Page 104 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow
“Might want to put on long pants and sneakers,” he says. “If we’re going to do a proper search, we’ll be going off path.”
“Good idea.”
I head into my room and change. When I come out, he’s by the door, leaning against it. As I’m passing the table, I notice the pad ofpaper where I’d been deciphering the journal with notes. It’s sitting right there, opened, where anyone could read it.
I glance at Smits, but he’s only checking his phone.
He looks up. “All set?”
I nod and follow him out the door.
I don’t think I ever really understood how big our property is until I’m searching it for someone who might be incapacitated and unable to answer my shouts. It’s possible to get lost in three hundred acres, but I never have. I know every trail and every landmark and how long it will take to get from point A to point B. To do a complete circuit of the perimeter is a three-hour hike, which I only ever did with my dad, when we’d packed lunch and made a day of it.
Dad always called this our own private park, and that’s what it was. Not a huge state park, but more of a recreation area, the kind of place you visit for a night or two and traverse the whole thing easily. But imagine combing that same park—most of it wooded—for one person. We’d looked for Gail, but that had been different. No one really thought she was lost in the forest.
We’ve been out here for nearly two hours, and I feel as if we’ve barely made a dent. If Ben stalked off, maybe it had nothing to do with the sheriff ’s needling. Maybe he just realized the futility of searching all this forest for a camper’s gear and…
And what?
What would Ben do if he said “screw this”? Go home without a word to anyone? No. If he wanted to leave, he’d tell me. He also wouldn’t walk away without his truck. Still, if he realized the futility of the search and was annoyed with Smits for this performative effort, he would indeed walk away.
If he didn’t come back to the cottage, he’s in trouble.
If he’s not answering his phone, something has happened.
So why don’t I speak up? Because I haven’t worked up the courage to tell Smits that I believe I know Ben better than he does.
Craig Smits was the officer who interviewed me all those years ago.He was the one who found my father’s body. As patient as he has been, I can’t help feeling like that little girl trembling as she told her story, half afraid he’d lock her up for fibbing.
I’m intimidated by Sheriff Smits, and I also respect him the way you respect authority figures you knew as a child. You don’t shake those old dynamics. I don’t want to look foolish in front of him, so I’m not saying what I think.
That Ben is in trouble.
That Ben wouldn’t ignore my calls.
What am I afraid Smits would do?
Give me a patronizing pat on the head and tell me everything’s fine, don’t worry? I can deal with that.
Am I afraid of a pitying look—or mockery—if I suggest Ben gives a damn about me? Again, what does it matter? If I’m wrong, it wouldn’t be the first time, but I really don’t believe Ben would turn off his phone and—
I look down at my ankle bracelet. I’ve gotten so used to it that I forget it’s there. I remember Ben yesterday, when his phone was running low and he needed to charge it.
If my phone dies, the app alerts your grandfather’s lawyer that I’m not doing my job.
I take out my phone. Smits is up ahead, beating the bushes and peering behind them. I look for the lawyer’s number and text her.
Me: Sorry to bother you. Bit worried about Ben. Can’t get in touch. Silly question, maybe, but he said you’d know if his phone was off, for the monitoring device
I’m about to pocket the phone when she replies.
Ms. Jimenez: I was just debating whether to reach out. I received an alert two hours ago. I’m not going to penalize him for letting his phone run dead, but it’s been long enough to recharge it. Is everything okay?
Me: He was looking for something on the property and didn’t come back. Can you tell what time his phone went off?
A moment passes. Then she replies:
Ms. Jimenez: 4:45
