Her arms are what strike me first. They’re skinny—as skinny as a child’s. It could be an effect of the paint or maybe the angle, but her cheekbones are blunt, like two axes that meet in the center of her face. Her clavicle emerges prominently from her neckline. She looks…sick. Really sick.
It may be the first time I’ve ever felt truly sorry for Kaycee Mitchell. I nearly reach out to touch her face, then remember Portland is watching me.
“Where did you get this?” I ask him.
“I went to the high school,” he says—so casually I nearly wince. I don’t know why, but it disturbs me to think of Portland walking those too-familiar halls—it is further proof that two sections of my life are collapsing. “I figured small town, the nurse would probably be the same a decade later. I was right.”
It was a brilliant move. Nurses at public schools aren’t bound by laws of confidentiality.
“Good thinking,” I say. “Why the hell didn’t I think of that?”
“Kaycee wasn’t lying,” he says simply.
“The girls admitted it,” I say, but even I hear it as a question.
“The other girls admitted it,” he says, in the same soft cadence, as if he knows he’s breaking news I don’t want to hear. “But she was sick. You can see it. The nurse saw it.”
Just hearing the words like that is like the hard stun of a wave you’ve been watching get closer. It takes my breath away momentarily. Right away I know that this, this photograph right here, is the whole reason I came back. It’s why I could never entirely leave it all behind.
Another Kaycee surfaces in my mind: the creamy, seamless skin, the curve of her mouth rearranging itself into a wolfish smile—or sneer. Perfect. Suddenly, I realize after all I don’t want it to be true. If it’s true, it means Kaycee is just another one I got all wrong. Not a predator—a victim.
—
Frank Mitchell gave up the trailer Kaycee grew up in and now lives only half a mile from his shop. God knows why I felt compelled to bring Portland—it’s highly doubtful that Mitchell will find the sight of a guy who looks like he could be the singer of an indie-rock band reassuring. Maybe I’m the one who needed reassuring.
The garage door of number 217 is half open. I’m betting that Frank’s one of those guys who drinks five to midnight. It’s only noon, which means he might be sober enough to be reasonable, or hungover enough to be irritable.
We find him bent over a motorcycle, his back bony beneath a stained white shirt.
“Mr. Mitchell?” When he turns around, I see he’s aged considerably. Yellow-stained wrinkles falling into his salt-and-pepper mustache. His T-shirt’s emblazoned with a hunting rifle and the slogan Guns don’t kill people, I do. “Hope we aren’t catching you at a bad time. Abby Williams. You and I spoke briefly on the phone…?”
“I remember. I remember you from back when, too.” He sizes me up, sweeps his eyes over Portland, and turns back to his motorcycle. “I thought I told you I didn’t have anything to say.”
The years haven’t softened his personality. But he hasn’t ordered us to get out yet. That’s a start.
“I’m still having trouble tracking Kaycee down,” I say. “I really think it would be helpful to speak to her.” The Internet is proving to be no help. So far, all I know is she might have settled in New York or San Francisco or anywhere in between.
“Like I said on the phone, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I haven’t talked to her since she ran off—with five hundred dollars of my money, too.” He doesn’t look up, just keeps working the rag.
“You’re a Harley man, Mr. Mitchell?” Portland asks, casually reaching for the matte black helmet that’s sitting on the workbench next to a pile of bolts.
“Yup.” Mitchell spits. “You know anything about bikes?” He asks as if he highly doubts it.
Even I’m surprised when Portland shrugs. “A little. My dad taught me to ride when I was a kid. I used to have a 2009 custom Ultra Classic. Sold it to help pay for law school.”
Frank Mitchell actually does a decent impression of a normal human being. “An Ultra Classic, huh?” He looks at me. “Those are built for long rides—nine, ten hours at a stretch. Bet he thought he was gonna go cross-country.”
To my utter shock, Portland nods and looks at the floor, sheepish. Frank Miller laughs. “I’m working on a Fat Boy out back. I’ll show it to you, if you want.”
I make a mental note to kiss Portland as soon as possible.
“Can I use your bathroom?” I blurt out, with fake desperation. “Sorry. I had two coffees this morning…”
Mitchell’s eyes barely flick in my direction. “Through the kitchen in back.”
The back porch is cluttered with old machine parts. The downstairs is blocky and functional and contains a bedroom pungent with the smell of old sweat and alcohol; the kitchen, buzzy with flies; and a grimy bathroom where the toilet seat wears a pink furry cover that matches the rug beneath it. I wonder briefly who picked it out, and when. Mr. Mitchell’s voice comes through a partially open window—soft but crisp, like I’m listening to a ham radio. Portland’s still got him talking.
The last room’s a sort of office, or maybe junk room is a better description. In addition to a desk and a relatively new desktop computer, the room is cluttered with random furniture, a tangle of holiday lights, old electronics, a toaster still in its box, stacks of old hunting magazines. But there’s no trace of Kaycee here.
I rifle through a massive stack of old mail Frank Mitchell has cordoned off in a massive wicker basket, thinking that she might be the letter-writing type. I slip my fingers into the accordion of gutted envelopes: promotional offers from fishing magazines, inserts, slick torn-away pages with glossy photos of lures and other tackle, bills, faded bank statements, and what looks like a greeting card from a relative—the last name “Mitchell” is scrawled above the eviscerated return address. Inside, a cold greeting: BEST WISHES ON YOUR SPECIAL DAY. No signature. Why did he keep all this stuff? Years-old ads, outstanding bills, promotional coupons long expired.
Maybe after losing his daughter, he can’t bear to let anything go.
Maybe that’s why he hates Kaycee. She wouldn’t let him hold on to her.
I land on a smooth envelope, unopened. The return address is for a local storage company, U-Pack. With one finger, I slice the envelope open and pull out a single piece of paper, folded in thirds. There’s a comfort in crossing this line. Outside, something metal hits concrete—maybe on purpose, I think, a warning from Portland.
Footsteps creak across the porch. The screen door opens. My hands begin to sweat. I quickly find the date, and my chest tightens: the account’s been active for exactly ten years.
Meaning Frank Mitchell rented a storage space only a few weeks after Kaycee disappeared.
I commit the membership number to memory and slip the folded bill back into the mess just before Mr. Mitchell shoves open the door.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?” He seems to swell. Or maybe I shrink, funneling back to the little kid I was when just the sight of him would make me cross the street.