The Girl Before (34 page)

Tori starts, and even though I have heard each story before, I feel a stab of emotion with each retelling. The girls only speak for a couple minutes apiece, but I can tell their words are affecting Charlotte as well. This time I do reach over and squeeze her hands. She gives me a shaky smile, and then it is her turn.

“I . . .” She clears her throat. “I'm not really sure what to say? Where to start?” She looks between Heather and me, seeking guidance.

“Just . . . whatever you feel comfortable with. Start with the day Clara disappeared. Or earlier, if you like. What it was like both before and after.”

Charlotte breathes in deeply through her nose. “Okay.” She looks at me. “Are you sure you want to hear?”

I nod, although her question makes me nervous. “Please. Just be honest.” My attempt at a smile feels sickly, but Charlotte's shoulders straighten and she takes another deep breath.

“Diana was three years younger than me . . . still is, I suppose,” she adds with a nervous chuckle. “And I felt equal parts adoration and annoyance for her most of the time.” A ripple of laughter travels around the group. “The day she . . . well, I was really mad at her that day. She was being more annoying than usual, and then she got Mom to make me take her to the park. I was so angry at her . . . I left her.” Her
voice becomes choked, and red splotches appear on her neck. I can tell she is holding back tears, but one escapes and travels down to her jaw, dripping onto her blouse and leaving a perfect circle of dark blue.

“I snuck in so Mom wouldn't know I left Diana . . . though I knew she'd come bursting in to tattle on me soon enough. I waited. And waited. And heard Mom and Dad talking about driving down to the park to pick us up. I went to confess to them that I left her behind, and I've never seen them move so fast.

“We drove up and down the route between the park and home. Searched all the equipment and the woods around the park, in case she got hurt. There was nothing. No sign that she had even been there to begin with. And the whole time, this feeling grew in my gut, this terrible, awful knowledge that it was my fault.”

“No, Charlotte—” I begin.

She spins to face me, shutting the rest of the group out. “Yes, Diana. I left you. If I hadn't, they wouldn't have been able to get you.”

“You don't know that.” A flash of memory. “They knew my name, Charlotte. They had been watching me. Planning. Maybe if you had stayed, they wouldn't have gotten me that day. But maybe they would have gotten both of us. Do you really think you could have fought them off?” I feel sick when I think of Charlotte being put in the same position. “No. I will not let you blame yourself. You were a kid.”

It is clear that Charlotte is not convinced. Heather clears her throat. “Go on, Charlotte. What happened after?”

Charlotte nods. “After. Yes. After you were reported missing, search parties were out for weeks, looking for some sign of you, hoping to find you alive.” She looks away, focusing on the floor. “Then looking for a body. They thought you might have wandered into the big national park, but no one could figure out how you'd gotten so far that we couldn't find you.

“Of course, Mom and Dad never believed you just wandered off.
You weren't stupid. Unfortunately, the stretch between our house and the park was deserted. No houses. Very little traffic. That's why Mom always made us go together. There was no proof you'd been taken. You were just gone. Poof.

“Life was different after you were gone. Less colorful, like it lost its sparkle. We couldn't really mourn you, because we didn't know if you were dead.” Tears fall more rapidly now, raining down over Charlotte's cheeks, splashing onto our linked hands. I don't even remember grabbing hers again, but I hold on tight. “There were times that I wished we would find your body. Wished you would be dead so we could just move on.”

I gasp, and I hear the sound echoed through the group, but no one says anything. I wanted to hear this, and I want to be supportive for Charlotte, who is struggling to continue. I rearrange my face into what I hope is an open expression and lean in. “Go on. Please.”

Tear-filled eyes find mine, and I begin to lose my hold on my own emotions. “Everything was tainted after you disappeared. Holidays. Birthdays. Family gatherings. Everyone asking if there was news, talking about how old you would be, speculating about what you would be like. ‘Diana would have gotten her license this year. I'd buy her a car if she'd just come home.' Meanwhile, I was trying to live my life in the shadow of your disappearance.

