The Missing Ones

by Edwin Hill

  He pulled away from the beach, over the swing bridge and toward town. Rain lashed at the windshield. It was past one a.m. When the sun came up, and the storm had finally swept north, there’d be miles of beach to search, hundreds of cliffs and ravines and caves to check. They would have all day to come to terms with moving from search-and-rescue mode to search-and-recovery. He passed the community center, where the generator buzzed and the lights blazed. He could stop there like Barb had asked. Barb would still be questioning Frankie, because she was the type who never gave up. But he drove on.

  He wanted to go home. He wanted to talk to Pete, to tell him how much things needed to change. They could do this, together. He knew they could, but first they had to stop lying, to each other and to themselves. Rory parked the Jeep and ran through the rain. Inside, the house was silent. He listened as the wind shook the structure to its very foundation. In the hallway, he averted his eyes from family photos of bonfires and clambakes and reunions. Of happier times. Upstairs, he tapped open the door to Pete’s room. Pete lay on his side, facing the wall. Rory said his name. And he listened. To the silence.

  * * *

  Later, he drove into town, dazed and exhausted, turning the headlights out and drifting the last hundred yards. He knew Lydia’s inn by heart—the garden paths, the gates, the best vantage points. He stepped over the fence to keep the squeaky gate from giving him away, then he walked up the path and through the spent perennials to the bow window in the back. He’d come here before, to watch and feel a part of what could be. Inside the inn, Lydia sat on the sofa, still awake, with Oliver asleep across her chest. Like Rory, she probably churned over the incidents of the evening. A kerosene lantern burned beside her. And Rory worried. That the lantern would fall. That the house would catch fire. That Lydia wouldn’t be able to make it out in time.

  He worried about Trey. Trey, who’d stood on the banks of the ravine and watched Vaughn touching Lydia. Touching his wife. Stroking her. Caressing her. Those touches had cut Rory to the heart. They’d made him want to leap into the water and hold Vaughn’s head under long enough so that he’d beg when he gasped for air.

  “Cunt,” Trey had said, not even bothering to whisper.

  Rory turned on him.

  “She’s a slut,” Trey said. “And always has been.”

  They’d secured the lifeline to a tree. Trey took out a knife to cut through the fibers. Rory didn’t think. He moved, his fist plunging into Trey’s gut. Trey doubled over and charged him. Rory slammed to the ground, his head cracking on stone. He held his arms over his face, absorbing blows as Trey pounded at him. Finally, Trey rolled off. “You’re done,” he said. “You’re stuck. Here. On this island. Forever. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Trey sheathed the knife and stood. He jerked a thumb toward the water, where Lydia had begun to pull herself toward shore. “You can have her,” he said, before scaling the bank to the bridge above. A moment later, headlights had swept through the darkness as Trey sped off toward Little Ef.

  * * *

  At the B & B, Rory leaned against the dripping shingles of the cottage. There was too much going on. The storm and the missing boy. The strangers and their drugs. The state police.

  And Pete.

  Pete, who lay tangled in a nest of blankets, a spoon and a lighter on the bedside table. Pete, who had foam drying at the corners of his mouth. Pete, whose body had already begun to cool.

  Triage.

  This choice was easy: Rory would stay right here as long as he was needed. He’d didn’t mind the rain. He’d stay till he knew Lydia was safe.

  CHAPTER 11

  Hester lay in bed with Waffles snoring beside her. Downstairs, the TV blared, and Hester sandwiched her head between two pillows to drown out the sound, but the buzz of NASCAR wormed right through, one of Morgan’s awful habits that he’d agreed to indulge on his own, in his own space, when they each still had their own spaces.

  Earlier, soon after Hester had spoiled the intervention, she’d heard her friends leave one by one and had waited for Morgan to man up and to face her. But he’d stayed downstairs watching TV with Jamie, and now, it was well past midnight and Hester had to get to work tomorrow. Right? She’d make it this time. She didn’t have much of a choice after what had happened. And Kate probably hadn’t slept, so she’d be exhausted and cranky in the morning. And God forbid that Morgan help by taking her to school.

