You Will Remember Me

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  Calling her again was pointless. I’d have bet all my money, a paltry sum unless I gave her Jack’s stash, she’d spin another tale. Trouble was, I wouldn’t be there to see it. Maybe she’d cooperate with Heron and Stevens, but the only proof I had linking her to Jack was a library book he’d taken by mistake, and a picture that no longer existed. The memory of the latter faded a little more with every passing day, to the point where I couldn’t be sure it had actually been him.

  Maya wasn’t my only problem. Once I’d loaded Jack’s things into my car and got home, I realized I couldn’t keep them there. My space was limited, and unless I wanted to stumble over his stuff stacked on my living room floor every night, which I didn’t think my heart would withstand, I had to find another solution. I’d dug through the boxes and removed two of Jack’s favorite shirts and the framed photo of us, and driven across town to the cheapest storage facility I could find, where I rented the smallest space available on a rolling monthly basis.

  Things only got worse the next day. I salted my dinner with sugar and forgot to pick up toilet paper, and as I was about to step out to the store, the doorbell rang.

  “I’m glad you’re home,” Heron said after I’d let her and Stevens in, and they’d sat down on the sofa. She threw a glance at Stevens and gave him a slight nod as if to say, “Your turn.”

  “We need to talk about a few things.” With the gruff delivery of his words there was an acute shift in the atmosphere. Jack had been missing for over a week now, but Stevens’s sympathy had turned into something else. He was so stoic and guarded, I couldn’t tell what it was. He spoke again. “How often have you used a motorboat?”

  The question threw me, and I stumbled to reply. “What? Uh...never.”

  “What about the night Jack disappeared?” Stevens said, raising his voice, and as I shook my head, Heron put a hand on his arm, which I interpreted as code for the rookie to take it easy.

  “Did you rent or borrow a boat the night Jack went missing?” Heron said softly, sympathetically, as if she were talking to a friend. I knew that ruse. I’d seen it before.

  “No, I was here, I told you. What’s this about?”

  Stevens tapped his notepad with the tip of his pen. “Someone saw a boat out on the water the evening Jack went missing, down by the beach where we found his truck.” Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. The noise became louder and louder as the implication of his words landed on top of my shoulders.

  “You think it was me?”

  Heron shook her head. “That’s not what we said.”

  “But now that you’ve brought it up, was it you?” Stevens said.

  “No.” A tingly shiver ran down my spine and all the way back up again. “Of course not.”

  Heron studied me, her expression still neutral. She slid a finger across her phone and turned it toward me, revealing a mug shot of a thirtysomething man with watery-blue eyes, blond spiky hair, and an L-shaped scar above his left eyebrow. “Do you know him?”

  I leaned closer, examined the shape of his jaw, the way his lips curled into a half smirk... I put a hand to my throat. “It looks like the man who was at Jack’s place. I’m not a hundred percent certain...”

  “This is Jason Whitmarsh,” Heron said. “His car matches the description you gave us.” She waited a few beats. “Lily, did you and Jack like playing cards?”

  “Sure,” I said. “The two of us played together a lot. Jack always wins, though. He’s really good.”

  “Do you play for money?” she continued.

  “Hardly.” I let out a small laugh. “Jack always says my ‘tells’ are so obvious I might as well scrawl them over my face. I’m so bad, I’d never even win at Go Fish. Besides, we don’t have cash to lose and it would be weird betting against one another.”

  “What about with others?” Stevens said impatiently. “Did Jack gamble with anyone?”

  “No,” I said as I remembered the money hidden in the cookie tin. Could Jack have won it playing poker? Had he been gambling when he’d told me he was working late? How much more didn’t I know about him?

  “No,” I said again, slowly shaking my head. “Not that I’m aware of. Why? Who’s Jason Whitmarsh?”

  Heron leaned in and smiled but said nothing as she continued to observe me. When I thought I couldn’t take the silence any longer, she said, “Can you tell us about Dominic Martel?”

