Still Here

by Amy Stuart

  Clare is nauseated. She cannot look at Jason. She bites her lower lip until the metallic taste of blood fills her mouth. The pain focuses her. She straightens.

  “Why did you hire Malcolm?” she asks.

  “You left me, Clare. You fucking left me.”

  His words are monotone, his fists opening and closing. This rage is too quiet.

  “Jason,” Clare says.

  “When I told Zoe you’d taken off, she seemed almost giddy about it. Like your disappearance was some stroke of luck. She gave me Malcolm’s name. ‘Hire this guy to go after her,’ she said.”

  The room spins. Clare closes her eyes. The pieces falling together. “You were already working for Zoe when you hired Malcolm.” This is not a question. Clare understands now. She is certain.

  “Yeah. And I was doing pretty well for myself too. Zoe said I couldn’t afford to leave town and look for you myself. I had a business to run.” Jason laughs bitterly. “Little did I know, she was fucking with me. Malcolm was her ex-husband, for chrissake. She wanted him to find you. She was playing a game with us, Clare. That’s Zoe for you. Puppeteering us all.”

  “Jason,” Clare says. “What have you done?”

  “We were going to have a baby, Clare. I wanted to take care of you.”

  A baby. At that word, a shock of wrath surges through Clare. No. This has to end.

  She stands. Jason stands too.

  “Sit down,” he yells.

  But his hands are at his sides in fists. He has no weapon.

  “Where is Zoe?”

  “Sit down!”

  And then he lunges. But Clare evades him and he loses his footing as he charges at her. Clare stumbles through the bedroom door and slams it closed behind her. She descends the stairs two at a time. At the bottom she turns a corner into the living room. Malcolm sits in a chair, his wrists tied behind his back. His face is bloodied. He looks up at her, blank, half-conscious. Where is Zoe? Clare rushes to Malcolm and fumbles to untie his wrists. She hears the door open upstairs, footsteps descending.

  Zoe appears from the kitchen. She holds the gun two-handed, walking towards Clare. But the gun’s safety is on. That gives Clare an instant enough. Clare bolts past Malcolm and lunges at Zoe. They tumble together to the ground, rolling, Clare working to wrest Zoe’s grip from the gun. It fires.

  No. This is not where I die, Clare thinks. I am not still here, still alive, only to die now.

  The gun is in Clare’s hands. She scrambles to her feet and backs away, the weapon pointed at Zoe. Malcolm is gasping in the chair, conscious now, his shirt soaked with blood. Hit by the bullet fired in her struggle with Zoe. Jason is in the doorway. Clare swings the gun back and forth from Zoe to Jason as she backs herself into the corner. Jason comes at her. Everything slows, quiets. Clare takes aim and fires.

  At impact Jason spins, wide-eyed. He drops to his knees, then forward to all fours. Clare watches as he lowers himself to the floor, to his back, one hand gripped to his chest. A dark circle of blood radiates out from under his shirt.

  “Get down,” Clare yells to Zoe, the gun aimed at her.

  Zoe obeys, crouching to the floor. And then Clare goes to Malcolm. She unties his wrists with one hand, the other hand still pointing the gun at Zoe. She can see that Zoe is saying something, but Clare’s ears ring. She hears nothing.

  On the floor, Jason’s eyes are open but vacant. A drop of blood appears in the corner of his mouth. His breath slows. Jason’s blood pools on the floor. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but he can’t. He smiles instead.

  Jason. Clare doesn’t say his name aloud. She lowers to him and puts a hand on his chest. His heartbeat is dull under her fingers. He takes three short breaths before his heart stops.

  The corner room in the Lune Bay hospital is warm and bright, the late-day sun casting its beam along the foot of Malcolm’s bed. Clare stands unnoticed in the doorway. Malcolm’s eyes are closed, his shoulder bandaged, his arm in a sling. He looks peaceful despite his swollen eye, the stitched cut on his lip. Clare feels a flip in her chest at the sight of him. She steps into the room.

  “Hi,” she says, hesitant.

  Malcolm opens his eyes and smiles at her, groggy.

  “Hey,” he says, opening a hand to her. “Come here.”

  Clare chooses the chair next to the bed. She sets her hand in his.

