Page 63 of Forget Me Not
CHAPTER 40
I ease my car into its regular spot, clocking Mitchell’s truck parked in his, too. Then I lean to the side, grabbing my phone from the cup holder and my bag and the shoebox from the passenger seat, suddenly wary of letting it out of my sight.
I slide my way out, the ground slick beneath the soles of my shoes as I glance down at my phone still clutched in my hand. There’s a little exclamation point back in the place of where my service once was, the sight of it driving home the fact that I’m all on my own.
I lower my phone, suddenly useless, before slipping it into my pocket and starting to walk back to the guesthouse. The grass is spongy beneath my feet, the smell of pluff mud permeating the air. I’ve been gone for the whole day at this point but the property is still as stagnant as it was this morning like those tense few minutes in the eye of a storm.
Like the air itself is holding its breath, patiently waiting for the violence to return.
I’m attempting to think through my options as I make the shortwalk, ultimately deciding to head into the woods once the sun sets and use the cloak of night to mask my movements. After all, Mitchell has been watching me so intently, his eyes trailing me around as he rocks on the porch, I can’t risk him seeing me go out there. Following me as I creep into the trees and making sure I don’t return.
I approach my front door before turning around and glancing back at the main house, imagining Marcia and Mitchell sitting inside. I don’t see any lights on, meaning the power on the property is probably still out, and I find myself wondering what they’re doing in there.
I think about Mitchell concocting those drinks in the kitchen, Marcia sitting silently in her regular seat as she waits for him to bring her a mug of hot tea, and I suddenly feel guilty at the thought of leaving her behind. I know the smart thing to do would be to come back for her later—to bring my evidence to the police and only return with reinforcements in tow—but the fact is, there is so much about this plan that might not work. I don’t even know if thatisKatherine’s camper in the back of that picture… and even if it is, it’s been so long since that photo was taken. These woods are massive, I may never find it. Mitchell could have moved it or the license plate could have corroded away.
If my search turns up empty, if I drive away tonight with nothing helpful at all, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I left Marcia to fend for herself.
I dig into my purse for my key to the cabin, that tin of tea I bought at the diner peeking out from the inside. Then I pop the lid open, eyeing all the bags lined up side by side as a new seed of a plan begins to take root.
“Mind if I join you?”
I ascend the steps as the sky starts to dim, two hours gone since I got back. I’ve spent all that time packing up the guesthouse, foldingmy clothes into my duffels and leaving them zipped and ready at the door. My keys are on the counter, all my things waiting to be grabbed as soon as I’m back from the woods—and then I had waited, glancing out the windows at the main house in the distance. Biding my time until Marcia made herself known.
She looks at me now, not bothering to respond as I think about how I watched her walk out onto the porch, lowering herself into a chair as she held a mug tight in her hand. I’m holding my own mug, too, and I settle into the chair next to hers before lifting it slowly up to my lips.
“I’ll never get over these sunsets,” I say, rocking back and forth as the sky starts to bleed. Then I glance to the side, clocking Marcia’s mug sitting untouched on the table. Steam pouring from the surface as she waits for it to cool. “It’s no wonder you never leave.”
She turns her head slowly, eyes on mine as I stare straight back. Then I place my cup next to hers, our two drinks sitting side by side. The mugs are identical, ceramic and white, from the exact same set, and when I can tell she’s paying attention, almost like she knows what I’m about to do, I reach my arm out, grabbing her cup instead of my own.
I stay silent, pulling her mug onto my lap as I think about the last time I tried to get Marcia to talk, her blatant unease once Mitchell came out and the way her hands squeezed at the armrests. Eyes boring hard into the boards of the porch. I don’t want to get her in trouble again. I don’t want to scare her away. I can’t be too pushy, I know that now; besides, now that Mitchell has likely heard my arrival, seen my car parked outside, I figure I only have a few minutes until he joins us, too.
Marcia stares at me for a few more seconds before she picks up the handle of the mug I set down. There’s a squeeze in my chest as she takes a slow sip, as I wonder if she noticed I made the switch. Surely, she did. She was looking right at me, but especially now,after tasting the difference—that tea I bought back at the diner completely different than whatever Mitchell makes—she must know what I’m trying to do.
Still, I can feel my pulse mount in my neck as I wait to see what she’s going to do next.
Her mouth opens, finally, but just as it seems like she’s about to speak, the screen door slaps open and I turn to the side to find Mitchell making his way toward us, an amused look stuck to his face.
“Welcome back,” he says, pushing his fists deep into his pockets. “I was starting to think you left us for good.”
I force myself to smile, wrapping my palms around the mug I just swapped like I’m expecting him to wrestle it out of my grip.
“Where did you run off to?” he asks as I wonder if he saw me make the switch through the window, if he somehow knows what I’m planning to do.
“Just popped into town,” I say. “Liam said the soil needed time to dry.”
“That’s right.” He nods. “That’s right. How’s the ankle?”
“Better,” I say, looking down at my leg. Those pinprick punctures that are practically gone. “Thanks again for treating it for me.”
“My pleasure,” he says, his expression giving nothing away.
I look back at Marcia, my replacement mug still clutched in her grip. I had realized earlier, back when I eyed that tin at the bottom of my bag, that she seems to drink this concoction twice each day—once in the morning, before Mitchell leaves for town around noon, and once in the evening, before they go to bed—so my hope is, by swapping out her drink tonight, she might be lucid enough to meet me outside after Mitchell falls asleep.
That she might leave with me when I return from the woods, let me drive her straight to the station and tell her story to the cops herself.
“Well, I’m off to bed,” I say, eager to get off of this porch now that Mitchell is here. Then I stand up and make my way toward the stairs, turning around once I reach the top step.
“This was nice,” I add, talking directly to Marcia now as she stares in my direction, those liquid gray eyes trained on mine. “We should meet out here again in the morning.”