  The bedroom door opened, and Morgan slipped in. Waffles sat up to greet him, but by now, Hester no longer had the energy for a confrontation and was happy that she’d clicked the light off and could pretend to be asleep. She even threw in a fake snore.

  “Don’t bother,” Morgan said, getting into bed beside her.

  She punched at a pillow and rolled away from him. He shimmied up behind her, draping an arm over her, and even that simple touch made her want to shove him out of the bed.

  “You didn’t need to be such an asshole tonight,” he said.

  “Was that supposed to be a joke?”

  “Sort of. We could use a little levity.”

  “It’s not working,” Hester said, flicking on the light. “I don’t want to be touched right now. And you were the asshole. All of you were a bunch of assholes.” She jabbed a finger toward him. “But most of all, you.”

  He reached toward her, stroking her leg.

  “You’re drunk,” she said, moving away from him. “Stop.”

  And he did. She’d give him that much.

  “You’ve known all along, haven’t you?” she said. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to construct a whole world of lies? I’ve been walking around lying to every single person I know, and you all knew it the whole time.”

  “You lie to me for weeks on end and it’s my fault?” Morgan said. “You do that all the time. You lied to me last winter too. You never, ever take the blame for your own actions. You never own it.”

  The rage that Hester had suppressed for months erupted. Rage at Sam and Gabe and Daphne. At all of them. And she aimed it right at Morgan. “Why did you make me give up my apartment?”

  He stood and paced across the room, into his walk-in closet, and through the door at the back of it into what used to be Hester’s apartment. She scurried after him with Waffles at her heels, and when he flipped on the overhead lights, the white walls nearly blinded her.

  “It’s right here,” Morgan said, arms out, spinning around. “Maybe you forgot. It isn’t covered in dust and scotch stains anymore. It’s not piled high with useless crap. And it doesn’t smell like garbage. But it’s right here for you to do whatever you want with it.”

  Waffles raised her snout in the air and howled.

  “You should stop shouting,” Hester said.

  “You stop shouting,” Morgan said. “But while we’re at it, why are all of our friends lesbians?”

  Hester swiped hair out of her eyes and shoved her glasses up her nose. She pointed at the dog and said, “Stop,” so that Waffles stopped mid-howl and sat. “Really,” she said. “Is that who you want to be? Those are our friends. We have five friends, and they all came over tonight to be with you. And you decided to make them talk to me about a problem because you were too scared to do it yourself. If you want other friends, go make them. And FYI, Jamie isn’t a lesbian. He’s a full-fledged, testosterone-fueled, NASCAR-loving boy, just like you.”

  Hester stomped back into the bedroom, slammed her glasses down so hard on the bedside table, she was lucky they didn’t break, and flipped the light off. When Waffles leapt onto the bed beside her, she positioned the dog to make a barrier between her and Morgan’s side. A few moments later, Morgan got into bed too, and she could almost see him on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Waffles shifted onto her own back, and Morgan scratched at her belly.

  Traitor.

  He sighed, and Hester wanted him to say something, anything, so that she could tell him to shut up. He’d already messed up so, so badly. Even when he said, “You’re right. I shou
ld have spoken to you first. I’m sorry and I was a jerk tonight. We all were.”

  “Don’t say anything else,” she said.

  “I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know what to say.

  “I mean it. Don’t talk. I fully intend to go to bed angry tonight and head to work tomorrow without speaking to you. And you are doing drop off and pick up for the next three months. You’re grounded! You really, really, really fucked up.”

  She got out of bed and walked across the hall to Kate’s room, and couldn’t have been more satisfied when she heard the thump of Waffles’s paws on the wooden floor as the dog padded after her. Kate had fallen asleep in a sea of stuffed animals, seemingly unmoved by the shouting from the other room. And tonight, unlike most nights, Hester wouldn’t have to pretend. She wouldn’t have to wait for Morgan to sleep before sneaking out of their bedroom to watch over Kate. Hester didn’t dare leave the girl to sleep alone, despite the bolts on the windows. Kids needed independence and time to be themselves. Hester both knew that and understood that she had the potential of making Kate into a case study in some future early-childhood development textbook. She also knew that her relationship with Morgan was in serious jeopardy, but she didn’t even know how to begin fixing all the problems that stretched out in front of her. Maybe she could start tomorrow.