  “Look.” He pats his bandaged shoulder. “My gunshot wound matches yours.”

  “Funny that,” Clare says.

  “I guess that makes us even.”

  “I’m not so sure it does.”

  “Well, technically you pulled the trigger,” Malcolm says. “That has to count for something.”

  “No,” Clare says. “I was trying to save us. I had to get the gun from Zoe. You just got caught in the crossfire.”

  “I got lucky,” he says. “I was lucky you were there.”

  Clare lowers her eyes. It’s been nearly eight hours since she called the police to Malcolm and Zoe’s house, Jason on the floor in a pool of blood, the life drained out of him. Clare held the gun to Zoe as the sirens drew closer. Malcolm was shot, but alive, breathing, talking to her. Clare has a vague memory of Zoe pleading for her release. Just let me go.

  “No,” Clare said. “This is over.”

  When the police and paramedics arrived, Clare set the weapon down at their command and allowed herself to be ushered out of the house. She watched from the back of a police cruiser as Malcolm was taken away by ambulance. A while later, Somers arrived and found Clare, and finally the tears came. Clare buried her face into Somers’s shoulder and wept until her chest ached.

  On their way to the hospital, Somers received word that Charlotte had been found at the motel, alive but barely, a gunshot wound to her abdomen. And now, in this hospital room, Malcolm searches Clare’s face with such intensity that Clare can’t look at him.

  “How’s your head?” he asks.

  “Fine. Five staples. A mild concussion. I’ll recover. I’m guessing you spoke to Germain?”

  “I did. He was here a while ago. I told him everything I know. About Zoe, the Westmans. It was a start. There’s still a lot of ground to cover.”

  “They let me interview with Somers.” Clare gestures to the door. “She took my statement. She’s in the hall, actually. I think she’d like to meet you.”

  “I’d like that,” Malcolm says.

  Clare goes to the hallway to wave Somers in. Somers drops her bag inside the door and circles the foot of the bed, surveying Malcolm’s injuries with a frowning nod.

  “You took a few knocks,” she says.

  “Could have been worse,” he says. “If Clare hadn’t been there.”

  Somers sits on the edge of the bed. Clare is amazed by her ease, the assured way she sets the tone. Somers and Malcolm exchange a long look, some kind of understanding passing between them that Clare can hardly bear to witness. A bond, she knows, rooted in a mutual concern for her. Everything is different now. They are safe.

  “What happens now?” Malcolm asks.

  “Well, we unravel it,” Somers says. “All of it. Lots of rot to dig out here in Lune Bay. Lots of criminal tentacles that seem to stretch far and wide. Looks like we’ll have to open up Donovan Hughes’s case again too. So much for his chances of an appeal. That Austin guy, the journalist? He’s already downstairs in the waiting room with his goddamn notepad.” Somers shakes her head. “Kavita Spence is willing to talk. I can see pretty clearly that my efforts on the Stacey Norton case were thwarted by some pretty crafty cover-ups here in Lune Bay. People in high places were only too happy to bury all leads for the right price. The fact that I didn’t smell the rot earlier on is something I’ll have to live with.”

  “I can relate to that,” Malcolm says. “A lot of people were in on it.”

  “Seems so,” Somers replies. “It looks like you were the only person actually looking for these young women.”

  “And Douglas Bentley,” Clare says. “He’s been sea
rching for his daughter for a long time.”

  “He deserves the truth,” Malcolm says.

  The truth. In the year Malcolm spent looking for missing women, he’d discovered that Stacey Norton vanished without a trace, Malcolm’s only leads pointed to her death. He never found Kendall Bentley either. He only found her boyfriend in a rooming house a thousand miles from Lune Bay, ravaged by addiction and refusing to tell him anything about what happened to Kendall.

  “I wish I had a better answer for him,” Malcolm says. “What about Clare? She won’t face any charges, will she?”

  “No,” Somers says. “The case for self-defence is pretty clear-cut. Zoe isn’t going to cooperate, but that’s no surprise.”

  “And Charlotte?” Clare asks.

  Somers grimaces. “She just got out of surgery. They did what they could. Hard to say. She lost a lot of blood. Fingers crossed she’ll pull through.”

