In some ways, the town of Wagner reminds me of Cold Creek.
There are fewer businesses on the main street than there should be, and the houses look kind of … defeated. But it has one thing going for it Cold Creek doesn’t: a sense of promise.
Suburbia is taking root. A new development will hopefully inspire an economic upswing—though that might price some of its longtime residents out. Marlee Singer is one of those residents. She’s in her late thirties, with white-blond hair. She’s mother to a one-and-a-half-year-old boy. She lives across from a schoolyard playground and in the afternoons, during the school year, it teems with children sliding down the slides and fighting for turns on the swings.
She finally answers one of my calls the day I’m set to fly back to New York. When I tell her I’d like to talk about Sadie and Darren, Marlee only agrees to go on record to tell me that she’s got absolutely nothing to say. She and Darren were together briefly, it didn’t work out and no, they don’t keep in contact anymore. She doesn’t have his number and she doesn’t have any pictures either. It’s not a time she cares to remember, which begs even more questions she’s equally unwilling to answer.
MARLEE BAKER [PHONE]:
Lasted three months. He never said anything about a daughter. We’re not in touch anymore. I got no way to reach him. I like it that way. I don’t even think about him unless someone else brings him up—so thanks for that.
WEST MCCRAY [PHONE]:
Caddy Sinclair said he directed Sadie Hunter to you, to ask about Darren, though. It seemed pretty clear she was headed your way. I’m just trying to figure out what happened.
MARLEE BAKER [PHONE]:
I’m telling you I never met her and if she was around here looking for me, I don’t know a goddamn thing about it.
WEST MCCRAY [STUDIO]:
I’m forced to take Marlee Singer at her word—even though I’m not sure I should. I’ve postponed my flight for her though, so I sit in a motel and review everything I know about Sadie’s disappearance so far. There’s nothing I’ve overlooked that will turn itself into my next lead. What’s particularly frustrating is that outside of dyeing her hair blond, and giving people her middle name, Sadie didn’t seem like she was going to any greater lengths to cover her tracks. It doesn’t feel like it should be this hard to find her. I express as much to May Beth.
MAY BETH FOSTER [PHONE]:
I was thinking … Claire had a lot of men, but there were only a couple who stuck around for longer than usual. They might know something. There was Keith—he was there when the girls were little. Arthur McQuarry, but he’s dead now. And Paul. Paul was the last man Claire had around before she walked out. If any of them got close enough, Claire might’ve let something slip about this Darren guy.
WEST MCCRAY [PHONE]:
I’ll see if the living two will talk to me.
MAY BETH FOSTER [PHONE]:
Her father, though … I just can’t wrap my head around it. I don’t even know what Sadie would need from this man. Help? Money? I would’ve given her anything she asked for, didn’t she know that? I spent my whole life helping those girls. I wasn’t about to stop.
WEST MCCRAY [PHONE]:
I know, May Beth.
MAY BETH FOSTER [PHONE]:
Just—look into those men I told you about.
sadie
I thought Keith was nightmare enough.
I didn’t count on the way his violence would tendril out and lead me to other nightmares. Silas Baker is very angry. He’s angry in a way that’s trying to pretend he’s not, but I see him. I’m the only person in this city who sees him. His hand is out and my hand is holding his phone. 451 Twining Street, Langford. 451 Twining Street—he rips it from my grasp and I don’t even flinch. Langford. 451 Twining Street.
“Who are you?” His voice is low and dangerous.
“—”
“Who are you?”
“I’m L-Lera. H—”
“No. You’re not.” He looks out onto the empty street. “Because I met the Holdens this morning. They have a daughter but she’s not you.” He turns back to me. One of his hands grips the frame of my car, the other the top of its open door. “You followed me.”
I shake my head.
“You followed me this morning. I saw your car.”
“I d-don’t know w-what you’re t-talking about.”
His grip on the door tightens. I watch his knuckles go white. His gaze travels over my body, to my eyes, trying to figure me out; if he actually knows me, has ever known me, if he should know me. His attention shifts beyond me, inside my car. The dirty clothes tossed in the backseat, crumpled food wrappers. My green bag in the passenger’s side. He reaches across me for it and I push back at him hard enough to make him stumble. I make a frantic reach for the door to close it, but he recovers too quickly and jerks it all the way open, making it groan.
“You took my phone. What else did you take?”
“G-get the f-fuck—get the fuck away!”
He pushes me back against the seat, his hand pressed against my throat to keep me there. He leans inside and makes that same reach for my bag and I choke against the pressure. My fingers fumble into my pocket for the switchblade. I get it out and push the release and the sharp tip of the blade pokes against his abdomen. He stares in bewilderment at the knife and then slowly raises his eyes to meet mine and I think, yes.
This is where I kill Silas Baker.
I push the knife forward at the same time his hand comes behind my neck. He slams my face into the steering wheel. The shock of it, the pain of it, overloads my senses and my body goes limp. The switchblade slips from my fingers and drops into the footwell. He pulls me bodily out of the car and I realize, dully, there’s blood on me, but it’s not his.
It’s supposed to be his.
And—oh, there it is, the belated, dizzying pain of impact. Did he break my fucking nose? His hold on me is bruising. Blood is pouring out of my nostrils and now it’s on him too.
“Who are you?”
My eyes roll side to side, hoping to glimpse someone pressed against the window of one of the houses surrounding us, readying to call the police, but there’s no one. The only sound I can hear is his labored breathing. His chest heaves. I lick my lips. They taste like copper.
“You know how much trouble you’re in? I’ll call the police.”
“You w-won’t,” I say thickly and then, “Y-you can’t.”
What little pretense left between us disappears.
“What do you think you know?” He hisses. His breath is hot on my face, unbearably close. When I don’t answer, he grabs me by the cheeks, squeezes them like Keith. “What do you think you know, huh? You want money, is that it? What do you think—”
It takes both of my hands to get him off me. He pushes me to the ground and my chin connects with the driveway before the rest of me does, my skin wearing against the pavement. I spit, roll onto my back and stare up at him and then I scream. He jerks toward me and I scramble back, dirt and pebbles tearing into my elbows. I yell louder, letting my voice become one clear, ugly note across his perfect life.
“Dad, what the hell—”
Silas takes several steps back at the sound of his son.
“Oh my God, Daddy—”
Kendall.
Noah and Kendall stare stupidly at the scene in front of them not knowing what to make of it. They see blood, they see me on the ground, they see their father standing over me and they don’t move. Neither of them move to help me.
“She’s not who she says she is.” Silas points at me and I get to my feet slowly, watching the blood from my nose pattern the pavement. “I met the Holdens—I met them this morning and this is not their daughter. She’s some kind of … drifter. Some thief! She tried to steal my phone, she pulled a knife on me—”
“Oh my God.” Kendall moves to the house. “I’m calling the police—”