by A J Rivers
Lilith waited for that moment each season. After the spring rains came and the ground warmed up. After there would be no more snow, and the melt sank down deep to the remnants of old roots still clinging to the earth. After the doors stayed open and she was able to step outside and watch the fields.
In good years the warmth came early and lingered rather than sliding back into the chill. When that happened, she only had to wait a couple of weeks before she saw those first tiny hints of green. She wished she could watch them emerge. She wanted to see that first second when the ground cracked, and the corn discovered the sunlight.
Harder days came. Not every kernel grew. She had to thin the plants. There was no way to know which of the kernels kept and carefully dried from the season before would have the chance to germinate. Putting several together created hope that at least one would make it. It was as if the others supported them, encouraged them. They stayed just beneath the surface, out of sight while that one reached for more.
But sometimes more than one fragile, delicate plant grew up out of the same bit of ground. It seemed like a beautiful thing at first. Until the seedlings began to tangle and compete. As they grew stronger, they fought for the sunlight and the rain, the nourishment of the earth. They wouldn’t survive together. She had to thin them.
On that day, she walked out into the field and made decisions. She chose what continued to grow and what was plucked from the ground. She assigned value and offered life.
No one knew that she carried those plants she tore up from the ground out to the back of the field. She took them to the furthest corner, to where the sun was rich and warm, but the edges of the field were uneven. Rather than in long, even rows, she buried those plants in blocks to give them more strength.
It wasn’t just about the corn. The struggle, the growth, the thinning. She knew that. But no one else did. No one else cared.
That day was over for the season. The block of outcasts was sewn and would fight to become whatever it would be. Some would survive. Some wouldn’t. Lilith learned not to worry so much about them. If she did, she would only pay attention to them. The rest of the field might be lost.
So instead, she focused on the plants that stayed in the divots. She waited for them to grow and pulled away the weeds that tried to choke them. The stalks had grown up tall now. Lilith couldn’t see her anymore. The corn had closed around her, concealing her gradually melting away to bone, but protected by the cage around her. The only thing truly recognizable now was strands of long, dark hair.
Even with the cage limiting where Lilith could plant the corn, the field was lush, denser in that area. The ground drew her in like rain.
Lilith’s fingertips trailed along the green leaves and beginnings of silk as she walked between the rows. This was the time of year when she felt at peace in the fields. High enough to conceal, not yet ready to worry about the harvest. It would only last a short time, but she let herself savor it.
That day she reached the end of a row and heard the unmistakable crunch of tires on worn gravel. She knew what that meant. The only thing it could mean. She braced herself as she turned around the end of the row and saw the men already climbing out of the car.
She waited for them to open the back door or the trunk. She tried to figure out what part of the field they would choose. This was too many, too fast.
But no one else came out of the car. They weren’t bringing anyone to the field that day.
She breathed.
They were only there to visit. One of the men walked toward her. His eyes caught the sun and looked like a shot of whiskey. She used to see love in those eyes. Sometimes she thought she still did. But maybe it was only a reflection in the glass.
Chapter Seventeen
"What are you thinking about?" Dean asks later as we sit across a tiny Formica diner table from each other.
We'd gotten a good chunk of the way home by the time Dean decided he was hungry, but I'm pretty sure I hadn't said a word to him since we left the bank. Instead, I spent the trip staring through the window, trying to make sense out of everything that happened there. Now my staring has transferred to the curved window of the diner that looks like it was built out of a converted Airstream RV. Dean's question gets my attention and makes me turn to him.
"Huh?" I ask.
"What are you thinking about?" he repeats. "I can tell you're thinking about something. You haven't spoken in over an hour, which you kind of never do. And you have your thinking face on."
"My thinking face?"
"You kind of… narrow your eyes and stare into the middle distance like something really tiny has seriously pissed you off," he explains. “You haven’t noticed you do that?”
“No.”
“It’s such an obvious tell. You were doing it last night at Janet’s when you got stumped at Trivial Pursuit.”
"Oh," I say. "Well, that's good to know. I was thinking about everything that just happened at the bank. It was all really weird. Starting with Millie. She looked as if she was going to pick us up and pitch us into the parking lot if we didn't get out soon."
"Well, I have been there several times before. She's really protective of the bank and doesn't like anyone coming even close to implying that there's something wrong with it, or that something happened there. She was more pleasant the first couple of times I came in, but after that, it just went downhill."
I shake my head, swirling my straw around in my sweet tea.
“It's more than that,” I say. “I can understand her not loving the idea that a private investigator has been lurking around. That's not exactly the most comfortable thing in the world. And, as she said, her customers might not feel entirely comfortable banking at a place that's linked to disappearances. But here's the thing. If she was so concerned about people hearing about the disappearances, why did she talk to the detective right there in the lobby?”
“What do you mean?” Dean asks.
