by Paula McLain
I can see Emily traveling backward fast in her mind, searching for certain memories that are changing as she reaches for them. “She always seemed fine about school, actually. Her grades stayed good. Homework was easy for her, except one year. That would have been fourth grade. For one whole term she stayed home with me.”
“A whole semester? Why?”
“She had mono. We thought that was a little funny, actually. That she’d get the kissing disease when she was so young.”
“They did used to call it that,” I say carefully, because we’re finally getting somewhere. It takes effort to speak slowly, to weigh every step. “But mono is really a suppressed immune system. That can happen with stress. Do you remember what was going on at home around that time? Was there any new adult in Cameron’s life? Someone who took a particular interest in her?”
She blinks at me, poised to fly apart. “What are you really asking?”
“Emily, I need you to think. Who could have hurt Cameron when she was too young to protect herself?” When you weren’t there, I almost say. But that won’t get us anywhere. I need to build a bridge for us now, not a wall. “When she was vulnerable?”
Emily is so still, and so afraid I can barely look at her. It’s all catching up to her, cracking her open. She starts to cry quietly, and then raggedly, her face contorting, ugly and honest. “Why?”
“It happens.” Terrible things happen in a life, Hap echoes from inside my heart.
“Think, Emily. Think about what you just told me. She had mono in fourth grade. Bad stomachaches before that. What was new at age eight and nine for Cameron? The when might tell us who.”
“You must think I’m a terrible mother.”
“I don’t,” I say, and mean it—maybe for the first time. The way I’ve been judging Emily feels cruel now, given this conversation. Maybe I’ve been unfair with her from the beginning, seeing her in a mirror and hating myself. She’s been struggling to do the right thing, even when her own hurt has made that harder than it should ever be. “You’ve done your best.”
She shudders in place. “I’ve tried.”
“Think back.” I press as gently as I can.
“We were still in Malibu then.”
“Any new babysitters or neighbors? Family friends?”
“No.”
“You never left her alone with anyone?”
“No,” she says again, but the word clicks, whirs like a timepiece. “Wait.” Blood flushes into her cheeks, the hot bloom of difficult feeling. “Cameron’s third-grade year was when my family first came to the beach house for Christmas. We’d been going to Ohio with Cameron, but that year Troy said it was bullshit to suffer through snow if we didn’t have to.”
I can see how hard this territory is for Emily, a land of memory that’s shifting violently as she looks at it. Nothing will ever go back to the way it was. Because the way it was was a lie. “Then what? What was different?”
“We always shared a room in Bowling Green. Cameron slept on a trundle bed in our room. She was afraid of the dark.”
“But in Malibu she had her own room.”
“Yes.” Her voice wobbles, vibrates. “Oh my God.”
I say nothing, giving her space to put the pieces together. To see what she couldn’t see back then.
Her mouth is a tight line, white where her lips press together. Then she says, “Everyone came for a whole week that year. Lydia and Ashton had the stomach flu and spent most of the time in bed. I remember being so mad at them for exposing us to their germs.” She falters, her thoughts clearly racing. “My dad had never taken that much time off. He didn’t even play golf.”
Again I’m silent. For a long moment I just stand beside her while everything gathers and rushes. Sand flies by us like a million mirrored surfaces. On the beach, the waves lunge at the shore where the seal has finally reached the tide line. Strangely I want to cheer for the animal for not giving up or turning back.
Then something snaps and shines. Breaks in. Emily starts to vibrate, and then to shake. She cries out, covering her face with her hands, doubling over.
I place a hand lightly on her back, wanting her to know she’s not alone. But I can’t really help her. Not for this.
When she stands, her face is damp and raw. Mascara clouds her cheeks. She’s breathing hard. “What kind of monster would hurt a little girl? My own father?” She shudders, repulsed. “Or my brother, even. It’s so awful.”
“How many years did your family come to Malibu for Christmas?”
“Three. My mom couldn’t travel after that because of the dementia. And then we moved here, and Drew started hosting.”
“Drew was at all of those holidays, too, then?”
“He was. I hate thinking this way. I hate it.”
“I know. I’m so sorry, Emily.” We’re standing a foot apart, the same bitter wind at our backs. I can’t make anything easier for her. I can’t take her pain away. All of these questions hurt. The truth has teeth and won’t let go.
“What age was Cameron when things started to shift?”
“When we came north. We thought it was the mountains, the fresh air. She started to seem more like herself again. Then she found Caitlyn, and everything seemed really great for a while.”
“That timing lines up with the bigger picture, Emily. The abuse might have stopped then anyway. She was getting older. More likely to tell.”
“My God. It’s so sickening. What are we supposed to do now?”
“Keep looking for your daughter. We’ll need to rule them out as suspects, of course. And someday, when this is all over, we’ll investigate and try to get a conviction.”
She meets my eyes, a fresh wave of dread moving through her. “My mom is so fragile now. The news about Cameron has been hard enough. This would kill her.”
“Have you spoken with your father lately?”
“A few days ago. I’ve been updating them when I can. You don’t think he’s the one who has her now?”
