Home Again

by Shirlee McCoy

  She parked where she always had, pulling in behind Harley’s beat-up Chevy. She’d called the young woman before she’d left Seattle and explained that she planned to return.

  She’d been worried that Harley might be resentful of having a housemate and upset about sharing her caretaker role. Instead, she’d seemed relieved.

  “Thank God! I realized three minutes after you left that I couldn’t do this alone,” had been her exact words.

  So they’d be a team, and when Sunday returned, she’d join them, slowly regaining her strength as she worked the land she loved so much.

  Clementine climbed out of the Pontiac, popping the trunk and lifting one of the boxes. She hadn’t had much stored at her mother’s place. Just the few things she’d salvaged after Sim left. Things he hadn’t deemed valuable enough to take. Clay pots and vessels made by various Native tribes. A loom that she could teach the kids to weave rugs on.

  The thought excited her, and she hurried to the front door, balancing the box on her hip as she struggled to get the key in the lock.

  The door opened before she could manage, swinging inward as Harley rushed out, her dark-brown hair soaking wet, shirt damp, eyes huge.

  “Oh my gosh, Clementine! Thank God you’re here.”

  “What happened? What’s wrong? Did a pipe burst? Which one? In the kitchen? I knew I should have replaced it before I left. Did you shut off the valve?” She set the box on the floor, rushing toward the kitchen.

  “No!” Harley nearly shouted. “I was in the shower. The phone rang. It’s Sunday. She’s missing.”

  Clementine’s heart stopped.

  She could swear it did.

  Everything inside her going absolutely still and quiet.

  “What do you mean, she’s missing?” she said calmly, because that was all there was. Calm focus. Complete concentration. There could be no room for panic or for mistakes. Because this couldn’t be. It couldn’t. Not when everything was finally falling together for the family. Not when the kids were finally starting to believe that everything would be all right.

  “The rehab facility called. She’s not in her room. They checked everywhere, but they can’t find her.”

  “And they called you?” she asked, telling herself that this had to be wrong. It had to. Because Harley barely knew Sunday, and she wouldn’t have been on the emergency contact list.

  “They called the home phone. You must have given them the number. I heard it ringing when I was in the shower and listened to the message after. They tried to call everyone else, but no one is answering. The whole family is at that stupid black-tie auction, and they probably have their phones turned off.”

  “Jesus, let her be okay,” Clementine whispered, and it was a prayer. A real one to the divine Creator who had made Father Sun and Sister Moon. Who had breathed onto the earth and set the seasons into motion. Who could feed every bird in the field, and who sure as hell could protect one tiny woman.

  She ran to the phone, slamming her finger against the repeat button and replaying the message.

  “Hello, this is Linda Bailey. Head night-shift nurse at Evergreen Rehabilitation Center. Your number is listed as an emergency contact for Sunday Bradshaw. I regret to inform you that she was not in her room when we checked on her at nine. We’ve searched the premises and she hasn’t been located. We’re reaching out to the local authorities to help with the search. Please call when you receive this message.” She rattled off a number that Clementine didn’t bother to jot down.

  “Did you call her?” Clementine glanced at her watch. Almost nine thirty. Sunday had been missing for at least a half an hour.

  “She wouldn’t tell me anything because I’m not on the emergency contact list,” Harley said, shoving her bare feet into boots and grabbing her keys. “We need to get over there,” she said.

  “We also need to let her family know what’s going on. Did you try to call them?”

  “I’ve left messages on their phones, but I haven’t been able to get through.”

  “Then we’ll call the sheriff’s office and ask them to send someone to the Lee Harris house.” She made the call quickly, using her cell phone, because she wanted to be halfway to the rehab facility by now. Not standing in the rancher, making phone calls.

  “Done,” she said as she yanked open the car door, tossed her phone into the console, and grabbed the giant dreamcatcher she’d placed on the passenger seat, chucking it out onto the gravel.

  “I hope that’s not a priceless antique,” Harley said, jumping into the seat and buckling her belt.

  “It’s a piece-of-crap I’m-sorry gift my rat bastard ex-husband gave me when he missed my birthday one year. I only brought it because my mother insisted and because I’d have gotten arrested if I’d tossed it out the window while I was driving.”

  “Your life sounds as complicated as mine.”

  “It was. I’ve decided to simplify things.”

  But, first . . .

  First she had to find Sunday.

  She drove like a bat out of hell.

  Somehow, she didn’t get pulled over.

  When she pulled into the parking lot of the rehab center, spotlights were everywhere, illuminating pavement and grassy knolls.

  She hopped out of the car, not waiting for Harley, just running into the building and up to the reception desk. A nurse was there, standing with several police officers and a K-9 team.

  Seeing that—the dog waiting for the command to find the missing—nearly made her knees buckle.

  This was real.

  It wasn’t a mistake.

  Sunday was gone.

  “What the hell happened?!” she nearly shouted, the calmness she’d felt gone in the face of the cold, hard truth. “How do you lose a patient?”

  “This isn’t a memory care facility. Our patients are free to come and go as they please,” the nurse said without heat.

  “How many exits are there?”

  “In this part of the facility? Five.”

