Page 81 of Forget Me Not
“Mitch has some yarrow flowering out back. It should help with the bleeding.”
Marcia stared at her, trying to decipher her words like she was speaking in code. Ever since that day in the closet, the two of them looking down at the strip in her hand, Marcia swore she could feel the girl watching her, studying her. Those cold gray eyes trained on the side of her face like she was waiting on Marcia to make some kind of move.
“I’ll have to try that,” she said simply, looking down at her lap.
“I’ll make you a cup.”
Marcia opened her mouth, about to protest, but Lily stood up before she could respond. In truth, she had no idea if she should trust her. On the one hand, Marcia couldn’t forget the look in her eyes as she held that gun, her total lack of remorse for taking a life—but on the other hand, Lily hadn’t told Mitchell that Marcia wanted to leave. She had kept quiet, kept their conversation a secret. Still, Marcia never mentioned leaving to Lily again; instead, she spent every moment of the last five months watching, waiting. Staying poised and patient as her stomach started to grow. Honestly, she was terrified, because while this place was certainly more comfortable than where they were living before—they had real beds and bathrooms,actual space to themselves—they were completely cut off now, dozens of miles from the nearest neighbor. Nowhere to run to; no one to hear if she screamed for help.
They never even went into town anymore, that very last thread keeping her tethered severed the second they stepped into this place.
She glanced down, studying her son on the grass beneath her. His mouth gaping open and closed like a fish. She had known she couldn’t risk leaving when she was still pregnant, her unborn baby relying on her heart to keep beating, her lungs to keep breathing, her mind flashing back to that woman bleeding out on her bedroom floor every time Marcia wondered if she should try. That little life inside her had become her everything since the moment she learned of its existence; it was her reason for being, her motivation to finally make her escape. That baby deserved so much more than the life it would be born into, so she had waited until he was safely on the outside, putting on a face for the others while counting down the days until they could both finally leave.
She turned around now, watching as Lily disappeared into the house before pulling the diary out from under her legs. Then she clicked on the pen that was now almost dry as she scribbled into its pages for the very last time. Her plan was solid, but just in case anything were to go wrong, she still felt the need to write it all down just as she had written down every detail of the last ten months. They would be leaving that night, she and Liam, the two of them slipping out of the guesthouse as soon as the sky was swaddled in dark.
Then she would take her son, the diary, and the film she had stolen, before starting the long walk toward town.
She flipped the book shut, scooping her son from the grass before turning toward the line of trees in the distance. The camper was out there, slowly getting swallowed by vines and leaves, and she made the walk as quickly as she possibly could, her scheme runningthrough her mind like an endless scroll. Despite her isolation, her lack of connection to the outside world, the one thing she knew for certain was that the police were looking for Lily. She had listened to the stories Montana brought back, the reward money mounting for information about the murder of a cop named Carmen. A single name scratched into a headboard the only evidence her killer had left behind. Over the last few months, Montana had become their sole source of information, taking Steven’s car when he left for training before bringing back news when he came home. He was working to become an officer himself, an irony as bitter as all those teas Marcia tasted—though she was starting to realize it was all a part of some plan, Mitchell giving himself an extra layer of protection he knew that only a cop could create.
She reached the camper, finally, opening the door and climbing inside before making her way to the bed in the back. Then she wedged her diary between the wall and the mattress, the same spot she’d been hiding the roll of film.
The same spot she once found that sweatshirt, the very spot she’d return to later that night once everyone else was in bed, collecting her evidence before she and Liam would make their escape.
By the time she emerged from the trees, there was a cluster of clouds gathering in the distance, a sharp chill in the air as the sky grew dark. Then she looked down at her chest, at her son asleep against her warm skin.
When she looked back up, Lily had appeared on the porch, a large, white mug clutched in her hand.
She watched as Lily hoisted it higher, beckoning Marcia to join her inside. Then she smiled, waved, and tipped her head back. A single drop landing on her cheek like a tear.
“One more time,” she whispered into the wind, because she knew, at last, it would be over soon.
EPILOGUE
SIX MONTHS AFTER
It’s live.
I turn to the side, the buzz of my phone pulling me from sleep as I stare at the screen alight on the table. Then I reach out to grab it, squinting as I try to make sense of this text from my father until I bolt up in bed, a stitch in my chest once I understand what he means.
“Ryan,” I say, shaking his shoulder. “It’s live.”
He sits up quick, a sleepy smile spreading across his face. Then he gets up and pads across the room, grabbing his laptop from on top of his desk before bringing it back to the bed.
He hands it to me, my fingers tapping away at the keys.
“Front page,” I say, leaning forward as the article loads. “It’s on the front page.”
The first thing I see isThe New York Times,the logo big and bold at the top of the screen. There’s a picture of Galloway justbeneath it, that goldenrod shot I took on my first night there when the lighting was all eerie and still.
I read the headline next, a few sentences of summary, before eyeing my byline printed prominently below.
“Well?” Ryan asks, climbing back under the covers as I take a deep breath and start to scroll. “What do you think?”
I begin reading, this unbelievable story I pieced together. The story that not only revived my career but, in the process, my whole life. It’s a strange sensation, all this death, and me being the one to uncover it all the only reason my job was given new life—but at the same time, this is the whole reason I chose this profession.
To make sure lost girls are never forgotten.
My eyes start to water as I take in their pictures, the dedicated sections about each one—and not just a few sentences, not only how they met their ends, but all the wonderful ways they spent their short lives.Their plans and passions, hobbies and homes. Scanned excerpts from Marcia’s diary and those pictures of Natalie I found in that shoebox. The shot of Katherine in front of her camper next to the one I took out in the woods as it sat swallowed in that sea of bright blue.