“I missed you, Diana. But there were times that I hated you, too. That I was so angry at you I could hardly hold it in. One bad Christmas I found an old drawing you'd made for me and I ripped it to shreds. I wished you'd never existed.”

My tenuous hold on my emotions has collapsed, and I feel the sobs rising in my chest. I tamp them down, allowing only the tears to hint at the storm inside. Each word is like a knife, but at the same time, each word is healing. I can see it in Charlotte's face, what admitting this is costing her, but also what she is gaining.

“I carried the guilt of losing you. And then I carried the guilt of hating you and wishing you dead. I-I think I still carry that guilt. And anger.” Charlotte's voice has fallen to a whisper.

“That's not fair,” Erin chimes in from across the circle. “While you were pouting on Christmas, Diana was being raised to be someone's sex toy.”

I shook my head. “No.” Sending a smile Erin's way to soften my admonition, I say, “Charlotte deserves to have any emotions that come. There is no right or wrong.” I turn to Charlotte, thinking I sound an awful lot like Dr. Mulligan. “I don't blame you,” I say. “I'm glad you told me. We have a lot of work to do, I think. But I never want you to hold back, okay?”

Charlotte tries to speak but can't, and her mouth opens and closes. Her eyes squeeze shut, and I reach for her, pulling her close, letting my own sobs loose. I don't care who is watching, or what they think. I hold my sister until our tears slow and our hands grow sweaty from clutching each other.

A sniffle echoes in the room, and I look up to see that all the women in the circle have been affected. Tears stain pale cheeks, and red-rimmed eyes fight to hold back emotions. I release a small laugh.

“So, who's next?”

Glen closes the safe, twirling the dial and pocketing the key. I sit on the bed, watching him, wondering what it is he has to file away so securely when he has an entire file system downstairs. It is not my place to wonder. But still, I hate that Glen keeps things from me. More and more I feel like there are secrets building up between us, erecting
a wall that did not exist before. I have heard Harrison's name whispered, and it never fails to make my blood run cold. Nothing can connect Glen to Harrison. He assured me of that. Still, I worry. I would ask, but the last time I spoke out of turn, both my eyes ended up blackened. Glen has become more tense lately. It began not long after he got rid of Joel, but it has been escalating. I see more of Papa in him every day, as if the old coot has come back to inhabit his son's body.

I must remember not to allow those thoughts in our bed.

“I'll be gone only a few days this time, Clara. I don't like leaving you here alone.”

“I'm not alone,” I say, waving a hand. “Mama is just down the hall, and you're leaving some guard behind. We'll be fine.”

His face does not relax. “Just make sure to keep your activities to the backyard. Don't go far on your walks. Stay inside as much as possible.”

It is in these moments that I wish I were permitted to roll my eyes. Glen is being ridiculous. It is as if we have jumped back in time to the first trip he took. He was nervous leaving me then, too, but this seems worse, somehow, as if he knows something will happen.

“I promise,” I say, standing and walking over to him. I rise up on my toes and kiss the tip of his nose, which earns me a small smile. He leans down and captures my mouth, deepening the kiss. His hands roam down my back and up my skirt. When I start to hope his plans might be postponed, he tears himself away, leaving me gasping for breath.

Glen grins. “Baby, I wish I could stay and finish that, but I need to go. We'll pick this up when I get back.”

I pout, but he knows it is for show. Rising up one more time, I allow my lips to brush against his ear as I whisper, “Hurry back.”

He groans and hurries out of the room. I chuckle to myself, pleased that I can still affect him like that. Despite his intensity, and my
feelings of growing apart, there are some things that have not changed between us.

•   •   •

The next day, the girls and Mama take their afternoon rest in their rooms while I sit on the porch to read. I've only been out for a few minutes when one of the guards approaches me.

“Miss Clara?”

I look up, shading my eyes from the sun. “Yes?”

“Mr. Lawson requested that you and the girls stay inside as much as possible.”

“For heaven's sake, I'm only on the porch. This is hardly outside.”

The guard shrugs. “I'm sorry, ma'am. Orders are orders.” There is warning in his voice, but I do not care. Usually the guards are required to take my orders, not give them to me. I stand up, indignant.

