and she thought that maybe this was her chance: that someone would read it, put the pieces together themselves.
Maybe this diary is her scream for help.
It’s almost unthinkable: the idea of a woman being held captive for forty-one years, stuck under the spell of a man so strong she feels as though she can’t move, she can’t speak. She can only sit there, silent, waiting to be rescued… but then I think of Mitchell’s truck parked each day in their driveway, the key ring dangling from the loop in his jeans. I think of the fact that she has access to the internet, that this place used to be teeming with people. A litany of chances to plan her escape. She isn’t young and vulnerable anymore. It’s not as if he has her chained up, locked in a basement and unable to leave—but of course, I know there are so many ways to trap a person.
There are so many ways to exert control.
I think of all the stories I’ve covered, the countless women who are toyed with and traumatized. I know it’s hard for people to understand if they haven’t actually experienced it themselves but it happens more often than one would think: trauma bonding and Stockholm syndrome. The idea of a person forming feelings for their captor; finding themselves simply unable to leave. Just last year, Ryan reported a piece about a child who used to accompany his kidnapper every time he went to run errands, the entire town thinking they were father and son. It was so hard to imagine the two of them walking around a crowded store together, eating breakfast each weekend at the same diner. The boy never once running or screaming for help. It’s tempting to want to shake them from their stupor, tell them their freedom is so close within reach, but that kind of behavior takesyearsof conditioning. A methodical grooming until the person in question is no longer a person.
Instead, they’re a pet, obedient and broken. Cowering in the corner to keep from being kicked.
I blink out of the memory, the burn of fresh tears welling up in my eyes as I think about the summer Natalie went missing and all the things I should have done back then, all the disclosures I should have made. The regret following me around for the last twenty-two years making it impossible to truly move on—but now, though, now that I’m here, it feels like I’m getting a second chance. Like I’ve been given an opportunity to make things right, because even though Marcia isn’t my sister, I know she’s not, she’s someonelikemy sister. Someone who slipped into the grip of the wrong person.
Someone who made one simple mistake—getting into the wrong man’s car—and had her whole life severed as a result.
I glance out the window, my eyes resting on the main house in the distance. Then I stand up and start to get dressed, a new resolve digging into my chest as a semblance of a plan begins to take shape.
CHAPTER 27
“I thought you were taking the day off.”
Liam is kneeling in the dirt, harvest bucket already strapped to his chest as I make my slow approach.
“I’m just stretching my legs,” I say, glancing over to Marcia and Mitchell sitting on the porch, twin mugs clutched in both of their hands.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
I turn back toward Liam, cocking my head as he squints into the sun.
“You’re supposed to keep that leg elevated,” he says, gesturing to my ankle. “Avoid unnecessary movement.”
“I’ll keep it short,” I say, already making my way toward the water. “That cabin gets stuffy. I need some fresh air.”