“When the detective and the officers came in, she saw them immediately. She rushed right over to them to start talking to them, but she wouldn't go in her office. I actually heard her refuse to take them back into her office with her. If it's so much of a concern to her that people don't know there are investigations going on that involve the bank, why did she do that? I would think she would get them out of sight as quickly as possible. And while she wasn't talking at the top of her lungs or anything, the conversation was loud enough for me to hear it,” I say.
“To be fair, you were listening to it,” Dean says.
“I was,” I offer. “I'll admit that. But it's still interesting that she wouldn't make any effort to keep the conversation a bit more private.”
“That is strange,” he acknowledges. “You can see where she would be frustrated, though, right? I mean, from what I understand, they questioned her a couple of times already. And if Lakyn Monroe never even went into the bank, why would they look at Millie?”
“They specifically said they weren't looking at Millie. Not her personally, anyway. They pointed out that they were coming to the bank to speak with her because the whole thing centered on the bank, not her. It's just that as manager, she might have more insight. She was just really defensive about it. And that's another thing. What do you make of the picture and video of Lakin?”
“I don't know,” he says. “It's definitely odd. I haven't come up with any logical reason that she would be all the way out here at a bank and not even go inside.”
“That's not what's bothering me the most,” I say.
“What is?” he asks.
“Whoever sent that anonymous tip to the investigators sent a picture of her car driving away to show the license plate,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because the person wanted to be able to prove it was her,” he says. “It was a sighting of a missing person. The informer would want to make sure the tip was taken seriously.”
“But she wasn't missing when the tipster took the
picture,” I counter. “It specifically said she was seen a few times before she disappeared. So, somebody is enough of a fan of hers to be able to recognize and identify her from a distance. A fairly considerable distance, if you think about it. In order to take that picture, the person had to have been at one of the other buildings on the road. It's not as if he or she was driving down the street, noticed her, stopped, and took a picture of her car. That picture was taken from a stationary position. Which means the person was at one of the little shops.”
“Right,” Dean nods. “So the tipster was shopping, looked up, and saw an internet celebrity.”
“And only took a picture of her license plate? If the person was enough of a fan to be able to readily identify her from that distance, don't you think he or she would want to take pictures of her? And the same tip said she’d been seen there before. So why no pictures of those times? The first time the person saw her, the expected thing to do would be to take out his or her phone and snap a picture. Even if it was just her standing around or walking across the parking lot, the person would take a picture of her.”
“But that didn't happen,” Dean says. “There are no pictures of the first times this person saw her.”
“Exactly. Doesn't it strike you as odd that this anonymous person had to have been at the same location several times, and it just coincidentally happens to be the same time as a celebrity who had absolutely no reason whatsoever to be all the way out there? Yet the informant doesn’t think to take a picture until the third or fourth time he or she sees her? Then, it's only her license plate as she drives away? Which brings me back to…why a picture only of her license plate? That's stalker behavior, not excited fan behavior.”
"Who do you think took it?” he asks.
“I don't know. But I have to wonder if the investigators have spoken to the people in those other little shops,” I note. Grabbing my phone from the top of the table, I scoot out from the bench. "Give me a minute. Order me a tuna melt with fries when the waitress comes back.”
"Don’t blame me if a few of your fries go missing!”
I wave him away over my head as I rush outside to call the number on the business card Detective White slipped me before we left the bank. By the time I get back to the table, our food is already there.
"This looks good," I say, slipping back into the booth and setting my phone down before plucking a crispy golden fry from the pile and munching on it.
"What was that all about?" Dean asks. He picks up a bottle of ketchup from the end of the table and shakes a pool onto the side of his plate.
“I wanted to call the detective to ask if they spoke to the people in the shops. But I had to go through a whole bunch of rigmarole just to get to him. His cell phone, which was the number on the card, redirected to his office. The woman who answered told me he wasn't available because he was doing interviews. But then I told her who I am, and she redirected me… to the jail."
"The jail?" he asks.
"Turns out, Detective White has a source."
“A source at the jail?” Dean asks.
I nod. “Yep. But he wouldn't tell me anything about him. He wouldn't even confirm it had anything to do with the investigation into Lakyn’s disappearance. But I asked him about the other little shops. He said after they got a tip, he spoke with the owner of the boutique that is in the closest proximity to the bank. She said she didn't even know who Lakyn Monroe was and wouldn't have any reason to photograph her car. He was satisfied by that and decided that whoever sent in the tip must have just happened by.”
“Seriously?” Dean asks.
“Yeah, that was kind of my impression, too. But he did ask for my help,” I say.
“And let me guess. You're going to take him up on that.”
"The least we can do is look around a little."
Chapter Eighteen
“So, we're going to drive all the way back here tomorrow?” Dean asks.
“No, I figured we would go back to the town near the bank. There has to be a hotel or inn, or something nearby. We'll stay the night, and tomorrow we'll do a little more investigating,” I say.
