Page 68 of Forget Me Not
I stumble out of the camper, the necklace still clutched tight in my hand. Then I whip my head back and forth, an attempt to orient myself in the dark. The woods seem to be shrinking around me, a yawning mouth swallowing me down, and I look at my phone again—5 percent—before trying to figure out how to find my way back.
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes as I try to stay calm, letting Galloway emerge in the back of my mind.
I imagine that large white house with its big band of porch, twin rockers swaying with every hint of a breeze. Then I see those curled ribbons of vines stretching out in the distance, the long dock reaching out toward the water. Orange sun spilling over the marsh every morning a camouflage for the poison the place really is.
My eyes shoot open, fingers shaking as I swipe at my phone. Then I navigate to the compass app, watching as the digital needle points north. I know the sun rises in the east and I look around now, twisting in a circle as I find my bearings before taking off inthe direction of the water. Flashlight bouncing as I sprint through the woods.
My charge is at 2 percent once I finally emerge, the light of the moon ricocheting off of the water silhouetting the guesthouse in the distance. I’m practically panting from exertion, my skin soaked in a cold sweat, and I pocket my phone, clocking the time at just past three before creeping my way through the rest of the yard.
I approach my door, finally, hands shaking so hard I can barely get a grip on the knob until at last, I grasp it, twisting it hard and letting myself in.
I run to the bed first, making my way to the side table and grabbing the diary from where I left it. Then I flip it open, this time not interested in the remaining pages but instead looking for that picture of Natalie I had stuck in the spine. I finally find it and pull it out, that shot of her messing around with that grape; then I dig my phone out of my pocket, tapping it on for what I’m sure will be the very last time as I use these final few seconds of charge—and there,right there, is the exact same necklace nestled into the dip of her throat. A thin gold chain with a verdant peridot the same color as the vines behind her.
I run my fingers across her face, my chest constricting as I think about how she wore this for years until, that summer, she suddenly stopped. I always thought she took it off, that she outgrew it the same way she outgrew me… but now I know that wasn’t the case.
Now I know shelostit that summer, the cheap clasp breaking as she lay in that camper, the chain swallowed up in those dirty old sheets.
I exhale, a wave of relief coursing through my veins once I realize she didn’t remove it on purpose—but then I think of the alternative, the reason why she might have been in that bed in the first place. All along, the police thought Jeffrey had been the older boyfriend who Natalie kept secret, but now a new surge of revulsionswells up in my stomach as I think about Marcia and Lily, Katherine and my mother. All those young girls who Mitchell had groomed, meeting them in their most vulnerable moments. Girls with domineering parents or distant parents; girls without any parents at all or who were away from their parents for the very first time. The thought makes me sick, but I know now that I have to consider it. Mitchell would have been in his forties back in 2002; Natalie left shortly after she turned eighteen. That’s the same age as the others when they suddenly stumbled into his grip, and while it’s hard for me to imagine a world where my sister would have fallen for someone like him, someone who was over twice her age, there was also so much she kept from me. I barely even knew her that summer, so defiant and difficult and hard to pin down.
Maybe Mitchell learned about our dad leaving and somehow made her feel special, zeroing in on another lost, lonely girl.
I blink away a tear, focusing on my sister’s smiling face in an attempt to wash down the nausea clawing its way up my throat… but then I notice something else in the picture—or, rather, someoneelse. There are a few other people in this one, the faces of coworkers I never paid attention to. I had simply blurred them all out, my admiration for Natalie overpowering them all, but now I zero in on a person off to the right, the edge of his profile barely in the shot, though his adolescent face is suddenly so familiar I have no idea how I didn’t see it before.
I drop the picture, turning around before dashing to the desk. Then I grab the knob and open the drawer, looking for the gun I have hidden inside—but as soon as the light lands I see that it’s empty before my flashlight blinks out, my phone dying for good.
I stand still in the dark, my breath clotted in my throat as I realize the door wasn’t locked when I came back in. I locked it when I left, IknowI locked it, and now I remember the day I returned from the vineyard to find that basket of supplies already inside. There’sanother key to this guesthouse, someone else has been able to let themselves in, and I glance down at the desk in the dark, its surface cluttered with all the evidence I’ve found.
“I’m sorry, Claire.”
I close my eyes, the cold tip of the gun pushing into my back as Liam’s soft voice cuts through the night.
CHAPTER 45
We start the slow march across the property, the gun still wedged between my shoulders as Liam leads me beneath the glow of the moon.
“You knew her,” I say, thinking of his face in the back of that photo. He looked so young, maybe only eighteen, but that was definitely Liam standing behind Natalie. Blue eyes trained on the side of her face. “You knew my sister.”
He stays silent, the squelch of mud beneath our feet as he walks me across the yard.
“And you knew who I was, too,” I continue, thinking of how he looked at me the first day I pulled into this place, head cocked to the side when I rolled down my window. The recollection seeping out of his eyes like he was trying to place me, like he had seen a ghost.
“You look just like her,” he says at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “Exactly how I imagined she would have looked today.”
I stay quiet, revisiting all the little moments between us. Thedelicate ways he had tried to confirm it, asking about my past and my hometown. I wonder now when he knew it for certain; if it was the second I drove up that first morning, the very second I gave him my name, or if he put it together slowly, carefully. Studying me the same way I studied Marcia and Mitchell.
If it wasn’t until last night when I blurted it out, willingly telling him everything he wanted to know.
“Why?” I ask, because it doesn’t make any sense. “Why would you even let me stay here? You could have said no. You could have turned me away.”
“Because I’m selfish,” he says, the answer taking me by surprise as I think about him looking at me during our picnic, that flash of regret like he wished I wasn’t there. “And, you’re right. I should have turned you away.”
I can barely see a few feet in front of me but I realize now that we’re heading straight for the shed, that looming structure off in the distance. I swallow, thinking about all those tools hanging up on the wall; the axes and chains and the uncomfortable feeling that rears up in my chest every single time I step inside. We come to a stop before it, finally, Liam motioning for me to move to the side as one hand fiddles with the lock on the door. The gun is still pointed in my direction but I take the opportunity to turn my head slightly, trying to look for any way out. My car is only a few feet away, but I know my keys are inside the guesthouse. Still, I could try to run back, grab them and drive away… but then I squint, realizing it looks strange in the soft light of the moon. My car seems like it’s sitting way too low to the ground and I realize, with a blow, that my tires are slit.
That even if I had my keys, there’s still no way I could escape.
I exhale, panic growing in my chest as the bleakness of my situation starts to set in. I have no light, I have no phone. If I were to scream, no one would hear.
If were to run, Liam could shoot me in less than a second.
