by Delaney, JP
The first articles tell just the bare facts of your disappearance.
Air Search Fails to Find Storm Victim
The search continues today for Bay Area artist Abbie Cullen-Scott, whose vehicle was found parked overnight near San Gregorio State Beach in strong winds. The mother of one, who with tech entrepreneur husband Tim Scott owns a $10M beach house nearby, is known to be a passionate surfer.
Residents expressed surprise anyone would risk going out in the heavy breaks seen Friday. The area is known for unusual offshore rock formations that, under certain conditions, funnel freak waves as high as fifty feet.
You reach back into the past, searching for memories that would confirm any of this, but nothing comes. You have no recollection of that time at all. And that, somehow, insulates you from the horror of it. It’s as if you’re reading about someone else. Not your own final moments.
You continue clicking through. It was the Chronicle that first made the connection with Danny, and by implication raised a different possibility:
Search Halted for Tragic Abbie
The search was called off today for missing artist Abbie Cullen-Scott. The 30-year-old mother was “struggling” with her autistic son Danny, according to friends. Danny is currently being cared for at the couple’s home in the Mission by tech founder Tim Scott, 40, who has requested privacy through his legal representative.
The next day Tim issued a statement. Clearly, at least part of his reason was to combat the Chronicle’s insinuations.
Abbie is a wonderful person, a beautiful wife and exemplary mother, an incredibly optimistic, forward-looking individual who cares deeply about art and the positive effect it can have on people’s lives. Now that the search for her has been scaled down, I have to confront the devastating possibility I will never see her again. If so, I have lost not only my wife, but my soulmate. I ask that the media respect my privacy, and that of our son, at this difficult time.
The statement caused a ripple of interest on Circle of Moms and other parenting sites.
A woman in Australia drowned herself and her daughter. There’s a ton of stuff about it online if you do a search!
There’s no support. My cousin and her husband have a child with autism and they can’t even go out.
My friend’s boy screams if they make a left in the car.
Not so tough if you’re a millionaire tho IMHO!!!
I’m sorry but there’s no excuse for depriving a child of his mom, however bad your life is.
Ten days later, however, the Chronicle reported that detectives were now investigating the possibility that Abbie may have been the victim of a criminal act.
The next slide is a long-lens photograph of a police search team coming out of the house, carrying plastic crates. The caption reads: Detectives take away computers and other equipment belonging to tech founder Tim Scott. Investigators have brought in cadaver dogs trained to sniff for human remains.
You look over at Tim. His face is still impassive, but you can only imagine what being the object of those suspicions must have been like for someone as private as him.
And still the insinuations kept coming. The next article highlighted the similarities between your own disappearance and another death, four years earlier:
Police Probe Abbie “Copycat” Indications
Detectives are looking into “striking similarities” between the disappearance of missing artist Abigail Cullen-Scott from San Gregorio Beach last month and another case four years ago. Twenty-seven-year-old Kerry-Ann Brookheimer’s vehicle was also found abandoned near the beach after a storm, prompting a major search by air, land, and sea. Ms. Brookheimer’s body was never found, something a spokesman from the county sheriff’s office attributed at the time to the area’s unusual rip currents.
“Police are investigating whether Abbie, or anyone close to her, was aware of the circumstances of Kerry-Ann’s disappearance,” said Detective Ray Tanner, the officer leading the hunt for Ms. Cullen-Scott, yesterday.
The hint was clear—someone might have tried to make the more recent death look like an accident, knowing that a body washed into the sea in that area might never reappear.
In the absence of any facts, the mood on social media turned against Tim.
I’m not saying he killed her. But maybe he drove her to it. You can’t ever tell what goes on behind closed doors!!
You only have to look at him to see what kind of man he is.
I knew someone who worked for him once. People think he’s some kind of visionary but she said he was the most arrogant jerk she’d ever come across.
That coast is so quiet at night, it would be easy to drive a body down to the water.
And then, out of the blue, the Chronicle came up with a different angle.
“I Met Missing Abbie on Cheating Site,”
Claims Company Director
A married man claims to have responded to a profile created by the missing mother on Discreet Liaisons, an online forum for married people seeking affairs. “She was using a different name, but I’m 100% certain it was her. We chatted on several occasions, and she initially seemed keen. But when I pressed for an actual hookup, she said she’d chosen someone else.”
The article purported to be a serious investigation into the popularity of such websites, but it kept coming back to salacious speculation.
Women who sign up for these sites may be taking risks with their personal safety, as sites rarely vet clients or run identity checks. Did Abbie meet someone online who was involved in her disappearance? And did her husband know about, or become aware of, her activities?