  “And no one saw her leave?”

  “I’m afraid not. I know this is terrifying for you, but we’re doing everything we can to find her.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just . . . she has kids. They’re counting on her coming home.”

  “Trust me when I say we want the same thing.”

  “Do you know the exact time she left?”

  “As near as we can tell, right after her meal tray was taken away. That was eight thirty. When we checked at nine, she was gone.”

  “But why?” Harley panted as she skidded to a stop beside Clementine. “Why would she go?”

  “Sometimes patients with head injuries act in ways that don’t make sense,” the K-9 handler said kindly, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his baseball hat. He was about Harley’s age. Slim and muscular. His dog was a border collie, its tail thumping with controlled excitement.

  “It doesn’t make me feel better to think this isn’t a well-thought-out plan,” Clementine said, and he nodded.

  “I understand. But try not to get too worried. Most people we look for are found quickly.”

  But what if Sunday isn’t? she wanted to shout.

  What if she isn’t found quickly?

  What if she’s never found at all?

  “Was there any sign of her outside?” she asked, directing her question to the nurse.

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  “Did she have a coat? A purse? Shoes?”

  “She took her purse and her shoes. She left her coat behind.”

  “Sunday, why?” Clementine muttered, wishing her friend was there to ask, because the world was a big place and people disappeared in it all the time.

  She walked back outside, bypassing teams of people peering into cars and knocking trunks. Another group was by the dumpster, tossing boxes out onto the ground.

  Across the street, a line of people marched shoulder to shoulder, moving across a field and toward the distant tree line, their flashlight beams swe
eping across the amber grass.

  They’d search the culverts, the dead tree-falls, the forest floor, looking for clues that Sunday had been there.

  Maybe she had, but Clementine thought it more likely she’d taken the road. That she’d walked out of the facility, found her bearings, and started walking home.

  Wouldn’t Clementine have seen her, though?

  The route was a straight-shot—highway all the way until they reached the turn for the old country road.

  A lone woman walking in the breakdown lane or through the fields? Could she have missed something so conspicuous?

  Or had Sunday taken a different route?

  Or not walked at all?

  Maybe she’d called for a ride. She had friends. She had family. Someone might have been willing to go against doctor’s orders and take her back to the farm.

  Clementine walked inside again, ignoring the people at the desk, the police officers who were crowding around a security monitor, the curious residents who were peering out from behind their doors.

  Sunday hadn’t disappeared. Not yet. She was trying to do what most people would—get back where she belonged. Finding her would be as easy as following in her footsteps.

  This had started in Sunday’s room.

  Clementine would begin there, too.

  * * *

  Porter left Sullivan in the parking lot, speaking with a state police officer, and ran up the stairs of the rehab facility, his heart thumping painfully, his stomach knotted with fear. He’d been expecting a lot of interesting things at the silent auction.

  A visit from the sheriff hadn’t been one of them.

  The fact that Sunday was missing seemed almost inconceivable. He’d spoken to her an hour before the silent auction began and told her he and the kids would visit the next morning.

  She’d sounded tired, but fine.

  Just like she did every day. She’d asked how the kids were doing. She’d asked about Matt, and he’d had to remind her that Matt was gone. She’d been embarrassed. He’d heard it in her voice, in the way she scrambled to try to explain her lapse in memory.

  But that had happened before, too.

  Sometimes she forgot things.

  Some days she really struggled.

  Some days were hard.

  This one was threatening to be even worse.

  It was bad enough that Sunday had left, but the kids had heard the news from the sheriff. An oversight on Porter’s part. He’d been in a hurry and hadn’t thought it through. He’d apologized, but the damage had been done.

  Moisey had cried. Heavenly had shut down. The boys had immediately begun planning rescue efforts. Twila had remained silent, her dark gaze following his movements as he’d gathered their things and urged them to the van.

  Everyone leaves. Everyone, her silence seemed to say.

  And, this time, he couldn’t tell her that she was wrong.

  Because her mother had left. She’d walked away from a place that was supposed to help her stay safe. She’d left of her own volition, without a phone call or a note to anyone.

  He glanced at his caller ID for the fifth time.

  Just to be certain.

  Sunday’s door was open, and he could see someone sitting on the bed. For one heart-stopping moment, he thought it was her.

  And, then, in another, he realized it was Clementine.

  He didn’t speak. Neither did she.

  It seemed more natural to walk into her arms, to run his hand down the curly length of her hair, to kiss the tender spot behind her ear.

  “You got here fast,” he said.

  “I was already home,” she responded, the words hanging in the air between them, simple and sweet and powerful. “Harley and I drove here together.”

  “And you and I ended up in Sunday’s room while everyone else combs the outdoors, looking for her. Did you find anything?”

  “Nothing that wants to tell me where she’s gone.”

  “She’s gone home,” he said, and she nodded.

  “I think so, too, but if she walked, it would take hours, and none of us saw her on the road.”

  “Maybe she was trying to stay out of sight?”

  “Sunday isn’t that kind of person. She wasn’t sneaking. She was just trying to go back home. I was thinking maybe she got a ride.” She touched the phone. “So many people love her. Someone might have been willing to drive her away before the doctor said she was ready.”