  Tonight, she lay down, jostling Kate enough to wake her. She read a story, more to herself than to the dozing child. Afterward, she stretched out on the knotted rug, Waffles curled up beside her. She used a teddy bear as a pillow because a real pillow would have made the decision permanent and planned, rather than something she decided on a whim. She wrapped herself in a quilt. She’d stay here, on the floor, like she had every night since August.

  Still, she couldn’t sleep.

  She rolled over and pulled her phone from where she’d left it in her pocket. Maybe she’d watch something on Netflix to get her brain to stop racing, but when she powered up the phone, a whole stream of texts from Charlie or Daryl or whatever his name was, the one with the estranged girlfriend who’d run away to Maine, downloaded, each message angrier than the next. One called her a celebrity-chasing bitch, another accused her of murder. If only Charlie had been the first to level those same accusations. She forwarded the whole chain to Angela, adding,

  In case I wind up dead in the morning. (And I’m still angry, BTW.)

  She nearly replied to Charlie, too, before reminding herself not to engage.

  Phone aside and done with technology for the night, she’d nearly fallen asleep when she heard a beep. She fully expected detailed apologies from every single person who’d attended the “intervention,” and thought this might be the first. Probably Jane. She was the weakest. Or maybe it was Angela, chewing her out for texting with someone dangerous.

  She glanced at the screen.

  Then she sat up and read the message again.

  After the third time, she was up and out of bed, getting ready to leave. She planned her note to Morgan.

  And she planned her lies.

  * * *

  Annie hadn’t even known she’d fallen asleep again after Rory had left the house, but she woke with a start, the hurricane still raging. For a moment, she lay still, her mind washed clean of worry. Then, one by one, the regrets ticked in. She remembered being with Trey, out on the beach, rough granite digging into her back and rain pounding at her skin. She remembered his lips at her ear, the way he panted with every thrust.

  Next, she moved on to Lydia and Vaughn, and imagined giving in to her own secrets and the relief that must come with releasing the truth to the world. Had Lydia ended her marriage tonight? Was she lying in bed with Vaughn, curled into him, happier than she’d ever be again?

  Most of Annie’s regrets had to do with this past year, with another life. She remembered grinding up a Benadryl with two spoons and mixing it with ginger ale in a sippy cup. She remembered piling pillows up to create a moat of safety. Children should be safe. They should be protected. She remembered fleeing, too frightened of herself and what she might do. Too frightened not to act.

  She remembered the lighthouse. The tide would be out by now.

  It was time to go.

  She crawled from the mattress, pulling on a ratty sweater and struggling into her damp jeans. Frankie’s room was empty, with children’s clothes littering the floor in small, ghostly piles. Downstairs, Annie put on her oilskins. And she ran. Outside, into the thick, tropical air that felt nothing like Maine. Wind blasted her with sheets of water, and the night, right before dawn, was darker than she’d ever known. She ran like she hadn’t run in years, not since college, on those hockey fields.

  At the shore, the tide had receded enough to bring the stench of sulfur and to expose the spit connecting the shore to the lighthouse. Annie charged across the sand and over the rocks, her feet splashing through tidal pools. The lighthouse rose a hundred feet in the air. The keeper’s house was built from thick stone and had tiny windows designed to fend off the elements. Annie yanked at the door. It had swelled with the rain and wouldn’t budge. She circled the perimeter, searching for another way in. Rain pelted her face. Her hair whipped into her eyes. She peered into one of the windows. Even in the dark, she could see the child. Cowering. Afraid.

  “I’m here!” she shouted.