He takes a bite of his sandwich and shakes his head. “Why do I feel like if I'm going to be spending time with you, I should start traveling with a bug-out bag in my car?”
“Probably wouldn't be the worst idea,” I tell him. I narrow my eyes slightly at what he's eating and tip my head toward it. “What is that?”
"I got the same thing you did, just hold the tuna."
"So… a grilled cheese?"
"No," he says, shaking his head. "If it was a grilled cheese, there would be tomato soup on the side. No soup, no grilled cheese."
I press my lips together and nod as I pick up my own actual tuna melt. "Glad I know the rules now."
"Well, the more you know."
As I chew a bite of the decadent, nostalgic sandwich, a thought pops into my head. "I never asked you. What were you doing with Ethan?”
“Oh, that's right, I didn't tell you. The whole thing about the wife going back to the security deposit box and only staying there for a couple of minutes has really been sticking with me. It just seems particularly odd. But I wasn't really sure why. I mean, I've never had a security deposit box, so I don't really know how they work. I didn't know if that much time made any sense. So, I asked Ethan if he could take me back to the vault and show me the boxes.”
“He didn't show you the Goldmans’ box, did he?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I don't have authorization to see that. But there were some empty boxes he was able to let me open up. Just so I could see how much time it took. It's not a long process. I mean, you have to access the box, unlock it, and open it, but that took less than a minute. I went over two minutes in a short time, but if she just went back there, accessed the box, opened it and looked inside, then put it back, it could have worked.”
“So, you think she just went in there and looked inside the box? Just to see what was in there, the same as she was checking the balance of the bank account?” I ask.
“It's possible,” he shrugs. “Ethan said he didn't notice that she was carrying a bag or anything else when she came in, so she didn't have anything to put in the box, or anywhere to hide anything she might have taken out of it.”
“No bag? Not even a purse? Then how did she take out her bank card and her identification? If she was checking the balance on the account, she would have to have at least her ID. And that's if she was able to rattle off her account number from memory. Most likely, she also had to show her bank card or a deposit slip with the information on it.”
“Apparently, she had a little fabric cardholder. Just a folded piece of cloth with two pockets. She was holding in her hand when she came in,” he says.
Nodding, I take another bite and think this through. I don't know why it bothers me. But something about it sticks into that little place in the back of my mind where thoughts go to aggravate me until I figure them out. Sam calls it the waiting room of my brain. He wonders what kind of magazines are there. It's moments like that when I remind myself I love that man and all his bizarre little idiosyncrasies.
We finish eating and get back in the car. After a quick stop by the nearest store to grab a few accessories to see us through the night and the next day, we head back to the little town near the bank. I watch the building slide by the window as we drive past.
What is going on in there?
Just as I thought there would be, there's a motel near the edge of town. Dean looks around at the sun-lightened parking lot with its tufts of grass peeking up through cracks in the corners and the sign that still relies on hand-positioned black letters to announce they have a vacancy. It's not derelict or neglected, just dulled around the edges by many years of travelers passing through.
"I'm sure if we keep searching just a bit more, we could find a sweet little bed and breakfast around here," I tease.
Dean shoots me a look across the top of the car and tug
s the bags out of the backseat.
“This will be fine,” he says. “I don't think prodding into a couple of missing people necessitates floral bedspreads and tiny jars of jam in the morning.”
I laugh as I follow him across the parking lot. “Oh, but I love those tiny jars of jam. Some of them come from fruits I've never even heard of.”
He's still shaking his head as we walk into the lobby. An ancient man who may have been standing behind the registration desk since the motel opened looks up at us when we open the door. He straightens from where he's leaning and closes a weathered book.
"Afternoon. Can I help you?" he asks.
"We'd like a couple of rooms for the night," Dean says.
"Sure thing," the man says.
We walk up to the registration desk, and I notice the cubby holes built up along the wall behind him. I tilt my head toward them.
"Reminds me of Myrna's," I comment. "She puts people's mail in those."
"That's the hotel near Feathered Nest?" Dean asks.
I nod, but before I can respond, the man behind the counter chips in his two cents.
"Feathered Nest. That's that place down past Richmond. In the mountains."
"Yes," I say.
"Where all those folks got killed. Fascinating. Fascinating. I read all about it." He wiggles his age-curled fingers around in the air in front of him. "Amazing how it all unraveled like that. With the house in the woods and the bodies."
Dean's eyes slide over to me, and I do my best to keep my expression neutral. This isn't the first time I've heard the dramatic retelling of my experience in Feathered Nest. People have a tendency to perform it like their own disturbing rendition of Rocky Horror. Just with less singing. I hope it stays that way.
"Yes, it was fascinating," Dean says, obviously trying to move the conversation along.
"But it makes you wonder."
"Wonder about what?" Dean asks.
The man leans slightly across the counter, lowering his voice just a touch as if he's trying to stop someone from hearing what he's going to say even though there's no one around.