“Is that possible? Have he and Cameron remained in contact? Would she have gone to him?”
“No. I really don’t think so. He never leaves my mother alone now. It’s sort of ironic.” Her glance hardens. “She can’t travel anymore. It’s why they haven’t come out.”
“I’ll have the sheriff’s department follow up, just to be sure we’re not missing anything.”
Emily says, “Why didn’t Cameron ever tell me what was happening?”
I wish I had a simple answer for her, but there isn’t one. “It’s possible she didn’t remember,” I manage to say. “It happens a lot. Her subconscious probably forced it away to help her endure it. And even if she did remember, she might have been too ashamed to tell you. Most of the time, abuse victims blame themselves for what’s happening to them, as if something they did caused it. It’s one of the hardest pieces to understand. The saddest, too.”
“I didn’t protect her.” Emily’s voice sounds small and gutted, undone. “I let her down.”
I reach out for her arm, wishing there was some way to turn back time for her and for Cameron. And for me, too. I feel the grief grow huge between us. “You never meant to hurt her, Emily. You just didn’t see. Maybe you couldn’t. You had your own scars after all. Everyone does.” Tears spring to my eyes, and I let them come. “There’s still a chance to help. You can start from here.”
She sags against me, surrendering to something. Maybe everything. Over her shoulder, far out on the beach, another search group shouts to one another over the wind. Hector out in front, striding purposefully. The sea is stormy, black water terraced in white lace. “Okay,” she says, gulping breath.
“Okay,” I say back, and we stand there, inches apart, together and alone.
(fifty-eight)
It’s hard to leave Emily at her door after the day we’ve had,
but Troy is home, and I know they need time to talk.
“Call anytime,” I say.
“Thanks, Anna. None of this feels good right now, or even doable.” Her voice trembles like fine wire. “But I know you mean to help. That you care about Cameron.”
“I do.”
* * *
—
I’m just heading back toward the village when Will’s cruiser passes me going the other way. I see him in my rearview, turning in to a dirt pullout, and find a spot to park myself, walking to meet him halfway.
“I’ve been looking for you all over, Anna. One of the patrol teams up in Montgomery Woods found some items of Shannan’s, one of her shoes, a bracelet, her pocketbook with money inside, a few hundred dollars. So this wasn’t theft, but we knew that.”
“Any fingerprints?”
“Unfortunately, no. There was a camera, too. No usable prints, but we processed the film inside and might have something to go on from the time and date stamps.”
Pressure materializes at the base of my skull, as if actual hands are squeezing there. I try to ignore the feeling. “Where are they now? Can I see them?”
“Sure. I’ll make you a copy. I’m headed back to meet Drew Hague and the polygraph technician if you want to follow me.”
“I’ll do that, but I should tell you that I had a long talk with Emily this morning. Seems like her father also could have been the one to hurt Cameron.”
“You told her about your suspicions, then?”
“I did.”
“How is she now?”
“Pretty shaken up. Make sure the technician asks Drew about holidays in particular. Christmases in Malibu. The father’s name is Andrew Hague, Bowling Green, Ohio. Emily says he’s not traveling these days because her mom is so sick, but we have to rule him out anyway.”
“Understood. Let’s check in later. And you should get some rest if you can. You look awful.”
“I don’t care how I look, Will. I just want those photos.”
He seems reluctant to back down. “I don’t suppose I can insist?”
“Not a chance.”
* * *
—
As soon as I have the photos from Shannan’s camera in my hand, I spread them out on the floor of my cabin, looking for signs or clues in the images. Most are silly, spontaneous throwaways—Shannan’s bare feet with a gnarled dandelion between two of her toes. A six-pack of beer on a patch of grass. A blurred nature picture that could be of anything, shot almost anywhere. Part of Shannan’s bare leg, the shutter having clicked the picture by accident, maybe.
As Cricket paces around me, I feel frustration build. Foolishly, I thought something would jump out immediately, but each shot seems equally innocuous, even the one of her in what appears to be the mysterious rabbit-fur jacket, her hair loose and tousled, her eyes narrowed cynically. The date stamp is from May of this year, almost a month before she disappeared. There’s no way of knowing who took the photo, though, if it was the same guy who gave her the camera and coat, or any of it. Maybe she stole them both. Maybe this is all a dead end, and the pictures mean nothing to anyone, even Shannan while she was still alive to care.
With Will tied up all day, I decide to drive to Comptche to talk to Tally. It will probably be a waste of time. She doesn’t have a crystal ball, obviously, and might not have more insight than I do into the pictures. But right now, I just need to be moving somewhere, following a lead, even if it’s pointless.
Cricket and I arrive after two and find her in her garden tying back vines, readying them for winter. Her face is pink and wind-chapped above the collar of her green fleece jacket.
“I don’t really know why I’m here,” I say candidly as she approaches me and takes off her thick work gloves. “Do you know why I’m here?”
She squints, smiling. “I must not have scared you off last time. I wondered.”
There are two wide wicker chairs on her porch, and we sit side by side while she looks through the pictures.
“Does anything jump out at you?” I ask after a moment. “Is that the coat from your dream?”