  She shoved her shoulder into the heavy oak door. She kicked it. And she kicked it again. This time it cracked. With a third kick, the door flew open.

  Annie ran into the darkness. Here, the air was close, the walls thick enough to mute the loudest of noises.

  Something moved. And whimpered. Annie rushed forward, hands flailing.

  A child screamed.

  “Shh, shh, shh, it’s okay.”

  Annie crouched and touched the child’s face. She ran her fingers through thick hair. Ethan’s hair.

  She pulled him to her.

  He rested his head against her shoulder and stuck a thumb in his mouth. She turned slowly in the small space, the darkness impenetrable. She balanced the child on her hip and backed into the storm. When the wind and rain engulfed her, she slung the boy over her shoulder and ran. She could make amends for everything—all of it. She could make things good again. She could be a hero.

  Wet sand swirled and eddied around her ankles, sucking her down. She struggled forward, across the sandy spit. And she swore she heard someone behind her. She spun around.

  Nothing.

  Fifty yards.

  Thirty.

  Ten.

  She plunged forward into silty mud, losing her grip on Ethan. He landed a few feet in front of her, and she crawled to him. A wave crashed against the rocks. Ahead, Annie could see the outline of the path to the house. She swore she saw a flash of blue lights. She almost felt safe, as though good could come from bad, and maybe, just maybe, she’d found a way to redeem herself.

  The blow came from behind. At first, she didn’t feel it, not till she’d fallen forward, her chin slamming into granite. She tasted a tinny explosion of blood. Pain screamed from her wrists and neck. She pushed forward, crawling on all fours. Someone caught her by the hair, snapping back her head. “Ethan!” she shouted, blood spewing from her mouth. “Run!”

  “It was you. All along. You took him!”

  She pivoted on her hip. To defend.

  On the horizon, gray light had begun to seep through the clouds. Trey loomed over her. She saw a flash of steel.

  “Who sent you?” Trey said. “Who put you up to it? How much are they paying you?”

  She grasped a rock, turning and swinging blindly.

  And she imagined going back in time, a day, a week, a month, a year. She imagined undoing it all, every regret, and facing her own truth. She imagined calling herself Daphne again. “I’m Daphne,” she’d say. “Daphne Maguire. Kate’s mother. Morgan’s sister. Hester’s best friend.”

  She imagined going home.

  Trey came at her. Something crashed into her skull. She skidded forward. And the world we
nt black.

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24

  CHAPTER 12

  Hester felt as though she’d been awake for days. She and Kate joined the end of the line for the ferry to Finisterre Island and, as they waited, all Hester could think was, Bringing Kate to Maine was a mistake. A massive, I-probably-won’t-ever-recover-from-this mistake. Or, at the very least, that it didn’t show her in the best light or exercising the best parental judgment.

  Again.

  In Hester’s defense, she had tried leaving Kate behind. She’d left the house by herself, climbed into the truck, and even driven two blocks before turning around. Even then, she’d sat with the engine running for over a half hour before sneaking inside, wrapping Kate in a blanket, packing a tote bag of toys, and putting the sleeping girl in her car seat as they’d headed toward Maine. She knew that all of this put her on the wrong side of lunacy, but knowing that and doing something about it, making the sane, logical decision, were two different things. It also almost convinced her that the intervention the night before had been justified.

  Almost, but not quite.

  Now, the autumn sun shone brightly, and the air hung with unseasonable humidity from the hurricane. The ferry, which should have left at nine a.m., sat in the harbor tied to the dock. Noon had come and gone, the daily schedule disrupted by rough seas, though from what Hester could see, the crew had finally begun to prep the boat to leave.

  The storm had ended around dawn, and people seemed to be picking themselves up and assessing damage. Despite driving through the night to get here, despite listening to the local NPR station and banging her head against the headrest to stay awake, Hester hadn’t quite realized the destruction that the storm had wrought on the area till she’d seen it. Houses were flooded. The roar of chainsaws filled the air. Even here in downtown Boothbay Harbor, a group of men dismantled an ancient elm tree that had fallen across the street.