  The air left my lungs as my body seemed to fold into itself, and I knew there was zero sense insisting I didn’t know who they were talking about. As much as I’d tried to run from my past, hide from it, forget about it, here it was, my dirtiest secret ready to be exposed.

  “It was a long time ago,” I said. “And I really can’t see how it’s relevant.”

  “Humor us.” Stevens sat back, arms crossed, digging in for the long run. Heron nodded at me, sending a polite but firm message they weren’t going anywhere until I explained what they probably already knew. If I said nothing, they’d continue focusing on me, which meant they weren’t doing anything to find Jack. If I refused to cooperate, their wasted time was my fault.

  “I was eighteen,” I said, “and I was broke because I’d moved out from home.”

  Moved out was the polite way of saying unceremoniously kicked out. It happened three months after I’d declared I still had no intention of following in my parents’ medical or banking footsteps but wanted to pursue an art degree instead. After spending a number of weeks trying to convince me otherwise, my parents sat me down at the dining table.

  “An art degree won’t pay the bills,” my mother said, and Dad grunted his agreement. “We feel you should experience what not having any money is like as soon as possible. You’ve been privileged, sheltered—”

  “Didn’t both of you have trust funds?” I said, folding my arms over my chest.

  “That’s neither here nor there,” Dad said. “We’re prepared to pay for your education as long as you pursue something worthwhile—”

  “You mean something you approve of.”

  “—but if you insist on an art degree, you need to finance it yourself.”

  “Basically, if I don’t do your bidding, I’m on my own.”

  “Correct.” My mother gave me a curt nod and shot my father a victorious look.

  They were right. I was privileged and sheltered, but that didn’t mean I wanted to turn out like them, let them mold me into something I didn’t want to be. Our relationship had been difficult for years and it was time for me to do something about it. Join the real world. See if I could hack it on my own.

  I stood up, put my hands on my hips and said, “I’d better go pack my stuff.”

  Knowing how the minds of the infallible Ronan and Suzanna Hetherington worked, I suspected they had a bet going as to how long it would take me to fold and come back, homemade ceramic begging bowl in hand, compliance at the ready. Quentin had probably taken that bet, as well. But they all lost because I hadn’t returned. I’d remained stubborn, moved into a crappy little apartment, worked three jobs six days a week—often seven—to make rent and save for my art degree every single month. I knew what people would think if I told them about my background: poor little rich girl, waah, waah—and so I never told anyone. There were millions of individuals trying to make ends meet, my situation was hardly a rarity or special.

  Had it been hard? Excruciatingly. Had I become disillusioned? Of course. I’d worked in so many different places I’d lost count. My most regular gig was bartending, but I’d also been a store clerk, a dog walker, and given car detailing a go. The things people left in their vehicles had astounded me: full wallets, cell phones, dirty underwear, even used condoms—nothing was off-limits to some—and, although it had been gross at times, it had been fun, right up until a customer grabbed me between my legs and asked if it was where he could leave me a tip. I was pretty sure he left with a cracked rib from where I’d elb
owed him. The next day I’d been fired for not being a, quote, “team player.”

  Working at the bar had paid the most, and I’d been good at it, knew how to charm the customers without flirting, and calm the rowdy ones before things got out of hand. I was employed at an upscale hotel bar in Buffalo when I met Dominic Martel, a smooth-talking Frenchman who’d immediately spotted my potential—his words, not mine. He’d whispered them in my ear as we were lying in bed on our fourth date, after we’d gone back to his huge, loft-style apartment. My potential wasn’t the only thing he’d seen, because the next thing he told me was, from the glimpse he’d had of the location and size of my tiny studio when he’d picked me up, he’d also gathered I was broke.

  “I have a way to get you into some money.” Dominic traced a finger down my arm. “And I know you’ll be really good at it. You’ll get all dressed up and go to a bar...”