  “Most of them were at the silent auction, and she doesn’t have her cell phone here. It would have probably been difficult for her to remember numbers.”

  “A cab then?” she suggested.

  It made as much sense as anything. “The sheriff should be able to get a phone log from the front desk. That will tell us if she made a call, and to who.”

  “It’s already done,” Sheriff Kane Rainier said, stepping into the room. Like Porter and Clementine, he must have felt it was the right place to begin.

  “Did she call a cab?” Clementine asked.

  “She called Benevolence Baptist Church first. Then she called a cab,” he responded. “The cab company confirmed that they sent a car out here. We’re trying to get hold of the driver, to try to find out where he dropped her off.”

  “She has to be at home,” Clementine said, pulling out her cell phone. He could have told her not to bother calling. If Sunday had arrived at the farm, they’d already know it.

  “Is she?” the sheriff asked Porter.

  “No. What time did the cab pick her up?”

  “Eight fifty-six. Right out front. I’m surprised none of the staff saw it happen,” Rainier responded, his expression unreadable. From what Porter had heard, he was a good cop, a good boss, and a good guy. That would be helpful when he joined the sheriff’s department in a few weeks.

  “It’s a thirty-five minute drive to the farm. She should have made it there by around nine thirty. She wasn’t there when Rosie, Rumer, and the kids arrived.”

  “I don’t think she was there when I arrived, either. But I’m not sure. I went to the rancher. Harley and I left from there at around nine thirty,” Clementine added, shoving her phone away again.

  “No luck?” he asked.

  “She isn’t there.”

  “Sheriff?” A young uniformed officer appeared in the doorway, his uniform pressed, his shoes polished. He looked bright as a new penny and nervous as hell. “I have the cab driver who gave Ms. Bradshaw the lift.” He gestured to the man who stood beside him. “This is Calvin Woodward.”

  “Mr. Woodward,” the sheriff said, offering his hand. “I appreciate you coming by to speak with us. This is Porter Bradshaw, the missing woman’s brother-in-law, and Clementine Warren, her friend.”

  “Nice to meet you all. Just so we’re clear, I didn’t come out of the goodness of my heart. Dispatch didn’t give me a choice,” he responded, but he looked more curious than annoyed. “Did something happen to my fare? She seemed a little shaky when I picked her up. Made me worry.”

  “But not enough to call the police?” Rainier asked.

  “She told me she’d been in a car accident. I could see the scars, so I didn’t doubt the story.” He shrugged. “She also said she’d lost her husband, and I know how that kind of grief feels. I lost my Vikki three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Woodward,” Clementine said quietly. “It’s hard to lose someone you love.”

  “Yeah. It is. So, what’s going on with your little friend? Was she supposed to stay here?”

  “The doctors would have preferred it,” the sheriff said, steering the conversation back. “But that’s not our concern. Our concern is that she hasn’t been seen since she stepped into your taxi.”

  “Whoa!” the guy held up his hands. “I give people rides. I don’t make them disappear.”

  “Do you remember where you dropped her off?”

  “Sure I do. Pleasant Valley Organic Farm. She said she owned it. Nice little property. Cute old farmh
ouse. Looked like a better place to recover from trauma than this. I don’t blame her for wanting to be there.”

  “What time was that?” Porter asked, impatient to retrace the path Sunday had taken, to figure out the exact moment when she’d dropped off the grid.

  “Maybe nine fifty.”

  “It took you an hour to get there?”

  “Just about. She wanted me to drive past a little Baptist church first, before we went to the farm.”

  “She and Matt got married there,” Porter said.

  “That’s what she told me,” the driver said. “She said they were both babies. Eighteen years old.”

  “They were.”

  “She still looks like a baby, if you ask me. I’d have thought she was a kid if she hadn’t shown me her ID.”

  “Her ID?” the sheriff asked, jotting something in a notebook he’d pulled from his pocket.

  “She didn’t have any cash on her, and she couldn’t find her credit cards, so she asked if she could write a check. Normally, I don’t allow it. Too much hassle if they bounce, but she seemed like a nice girl who’d had a bad break, so I said it was fine. Still got the check right here.” He pulled it out of his shirt pocket and held it up.

  “All right, Mr. Woodward. I appreciate you taking the time to speak with us. Here’s my contact information. If you remember anything that you think might be important, give me a call.” The sheriff handed him a business card.

  “Will do. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to work. Standing around is costing me money.”

  “Sure.” The sheriff nodded, watching as he walked away.

  “What do you think?” Porter asked.

  “About Woodward? That he’s telling the truth. About Sunday? That she did what we all expected. She went home.”

  “And now she’s gone,” Clementine added, pulling out her phone again. “I’m going to ask Rumer to check the barn and the ranch house. Maybe Sunday needed some time to think and went somewhere to be alone.”

  “Ask her to check the boathouse, too. The dock. Maybe the riverbank.” Because, there were dozens of places on the farm where a tired woman could be alone and dozens more where she could get hurt. “And tell her we’re on the way home. If Sunday isn’t there when we arrive, we’ll call in some reinforcements. I want to make a thorough search of the property.”