“What is your name, guard?” I ask, planting my hands on my hips. “I'll be talking to my husband about you.”

“Shawn, ma'am, and please, I'm only trying to follow Mr. Lawson's orders.” There is true fear in his tone. I soften, but only on the inside. I won't talk to Glen about him, but I'll let him sweat it out.

“I'm going in, Shawn. Expect to hear from Glen at his return.”

“Yes, ma'am.” The guard uses a shaky hand to touch his forehead. No wonder they left him back.

Entering the coolness of the dark house, I wander the halls, trying to find an appealing spot to read. I really enjoyed being outside. Faint giggles float down from upstairs, and I smile, remembering the days when Macy and I would muffle our laughter in hopes that Mama would not barge in and yell at us for disturbing rest time. I pause as I pass Glen's office. If I cannot find a comfortable place to read, maybe I can find another activity to keep me occupied.

Another change Glen has made is hiding the key to his office from
me. But this might be my only chance to get the answers I still long for. Before I can change my mind, I slip a pin from my hair, crouch in front of the door, and wiggle the pin in the lock. Nothing happens. I sit back on my heels, frustrated, thinking, trying to imagine what my husband might consider a suitable hiding spot. I know him better than anyone. Surely I can figure this out. Then I remember. The library. I hurry to the room down the hall and pray the liquor cabinet is unlocked. It is, and, just as I hoped, I find a key tucked into the top corner. I have noticed Glen drinking more lately, another reminder of his father that I wish he would not take on.

I return to the office and let out a small victory cry when the door opens without a sound. I slip in and close the door behind me, just in case any nosy guards enter the house, or Mama rises early from her rest. I'm not too worried. She has been spending more time in her room this stay than normal. I get the sense she is avoiding me, but I can't say I am upset that she isn't interfering with the girls as much as she usually does.

I spend the next fifteen minutes riffling through the drawers, careful to keep things in their places. Glen cannot know I've been in here. I find the client files and flip through, looking for one name, but these files are coded by numbers. Sitting in Glen's desk chair, I spin, trying to decide how far I will go to find out what happened to Macy. I do not want to break Glen's trust, but I also owe it to my friend to learn where she is. I haven't thought about what I'll do with the information once I have it. But where else would Glen keep that information?

The safe upstairs. I sit up. Of course. I close my eyes and imagine myself sitting across from Glen, watching him. He never opens a drawer before he goes for the key. I would hear that. In my memories, I remember a small click. It takes another twenty minutes of pushing on every available surface under the desk, but I find it. The key to the safe.

Standing, I make my way to the door, listening for footsteps above. All is still quiet, and I climb the stairs on light feet, making as little noise as possible. My heart beats an erratic rhythm as I cross the room to the safe, hidden behind the vanity in our bedroom. Spinning the dial, I smile at Glen's combination. The lock clicks, I turn the key, and open the safe.

Papers are stuffed into every available corner. I have not paid attention when Glen has opened it before. It never occurred to me that I would do something so rash as to break in. I groan, overwhelmed at the volume of information in front of me. The girls will be up soon, and there will be no chance to look later. I grab what looks like a ledger and quickly scan through the pages. It is organized by year, and I recognize some of the names. The information is basic, but enough. I flip to the front of the book, but it doesn't go back far enough. I grab for another one, my fingers eager as they run down the columns of information.

I bounce on the balls of my feet in excitement when I finally find what I'm looking for.

Name: Macy

Assignment:
Angels
Treehouse

Status:
Active
Deceased 11/22/91

Macy didn't leave the brothel as I had been told. She died. She has been dead for years and no one bothered to tell me. I look at the date again. Just over a month after my wedding. She was living, breathing, warm,
alive
, and then she wasn't. All these years . . .

The room is spinning and I have no control over legs that will no longer hold me up. The ledger falls to the floor as I curl up, my sobs silent as they take over my entire body. I do not know how long I lie there in silent misery, wishing for the peacefulness of oblivion, before
small hands are running across my arms, tugging, trying to pull me loose from myself.