  “A bar?” I froze for a second as I realized where this was heading. “What the hell? You want me to be a hooker?” I shoved him away and leaped out of bed, reaching for my jeans. “Why don’t you go f—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he’d replied, holding up his hands. “Not at all. Are you kidding? You’re an amazing person, Lily. Beautiful, smart, funny—”

  “Yeah? Is this the part where you tell me I’ll meet one of your friends for a quiet drink, or maybe someone who wants to buy me dinner? Only dinner, of course, nothing more?” I grabbed my shoes. “I thought you said I’m smart.”

  “Let me tell you about my idea,” he said, his voice calm, and damn it, his French accent, and the memories of the sex we’d had, all making my resolve crumble. “It’s an easy way to make money. No sex, no strings, nobody gets hurt.”

  I put down my shoes and gave him two minutes to explain before cutting him off after one. No way would I get involved in his illegal bullshit. I left his apartment, cursing him all the way home, but when I lost another of my jobs three days later, and my landlord refused to give me an extension on my rent, I changed my mind. It would be easy, Dominic said when we met for coffee. I’d go to a bar and have a drink. When someone Dominic had preidentified as the owner of an expensive car walked in, I’d get a signal and distract the mark by spilling a cocktail over them. By way of apology I’d proceed to buy them drinks until they were past the point of being able to drive. Dominic, a seasoned pickpocket, would lift their car keys and, a while later, I’d send the drunken mark home in an Uber.

  “By the time they’ve recovered from their hangover and notice their car has been stolen, it’ll be in a shipping container,” Dominic said. “And you get a ten percent cut.”

  “Fifty,” I answered. “I want fifty. Equal partners.”

  Dominic shook my hand on twenty-five before taking me back to his place again. I’d known what we were doing was bad, but reasoned the only victim was the insurance company. Not a watertight argument—I knew that, too—but I was desperate, and the prospect of having to crawl home to my mother and father was a lot worse by far.

  The scam worked—so well, we did it again before moving on to other locations around the city so the cops wouldn’t see a pattern. I continued to accidentally-on-purpose spill a drink on unsuspecting men, mainly, or tripped into them so they’d spill theirs. I invested in a set of wigs and fancy new clothes—paid for out of my cut—to conceal my identity, and used a different name and accent each time. At the rate I was going, I’d be able to pay for my entire art course in one go and have money to spare.

  Dominic called me a natural, and I got greedy, cocky and careless. My demise was swift. The last mark he chose turned out to be an undercover cop working the case, and I was arrested, and all my money was seized before you could say Mercedes. I was in danger of doing some serious time until my parents stepped in. Because of their high-priced lawyer, long-standing connections with the District Attorney and regular rounds of golf with a number of judges, I was offered a heavily reduced sentence—twelve months—providing I gave up whoever I was working with. I did, and when I found out Dominic, who’d professed his undying love for me, had at least three other girls in different cities with whom he ran the same ruse, I didn’t regret selling him out one bit.

  I shuddered at the memory of my father’s voice the last time I spoke to him after I’d been released. “Don’t forget our agreement,” he said, sliding an envelope containing fifteen hundred dollars across the table before listing his conditions on his fingers. “Leave town, always provide us with your contact details and, most of all, stay out of trouble. Follow through, and we may consider putting you back in our will.”

  “Can’t I come home?” I said, my voice small. “I want to come home.”

  “You’ve brought so much shame on us, Lily. Your mother may never recover. As far as everyone else is concerned you’re studying law in the UK. You’ll probably love it so much you’ll stay, permanently. We’ll visit you from time to time, of course.” When he put air quotes on the word visit, I knew this was the last time I’d see him, the exact moment I’d lost my family, whether I now wanted to or not.

  “Can I speak to Mom and Quentin before I go? Please? I want to apologize.”

  Dad tapped the money-filled envelope with his index finger. “Goodbye, Lily.”