“I believe so.” She leans forward. “That poor girl. It makes me hurt to think of what she lived through.”
“I know. I feel the same. But if we can figure out who did this to her, it might lead us to Cameron. My instincts still tell me the girls are linked.”
Nodding, Tally says, “Mine, too, or maybe that’s just hope.” She shuffles through the pictures again, more slowly. “Now that I see the coat, I’m wondering if it’s just something really personal to Shannan, something she loved, and that’s why it came through to me? I can’t be sure.”
“It’s all right. I’ll keep thinking. Maybe something will click.”
* * *
—
Before I leave, she asks if I want to follow her out to the barn to check on one of the newborns.
Cricket trots ahead of us, through the yard and then the enclosure pasture, tall grass threaded with asters and deep-blue campanula, the last flowers of the season. The barn is old but solid. Pushing open the big door, Tally sends pigeons wheeling high in the rafters. Slanted light comes through cracks in the weathered siding, piercing down through the hayloft in molten shafts.
“What an incredible space.”
“Isn’t it? My grandparents had it moved here from Idaho, board by board,” she says, leading us toward a set of wooden stalls. In the nearest one, a mother alpaca stands facing a corner, a harness and lead around her sloping brown neck. Cricket looks through the metal slats curiously, and then sits to see what we’ll do.
“She hasn’t gotten the hang of nursing,” Tally says. “It happens sometimes. I’m just going to help her along.”
I follow her in, watching as she kneels under the animal, stroking her thigh and talking softly. Little by little, the animal seems to relax. “You’re good with her.”
“She doesn’t like people that much. I have to go slow with this one.”
She seems to be talking about the process as well as the mother alpaca. I watch the milk run into a bucket, thin streams only slightly cloudier than water. After five minutes, Tally has collected only a small amount of fluid, less than half a cup.
“Will that be enough for the baby?” I ask.
“Hope so. This is mostly colostrum. The cria is going to need it.”
In a stall nearby, the newborn is still damp. Tally has lifted him onto a large heating pad and now takes some of the colostrum into a syringe before lowering herself to the ground. “Here, Anna. Can you lift his head for me?”
“I’m afraid I’ll do something wrong. He’s so small.”
“He’s tougher than he looks.”
Kneeling in the loose hay, I reach to support the baby’s neck. His coat is like warm, wet carpet. His pulse taps against my palms, and I feel my heart turn over. The vulnerability in his body is almost too much to take. “Will he live?” I ask, afraid of her answer.
“He’s had a rough morning, but I think so. Here.” She hands me the syringe. “Place it right at the base of the tongue. There you go. You’ve got it.”
I feel a tug as the cria latches on to the soft plastic tip, see his eyelashes flutter as he looks at me, suckling. An old ache floods in, rushing through all my doors like water, or like love actually.
“Not so different than bottle-feeding a baby,” Tally says. There’s a long, quiet space, then she says, “I was thinking about forgiveness today. You know, so many people get confused about what it is, binding it up with guilt. Feeling ashamed about things they never had any control over in the first place. I don’t believe forgiveness is something we have to kill ourselves trying to earn. It’s already here, all around us, like rain. We just have to let it in.”
My arms have gone stiff under the cria’s head. I shift them a little as I wonder what
Tally is getting at. Why she’s brought this up. “It’s not that simple.”
“Maybe not. But I do think that the bigger and more impossible something is, the more it needs to move through us so we can keep living.”
I look down at the cria, sated now, his eyes closed, and the syringe empty but for a small bit of froth. “Why did you bring me here today?”
“I thought you might need to hold something, that’s all.”
My eyes sting, film over. All I can do is nod and hand back the syringe.
(fifty-nine)
That evening, Will and I sit in front of the fire at my cabin, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and Shannan’s pictures between us. We haven’t been alone like this since that night in his apartment, and though the moment feels years away now, and not at all threatening to me, I can’t help but wonder where he’s at with it, since neither one of us has said a word. Maybe he considers the kiss a moment of weakness or bad judgment, or maybe he’s still attracted to me but trying to shut off the feelings—as practiced as I am at ignoring difficult emotions and hoping they’ll go away.
“What are we missing?” I ask him about the photos.
“Hell if I know. Whatever happened to her in that car, there’s no hint of it here. I don’t see a suspect in any of these.”
“Me neither.” Exhausted, I reach for the sleek photo of Cameron, straining to sense how she’s connected to Shannan. Besides her beautiful face, her center-parted dark hair, there’s nothing to grasp at. Nowhere to look next. “What happened with Drew Hague’s polygraph?”
“His results were all over the place. I think he’s starting to crack a little.”
“Did you ask him about Shannan?”
“We did. Nothing there, seems like. But Cameron is a hot point. Denny was in the room, too, and he agrees.”
“Is Drew’s alibi still holding?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Whatever guilt we’re looking at is more likely from the past, but how far back?”
“Most sex offenders have years or even decades of unreported behavior before they’re identified by authorities. If they’re identified, that is. I just don’t know how we can get a full disclosure from him unless we have Cameron as a witness or someone else comes forward.”