The site, which is based in Romania, failed to respond to requests for a comment yesterday.
You glance at Tim, but his expression is still unreadable. A little uncomfortable—you still haven’t told him about the hidden iPad—you turn back to the screen and click onto the next item. More social media posts.
Why haven’t they charged him? CLEARLY he killed her when he found out what she was doing.
Surely any jury would convict on the balance of probabilities.
I disagree. A jury would likely give credit to a husband whose wife drove him to it with her infidelities.
The police have made so many errors, they’re probably scared of being shown up in court.
As if in response, the headlines then broke a new development:
Tim Scott Accused of Murder
Tech Titan Charged Despite Absence of Wife’s Body
19
You click again, but that’s the end of the document.
“The police thought they’d found a motive,” you say, understanding now. “They thought, if I’d had an affair, that could be your reason for killing me.”
Tim’s eyes hold yours, very still. “That seemed to be their thinking, yes.”
“Tim—” you begin, just as he continues, “It was crazy, of course. You would never do something like that, never. Integrity is very important to you.”
He sounds utterly certain. But then, Tim is confident in all his opinions.
Once again, you find yourself wondering what could be on that iPad.
“It’s clear to me what must have happened,” he adds. “You were—are—an exceptionally beautiful woman. Someone stole a picture of you for their online profile, that’s all.”
“But I’m also quite distinctive,” you object. “Isn’t the whole point of catfishing—that’s the word, isn’t it?—that you find someone who looks a bit like you? Otherwise, when the real person turns up, it’s obvious they’ve been lying.”
He shrugs. “They could say they’d changed their hairstyle. Or used an old photo. Women do that all the time, don’t they?”
“I guess,” you say doubtfully.
“Could I…” You hesitate. “One of those articles suggested I might have killed myself.”
“Again, I just don’t believe it—even if you could have done that to me, you would never have abandoned Danny.”
You feel the same. From what you recall, while mothers of autistic children did take their own lives sometimes, they almost always killed their disabled child, too, rather than abandon them to an uncertain world. You remember one heartbreaking story about a mother who jumped off a bridge along with her six-year-old autistic son. When they were found, she still had her arms wrapped tightly around him, the maternal urge to protect unshakable even as she took them both to their deaths.
Though Mike would probably say it was just her emotional brain and her reptilian brain wanting two different things, you reflect.
“It’s true you’d been a little depressed,” Tim adds. “But things were getting better—we’d finally decided on the right treatment for Danny, gotten him into a good school…You were feeling more optimistic about the future. We both were. You went surfing, that’s all. You even took your board with you. Why would you have done that, if you were intending to kill yourself?”
“I took medication for my depression,” you say as another memory returns to you. “Citalopram and lurasidone. Dr. Fenwick prescribed them.”
“That’s right.” Tim hesitates. “Though you didn’t always take them. Not regularly. They kept you on an even keel, but they also muffled any positive feelings you had—made it almost impossible for you to work creatively. After your disappearance, the police found a stash of loose pills in the bathroom. You’d been removing the right number from the bottle each day, so I’d think you were still taking them, then hiding them.”
You stare at him. “So I was clinically depressed? If I had meds I wasn’t actually taking—”
He shakes his head. “If anything, you were excited—you’d had an idea for a new project. I think that must have been why you stopped taking them—you really wanted to give it your best shot.”
That makes sense, you think. But then a fact slots neatly into your brain. Side effects of citalopram in women include low libido and loss of sexual function.
If you were having an affair, might that, rather than a new project, explain your excitement? And also explain why you didn’t take those particular meds?
“What was the project?” you ask.
Tim shrugs. “I don’t know. You never talked about ideas until they were finished. And it hardly seemed the most important thing, afterward. Whatever it was, it’s still in your studio, I guess. At the beach house.”
You understand those last texts between the two of you now.
Things still going well here. OK if I stay another day?
And his reply. Sure. As long as you like.
Even so, the picture you’re getting of your marriage is a mixed one. A woman who pretended to her husband she was taking antidepressants when she wasn’t. A husband who counted the pills in the bottle. Periods apart, focusing on work. Were these the ordinary, healthy accommodations of marriage, the give-and-take of a relationship that had settled down for the long term? Or the tiny cracks that signaled the beginnings of a broken partnership?