  Pull through. Again Clare sees it in a flash, Jason’s body on the floor, his fists still clenching open and closed as the color faded from his skin. At some point this morning, a uniformed officer interrupted Clare and Somers’s interview to tell them that Jason had been officially declared dead. His body was transported to the coroner’s office for an autopsy. And when the officer looked at Clare and asked her if she was Jason’s next of kin, Somers had scolded him with a livid calm that had him skulking out the door.

  “Hey.” Somers points upward, as if an idea has just come to her. She returns to her bag by the door and withdraws some papers, handing them to Clare. “I printed this up for you when I stopped in at the detachment this afternoon.”

  Clare scans the papers. “An application form?”

  “To the police academy back home,” Somers says. “Program’s only ten weeks. They need women.”

  “You’re giving me an application form to be a cop?”

  “I need a partner,” Somers says. “Would you pass a security clearance?”

  “Depends,” Clare says.

  The three of them laugh.

  “Well, then,” Somers says. “Partners? Somers and… O’Kearney?”

  “I’m going back to my maiden name. Driscoll.”

  “Seriously? Somers and Driscoll? That has TV written all over it.”

  Clare’s laughter shifts. She suddenly chokes back tears. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be a cop. Like you said, Somers. I work better without all the rules.”

  “Well, then we’ll get you a license to work as a private investigator.”

  Finally, something releases in Clare. She rests her head into folded arms on the bed and cries. Her shoulders heave, the tears flowing until her palms are wet. She feels a hand rest on her arm, but she doesn’t look up to see whether it’s Malcolm or Somers touching her. What they don’t know, what Clare will not tell them now, is that it was one year ago today that she lay in a hospital bed after the stillbirth of her baby. It was on that day, one year ago, that Clare resolved to leave, to run. She’s endured so many days and nights since, alone and struggling, and then Malcolm, and this strange work, and today, this morning, Jason dead. Malcolm alive, here.

  “You’ve been through a lot,” Somers says.

  Clare shakes her head and looks at them.

  “You’ve survived a lot,” Malcolm says.

  Survived.

  “I made stupid choices,” Clare says. “I’ve been reckless. I was always reckless.”

  “Okay, sure,” Somers says. “Some people make stupid choices and nothing happens. And others make the same choices and spend their lives paying for it. It’s about luck and chance as much as anything else. It’s not just about you. And you have to trust people, Clare. Within reason. Most people are good. Your life story so far might lead you to believe otherwise, but really? Most of us are good.”

  Silence hangs among them as her tears abate. Clare’s head aches, the staples stretched taut. She rubs her eyes into her sleeve and looks at Malcolm, holding his gaze for the first time since landing in his room. Somers detects whatever passes between them and stands.

  “Listen,” she says. “I’m going to head back downstairs and make sure that Lune Bay’s finest are marching in line. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Clare says.

  “You know where to find me.”

  Somers extends her hand to Malcolm. Then she collects her bag and exits down the hallway. Alone again, Clare withdraws from Malcolm’s bed and hugs her knees to her chest on the chair. She can see it in his face, the things he wants to say. But Clare can’t bear to hear them right now. He must sense as much, because his expression shifts to a gentle smile.

  “You’ll be okay,” Malcolm says.

  “I hope so.”

  “No. That wasn’t a question. You’ll be okay. I know you will.”

  “Thank you,” Clare says.

  “You know,” Malcolm says, “if you take the south door out of here it’s only about a two-minute walk to the ocean. You could use some fresh air. Some time.”

  Time. Clare stands and hovers for a moment.

  “Go,” Malcolm says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  And so Clare does. She follows the hallway to the south end of the hospital, down four flights of stairs and through the exit door to outside. The sky is pink again, this time with dusk. Beyond the hospital parking lot is a pathway. Clare follows it. She can hear the roaring hum of the ocean before she sees it. She passes through a grove of trees until the blue line of the ocean’s horizon comes into view.

  And as soon as her feet hit the sand, she feels it. The letting go. Her chest opens. She can finally breathe. She walks to the water’s edge and removes her shoes. There are things to do, Clare knows. Decisions to make. But for right now, she will stand here by the ocean and let this sensation take hold, this welcome reprieve from what haunts her.

