The Family Tree: a psychological thriller

by S. K. Grice

  Pacing the floor, I wiped the back of my hand along my cracked lip, painting a streak of blood on my thumb. What I needed immediately was a safe place to conduct a search.

  A voice dug into the center of my brain and whispered. Something bad is going to happen… something bad is going to happen… something bad is going to happen.

  My hands covered my face. No. No. No.

  Something bad is going to happen… something bad is going to happen….

  I grabbed the bottle of Xanax and tossed back two tablets with a mouthful of wine. Pacing the length of my small living room, I counted my steps. “One, two, three, four, five.” I turned. Again. “One, two, three, four, five.” I turned. Again. I did this thirty times without interruption, each step carefully controlled.

  Something bad was going to happen.

  Chapter Six

  I slipped away from the stampede of teachers charging toward the parking lot to return home and resume their summer breaks. The teachers’ summer assembly in the auditorium at Bayview Middle School had just finished, and I only needed twenty minutes in the school library to research everything I required. A week had passed with no announcement of a reward, but that didn’t mean a damn thing. Investigations could take time.

  I crept around the corner to the next corridor. The one-story school building was designed in a maze of crisscrossed corridors. I stepped from the B-wing into the main corridor—the double wooden doors of the library were way down at the other end.

  Summer school classes were in session, and right now, no one was in sight. Minimum staff worked today, so it was easy to stay on the downlow. But that didn’t make me feel safe. Ever since the news report last week about a new lead into Mike’s disappearance, and the investigation being focused on the area around Patsy’s house, I’d been nervous and panicky, plagued by the feeling of the shadow on my heels. A nervous ninja on my shoulder.

  I headed down the long corridor lined with grey metal lockers on both sides. My sandals clacked on the shiny linoleum floor. I needed to research anything the media and police had reported about Mike’s disappearance. What new lead had put news reporters on the corner of Willow Road?

  A set of footsteps came up behind me. Squeaky sneakers.

  My pulse quickened, and I picked up my pace with slow and steady breaths. I turned for a quick look. Someone dressed in loose black jeans and a black hoodie turned into a classroom. Doom pressed on my shoulders. It was only a student.

  I kept moving forward, staying focused on the library entrance ahead.

  News of the investigation had shot my paranoid thoughts to a new height.

  Only a ritual could rid my mind from these thoughts. I could tap each foot thirty times, then do it again for five even sets. Timing and pacing were crucial. If I messed up, I had to start again. Sometimes, this routine would go on for hours before I could move on with my day.

  I hesitated at the library door, looking up and down the desolate corridor. No one is following me. Releasing a breath, I went inside. It was empty except for Cheryl, the young librarian behind the book check-out counter, and a copper-haired student working one-on-one with Mr. Hadley, a relic of a math teacher.

  Cheryl waved me over to the counter. “Hey, Jolene.” Her tone was as peppy as her yellow floral dress. “How’s your summer going?”

  “Going by too fast, and my Internet went down.” I pointed to the row of computers against the wall. “Mind if I pop onto one of these?”

  “Take your time.” She waved me on. “Hardly no one uses the library during summer break. It’ll just be us.”

  Cheryl was one of my favorite staff at the school. She’d never snooped into my business. When I put in for a temporary medical leave from teaching for one semester to deal with my anxiety, she was one of the few staff who didn’t give me pity looks or gossip about how tragic my life had been recently. I sat at the computer farthest from the door, logged in, and typed in my search: mike morton missing person investigation. A chill rippled through me. I’d rather forget my secret had a name.

  Five references appeared. I hunched over the monitor and then looked around to make sure no one could see me. The only sound was my heartbeat.

  I started at the top of the search page. The current local newspaper report. I’d already read the article in the Lighthouse Beach Gazette. A repeat of the television report, but enough to confirm this was happening.

  Squeaky wheels dug into my thoughts. I looked up. Cheryl pulled an ancient book cart out from behind her desk. I went back to the search.