Tim says softly, “We were happy, Abs. So happy. Perhaps our marriage wasn’t entirely conventional, but what marriage is, when you look under the hood? I’m not always an easy man to live with—I know that. But I never wanted some colorless Silicon Valley wife who spent her days having hair treatments and planning fundraisers. I met that kind of woman all the time, and they bored me stiff. You, on the other hand…Right from the start, you captivated me. Sure, we didn’t always agree on everything, but that was part of the fun. Whenever you were around, there were sparks. You were—you were alive.”
An unfortunate choice of word, you think ruefully. Because isn’t alive the one thing you can never truly be, now?
Outside, you hear sounds coming from the street—shouts, some kind of commotion. The entry phone starts buzzing; not regularly, but in short sharp bursts.
Tim goes to the window. “I wondered how long it would take the vultures to get here,” he mutters.
Two big, sleek vans, one from KGO-TV and one from KPIX, have pulled up outside the gates. From their roofs, satellite dishes rise up smoothly on hydraulic runners, pointing skyward like the weapons of some strange armored vehicle; the shock troops of a new kind of warfare. Men and women with video cameras on their shoulders swarm out, surrounding the gates.
“They’ll all be here soon,” he adds. “All the news stations. Then the photographers, the radio journalists…The whole fricking circus. Just like before.”
You go and put a hand on his shoulder. “At least this time you’ve got me.”
“At least I’ve got you,” he agrees. “That makes it bearable.” He puts his hand over yours.
You stay like that for several moments. Then you reach for the blinds, meaning to close them, but he stops you. “I’ll do it. It’s not me they want this time.”
He’s right. Already, seeing you at the window, lenses are swinging in your direction. Beyond the gate a reporter with her back to you, doing a piece to camera, is pushed out of the way by her own cameraman in his eagerness to get the shot. He goes down on one knee to film you, the heavy camera balanced on his shoulder, eyes intent on his viewfinder, and again you’re reminded of heavy weaponry: a fighter with a rocket launcher, crouching down to take aim.
Tim’s phone rings. He checks the caller’s name on the screen before answering.
“What?” he says curtly, then, “No. Tell them nothing.”
The person at the other end talks for a long time. You can tell from Tim’s expression that he’s getting angry. But his tone, when he eventually responds, is polite.
“Thank you, Katrina. It certainly is what I pay you for. But the answer’s still no.”
“Who was that?” you ask when he rings off.
“The woman who heads our PR agency.”
“What did she want?”
“To give me the benefit of her advice.” Tim grimaces. “She said if she picks a network and sets up an exclusive interview with you, the others won’t hound us so much. Once they know they haven’t got the scoop they move on to their next victim, apparently.”
“I’m not sure I could do an interview,” you say nervously.
“You won’t have to.” Tim reaches for his car keys. “There’s another exit at the back. We can get out that way.”
“Where will we go?”
“To the beach house. It’s a gated community—they won’t be able to get to us there.”
“What about Danny?”
“Sian can bring him after school. I’ll pack him some things.” He turns toward the staircase, then stops. “I’m glad we’re going to the beach house, actually, although obviously I wish the circumstances were different. You always loved that place.”
“Yes,” you say. “It’ll be good to see it again.”
And despite everything, you feel a little frisson of anticipation. Because, however frustrating it is to be driven from your home like this, you’re going there. To the place where it all began, or ended, or both. The place where you died.
SIX
&nbs
p; After her spat with Tim, Abbie sat at her borrowed desk, staring into space and frowning. Occasionally her lips twitched, like someone talking in their sleep. We knew what was happening—it happened to us all after a Tim-lashing: She was rerunning the conversation in her head, saying all the things she wished she’d come up with first time around.
Suddenly she sat up and typed something into a Web browser. Again, we knew why: She was checking out the studies on anger Tim had referenced, in the hope he’d gotten them wrong—how satisfying would that be! And again, we could have told her she was wasting her time; not just because Tim was almost never wrong, but because we’d already looked up the studies ourselves, as soon as he’d mentioned them. If anything, he’d understated the results.
After that she folded her arms across her chest and looked mutinous. And finally, with a sigh so loud you could hear it right across the office, she got up and strode outside to have a cigarette.
When she came back she was looking thoughtful. She went over to the printer and took some loose paper from the tray. Sitting down again, she quickly sketched something on the topmost page.
Someone asked her if she wanted a macchiato—they were about to do a Starbucks run. Abbie silently shook her head, then went back to her scribbling.
After a while she sat back and looked at what she’d done.
“Well, son of a gun,” she said out loud.
Getting up, she cracked her knuckles and stretched. (How we loved it when she stretched! There was something wholesome about it, something healthy: We liked the way she never tried to make herself insignificant or fade into the background.) Then she went over to Jenny.