  This almost feels like freedom, Clare thinks, her feet planted in the sand. Like a beginning. Like hope.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE OF the most remarkable things I’ve learned in my time as a published author is just how many hands it takes to bring a novel from a writer’s desk into readers’ hands. I have been so buoyed by the passionate and hardworking people I’ve met in the publishing, bookselling, and arts industries in Canada and beyond. Our love of books is alive and well thanks to them. I am grateful to have been given the opportunity to meet so many of you as the Still books took flight.

  First, to my most incredible editor, Nita Pronovost, whose name could easily appear on the cover of this novel alongside mine. I feel so privileged to work with an editor as skilled and committed as Nita. She always finds a way to yank me out of the depths of writing and editing despair and to push me when I’m lagging. I’m so grateful for you, Nita. Always!

  And with Nita comes the outstanding team at Simon & Schuster Canada, including Kevin Hanson, Adria Iwasutiak, Felicia Quon, David Millar, Sarah St. Pierre, Jillian Levick, Mackenzie Croft, Rita Silva, Jessica Scott, and Catherine Whiteside. A big shout out to S&S alums Brendan May, Amy Prentice, Siobhan Doody, and Lauren Morocco for the fun times we had along the way. Thank you as well to the team at Gallery Books who took on the Still books with gusto, especially Sara Quantara, who has been a pleasure to work with from afar.

  To my agent, Samantha Haywood, and her team at Transatlantic Agency—especially Stephanie Sinclair and Rob Firing—for their belief in the Still books and in me. You have all my faith and my deepest gratitude.

  To the team at Lark Productions for all their amazing efforts to bring Clare and her story to life, especially Erin Haskett and Samantha Morris Mastai.

  As the Still series draws to a close, I want to offer my sincere thanks to those who championed my books and helped launch them into the world, in particular Martha Sharpe of Flying Books, Tara Parsons and Shida Carr of the former Touchstone Books, and Chris Bucci, Martha Webb, and the team at Cooke McDermid.

  To my fellow educators and my students at WEA and Contact and beyond, with all my thanks. To the friends in my l
ife who prop me up when the going is tough and who humor my long-winded texts or calls when I’ve got a brain twist to work out, especially Mariska Gatha, Natasha Hughes, Kendall Anderson, Hollis Hopkins, Doug Stewart, Elisa Schwarz, Jenna King, Tara Samuel, Aviva Armour-Ostroff, Tamara Nedd Roderique, Claire Tacon, Allison Devereaux, Lee Sheppard, Sarah Faber, and Tom Ryan. To generous early readers, especially Sam Bailey and Jennifer Peshko. To our Duff neighbors for keeping us in your fold even when we decamped west. To the luminous and magical Teva Harrison, who made such an indelible impression on me before her death in April 2019. Forming a friendship with you, Teva, was one of the best things to come of this life as a writer.

  To the amazing hockey families from the Sharks, the Eagles, and the Titans, whom we spend more time with in the winter months than with anyone else; we’re so grateful for the fun you bring to early morning and late evening jaunts to the rink. In particular to my Eagles benchmates: Riyaz Deshmukh, Caroline Godfrey, Julian Binavince, and Patrick Dunphy. Our epic email threads have kept me sane and laughing even when the writing life was a slog. To my kids’ coaches and teachers for stepping in as caring adults in their lives and supporting them as they look to find their place in the world.

  To my parents, Dick and Marilyn Flynn; my sisters, Bridget and Katie Flynn; my brothers-in-law, Chris Van Dyke and Mark McQuillan; and my in-laws, Beth and Jamie Boyden; with all my love and thanks. To my extended family in Ontario, Quebec, PEI, Nova Scotia, and beyond: the Flynns, the Keefes, the Carraghers, the Wilsons, the Bradleys, the Manuels, and so many more. A special thank you to my nieces and nephews Jack Boyden, Charlotte Boyden, Stuart Boyden, Luke Boyden, Jed Van Dyke, Margot Van Dyke, Peter McQuillan, Sean McQuillan, and Owen McQuillan. To my aunt Mary Flynn for all her support and love. And in memory of Tim and Sue Stuart, who were forever champions of my writing. We miss you every day.