  A blog page titled ‘Where is Mike Morton?’ appeared. It had been set up by Rebecca Morton, Mike’s younger sister. If the purpose of the blog wasn’t clear in the title, she made it clear on the opening page. Simply, the family wouldn’t give up on trying to find her brother.

  She’d been sixteen when her brother had gone missing and started the blog when she’d turned twenty. The posts were listed chronologically beginning with the most recent post:

  June 29, 2020

  Greetings fellow friends of Mike. I finally have some promising news. The police have some leads on the whereabouts of my brother. Our family is grateful for all your prayers.

  Love to all,

  Rebecca Morton

  In another post, only a few years ago, Rebecca admitted her mother was suffering so much from worry she wanted to seek the advice of a psychic. My eyes were drawn to one particular response to the post.

  I’m a local resident of Lighthouse Beach, and though I’ve never met your brother, I’ve visited Madame Celeste on several occasions to contact my brother who died in a motorcycle crash. She’s the real deal. If your mother is serious about getting answers, I highly recommend she contact her.

  I gulped a breath, but my throat was so tight that I couldn’t swallow. Guilt seeped through my palms, and I picked at my fingertips to scrape off the filth. Mike’s family was desperate to find him. They clung to the slightest chance of hope, and it hurt me to know that.

  Squeaky wheels broke my trance. I looked up. Cheryl again, pulling the book cart down an aisle.

  Going back to the blog, I scrolled through earlier posts. This wasn’t an overly active site, but every year, on August 3rd, the anniversary of the last night Mike was sighted, Rebecca wrote a post titled, Where is Mike Morton? A reminder that she was still determined to find out what happened to her brother.

  The heading of the next post caught my attention.

  Possible sighting of Mike.

  June 3, 2013

  Hey all. I’m an old friend of Mike’s, and I’m pretty sure I saw him walking around the streets at Cocoa Beach last winter. I used to live in Lighthouse Beach and knew Mike from way back in high school when all of us would cut classes and go surfing all day. Anyway, I live down in Cocoa Beach, Florida, now. Still surf lots. Then last year I saw this homeless guy always wandering around the beach area. He looked familiar, and I wasn’t sure at first, but now when I think about it, I’m sure it was Mike Morton.

  Anyway, after a few weeks, I didn’t see him anymore. Then I went to Lighthouse Beach a few weeks ago for a visit. Conversation with friends turned to talk of old times, and they told me about how Mike disappeared ten years ago. That’s what made me think of this homeless guy I’d seen wandering around. Not sure if this helps any in your search. If I ever see the guy again, I’ll make sure to go ask if he’s Mike.

  Good luck in finding him. God bless.

  Chuck Mankin

  My throat tightened. This post would have kept the Morton family hopeful. I realized how detached I’d been from his disappearance. I’d convinced a big part of myself that I’d done nothing. It had become easier over the years. The tree had grown, and the parties had continued. As far as my life with Patsy and Annette, everything was grand.

  True, I had detached myself from that night, but now I realized how detached from reality I’d been all these years. How I’d squeezed the memory into a pinhole-sized mental box, and believed it had no power.<
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  Tapping the down arrow key, I kept scrolling through the posts. Some messages had come in from well-wishing friends and a couple from crime enthusiasts with theories involving drugs and bad people.

  The loud tapping of my keyboard broke my thoughts and I stopped to glance around to check if anyone was watching me.

  No one.

  I took a deep breath. It was safe here.

  Moving on, I closed out Rebecca’s blog and searched the Lighthouse Beach Police Department List of Missing Persons. There was his photo. Mike, with a happy-go-lucky smile and a shaggy haircut. I logged out.

  My fingers trembled as I searched for earlier newspaper reports in the Lighthouse Beach Gazette.

  I stopped at the first newspaper report about Mike’s disappearance. It had been published on October 17th, 2003, nine weeks after the night we buried Mike. The article was short, with a snapshot photo, details about where he’d last been seen on Crab Creek Road, and a police request for anyone knowing anything to come forward with information.