  I’d been lucky, in the end. After half a decade and a slew of jobs, which took me from Syracuse to Philadelphia, Baltimore to Washington, an old school friend who owned a sports shop in Ocean City offered me a job. When she’d sold the place, I’d met Mike while watching the sunrise, and joined Beach Body. Not long after, I’d moved to Brookmount, putting more distance between me and the hordes of tourists, and changed my last name to Reid, which had been my grandmother’s. I never got my art degree, but I had met Jack. The irony that it had been in a bar and he’d given me a false name wasn’t lost on me, and maybe it was penance, not only for my past, but also because I’d never shared my secrets with him. If I had, perhaps things would’ve turned out differently. Maybe he’d have had the courage to confide in me.

  As I finished my story, Heron said, “And Jack knew nothing of this?”

  “No,” I whispered. “I was too ashamed.”

  “Maybe you were running another scam together,” Stevens said, flipping to bad-cop mode, which was starting to seriously piss me off. “Maybe Whitmarsh was involved, too. Perhaps it wasn’t working for you anymore and you decided you could do it on your own, or at least without Jack. Make more money that way.”

  “Enough,” I shouted, and they raised their eyebrows in unison. “I don’t know anyone called Whitmarsh, Jack and I weren’t running any kind of scam and I’d never hurt him.”

  “You need to calm down,” Stevens said. “You’re not doing yourself any favors here.”

  My jaw clenched. When they’d arrived, I’d considered telling them about the library book and my conversation with Maya. No way would I do so now. They’d turn things around, they couldn’t be trusted, and I’d be damned if I’d let them do to Jack what they were trying to do to me, especially when he wasn’t here to defend himself.

  “I did my time,” I said. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I didn’t know him then.”

  Heron nodded, smiled that sympathetic smile of hers again, thinking she’d get me to open up that way. Not a chance in hell. “Lily, perhaps—”

  I cut her off by raising my voice again. “Tell me about the boat.”

  “We can’t comment at this point,” Stevens said.

  “Why?” I snapped. “Because of your ridiculous theory it was me?”

  Heron quietly said, “You do understand if you ran into Jack—”

  “I didn’t, I already told you,” I said, trying hard not to yell. I knew how this worked, I had to be calm and give them the facts. “I wouldn’t even know how to drive a motorboat. Besides, I was here Friday evening, and all Friday night, right up until I went to Sam’s.”

  “Alone.” Stev
ens seemed to make a point of saying this as a statement, not a question, and one I was certain he didn’t believe.

  “Yes, alone. Talk to the people in the building. Ask my landlord downstairs. I got here at four on Friday, stopped by to pick up some cookies she’d made and came right up. I was on the phone with the cable company for ages, and had a pizza delivered at six. I’ll give you the receipt and you can see for yourselves. My car never moved, neither did my cell. Check them. Check it all. I’ve got nothing to hide.” Neither Heron nor Stevens responded, and when the silence became unbearable again, this time I got up and gestured to the door. “I didn’t hurt him, so unless you’re going to arrest me, I’d like you to leave and start searching for him again.”

  They both stood slowly, and when they got to the front door, Heron turned around. “I’m here if you need to talk,” she said, and I bit down hard on my tongue to stop myself from screaming, “No thanks, you two-faced bitch.”

  Once they’d driven off, my fury turned to despair as any remaining hope disintegrated around me. Jack, Gordon or whatever his name was, was never coming back. Not only was I left holding a mess of grief and rage, not only would my questions remain unanswered and gnawing away at my core, but now the cops thought I had something to do with Jack’s disappearance. I didn’t have my parents’ financial backing now, couldn’t afford to lawyer up if they arrested me for something that, this time, I hadn’t done.

  I couldn’t live this way. I wouldn’t. I needed to know the truth. All of it. Who Jack was, why he’d lied and, most of all, if any of what we’d had was real.