  My mind drifted back in time. Annette and I had been at college four hours away when the article was published. The police had questioned everyone who’d lived within a two-mile radius of the place Mike had last been seen. I knew that because Patsy had filled us in during one of our weekly phone calls. “Officer Baker already knows I was in North Carolina that night, but he wants to ask you girls a few questions when you’re back home for Thanksgiving break.”

  Annette and I had corroborated and rehearsed this moment in the unlikely event someone cared that Mike had gone missing. One thing I’d learned early in life had been to count on unlikely events.

  On the day Officer Baker had come by the house for the interview, Patsy had served sweet tea in the living room, and we’d calmly listened as he informed us how the Morton family had reported Mike missing after not hearing from him for a week. Police had put some feelers out, and a couple of witnesses had seen a man matching Mike’s description on the corner of Crab Creek Road and Willow Road on the night of August 3rd.

  “I noted in my logbook that I stopped by the house on the morning of August 4th.” Officer Baker’s attention had been focused on Annette. “You girls just got back from the nursery.”

  Annette nodded. “Yup.”

  Baker’s eyes shifted to me. “What did you do the night before?”

  Keeping my cool, I’d given Baker our simple story. We’d stayed home listening to music and talking about our upcoming junior year at college. Gossiped about boys. Nothing more. “We never even left the house that night, and no one stopped by.”

  He’d been satisfied with the interview, and we were never questioned again.

  In my day-to-day life, Mike’s name had rarely been spoken. Not in public and not in private. I’d shut out what had happened that night for so long.

  Until now.

  Prickles covered my skin, as if I was being watched. I sat up straight and scanned my surroundings. Across the room, Cheryl strolled the aisles putting books back onto shelves. The teacher and student were putting away their pencils and worksheets.

  No one’s watching me. Don’t be stupid. I closed my eyes and rolled my neck. If I expected to stay calm and sane through this, the paranoia had to stop.

  The rustle of a backpack and low voices pricked my ears. I opened my eyes. The math teacher and student walked out of the library. The door clicked behind them.

  Across the room, Cheryl waved me down and then pointed to the exit. “I’m making a quick run to the restroom. Be right back.”

  I lifted my hand in acknowledgement, then turned back to reading.

  The door clicked shut.

  Silence.

  I was the only person in the room, but a heavy stillness made me feel I wasn’t alone. Maybe someone was hiding, and I didn’t see them. I hadn’t scanned the entire library. There was a reference and periodical room in the back. There could have been another student back there. I suddenly wished I’d checked the entire library before sitting down to my search.

  Stop the paranoia. You’re almost finished. I turned my attention back to the screen.

  Next was a short article in a neighborhood newspaper dated eight years ago. Another desperate but fruitless attempt. That was old news. I needed to know what the fuck was happening right now. What new leads did the police have?

  Thinking I’d find out on the Internet had been naïve, but where else could I look?

  The hum of cool air whirred from the vent over my head. Goosebumps rose on my skin, and I rubbed my arms. I smelled peppermint. Peppermint chewing gum.

  A shadow passed over the monitor as a soft brush of a fingertip crossed my shoulder. Adrenaline shot down my legs—pushing me to my feet so fast that the chair fell over. I snapped my head around, searching the room.

  No one.

  Silence stretched for a mile-long minute. No sound except the hum from the air vent overhead.

  Stop it. No one is here.

  I deleted my search history and logged out of the computer in two-seconds flat.

  Flop. A book had dropped. “Cheryl?” My throat squeezed so tight that my voice squeaked.

  No answer, but I wasn’t alone. I snatched my tote bag up off the floor. The lights went out and the room turned dark. My eyes shot to the illuminated green exit sign over the closed double doors.

  Swish, swish, swish.

  The sound of nylon pants brushing together came from behind. I took off toward the exit, then a broad-shouldered man with a black hoodie pulled low over his face dashed past the front counter. He shoved the door’s exit bar and bolted into the brightly lit corridor.

  I froze, terror surging through me. My stalker. I’d seen him before. Sometimes in my dreams, but now, even in this shadowy room, he was clear as day.

  Gasping for a breath, I ran out into the brightly lit corridor. The long hallway was empty except for the smell of disinfectant and sweaty sneakers. The clack of footsteps echoed, and Cheryl rounded the corner, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She stopped and narrowed her eyes. “Everything okay?”

  By the worried look on her face, I must have looked horrified. “I just saw someone with a black hoodie run out of the library. Did you see him?”

  Cheryl relaxed her shoulders and huffed like a frustrated mother. “The kids. They’re running up and down the hallways again.”

  “S-someone turned the lights off in the library. Then, I saw this person—”

  “We’ve got a couple of summer school students who’ve been pulling pranks since they got here.” She shook her head and let out a frustrated sigh.

  I pressed my hand against my head. Uncertain of what I’d actually seen—enough so that I questioned whether my paranoia was making me exaggerate the reality of what was going on. “I don’t know. I don’t think he was a kid.”

  Cheryl stroked my arm, her smile shifting to concern. “Should we call security?”

  I didn’t want to make a scene. Had I really seen a man in black acting suspicious? What if security did a CCTV check and found nothing? Then I would look like a fool. A crazy fool. “Of course. The kids.” I laughed it off. “Have a great summer.”

  I left the building. Nope. I didn’t want the attention.

  Ever since that news report, I’d become sensitive to every sound around me. I saw suspicion and disdain in people’s eyes. I couldn’t end the incessant worry that someone had seen what I’d done and was watching me now.

  I counted. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. I kept counting in five’s until I felt safe from the darkness invading my mind. The more I counted, the higher the numbers, the further away I got from danger.

  I hot footed it to the parking lot, knowing I had only twenty minutes to get to my therapy appointment. Bright sun stung my eyes and I put on my sunglasses. The heavy humidity begged for a cool breeze.

  I looked around. Only a few cars were in the staff parking lot. As I got closer, I saw something on my windshield. A fresh green oak leaf under the wiper blade. My heart
raced. I spun around. There were no oak trees on the school campus. Just pines and poplars. Not an oak in sight.

  Then, I saw the back of the broad-shouldered man, jogging away from the parking lot and toward the wooded running trails behind the school.

  He was not a shadow. He wanted me to know he was real.

  Chapter Seven

  The atmosphere in my therapist’s waiting room was intended to put me at ease. Posters with positive and encouraging quotes lined the walls. A candle burned, and the subtle scent of lavender lingered. But the stalker and oak leaf had my senses on high alert.

  Too much was happening at once and my brain couldn’t find a spot to settle. The stalker. The leaf. The investigation. The determined Morton family. The reward.

  I was fucked.

  I’d once been able to turn away from any word about Mike, but now I had to face the truth every day. People hadn’t forgotten.

  After seeing the hooded man again today, it was harder to convince myself the stalker wasn’t real. Then, the oak leaf? Were the stalker and the leaf related? Why would anyone follow me, or leave me a leaf?

  Pity I couldn’t talk to my shrink about the stalker and the leaves, but I’d worked too hard at convincing her I was rational and stable. Getting my kids back was too important. Part of me wanted to open up to Katie, but my stint in the psych ward when I’d been nine had taught me not to trust therapists. Showing vulnerability was dangerous.

  The only thing I needed from Katie was a coping strategy. I’d talk about my grief and the stress I’d soon have to face. The stress of moving into the house which held so many nostalgic memories. About how difficult it was going to be for me to adjust. I had to find a way to live without getting stuck reminiscing about the family I’d once had. I’d stay focused on that goal.

  The stalker, I’d deal with in my own time.

  I was here today because it helped if I played along. It was part of the condition of regaining shared custody of Jennifer and Eric that I attend therapy twice a month. And I was determined to reverse the damage I’d done to our family. Get my shit together.