by Gable, Kate
After I finish the first, the second one is much harder to resist, and with the third, I don't even bother. My eyelids grow heavy along with all of my limbs and I recline on the couch and let myself drift off, waking up a few hours later with a pounding headache.
* * *
The following morning, I have plans to meet with Sydney at our usual spot. Coffee Break is a small tea and coffee stand, which just popped up a few months ago, and it has the most delicious drink concoctions rivaling those produced by Starbucks. We are supposed to meet at ten, when we both like to take a little mid-morning break. She's six months pregnant and has been put on desk duty. Wanting to be in the field, Sydney first fought the department on this but when the nausea and the tiredness got to be too much, she gave in and is genuinely enjoying it.
Of course, she would never admit that, not to any of our coworkers around here, but we have been close friends for years. Sydney got her master’s degree from UCLA, and recently she has been thinking about pursuing a PhD in criminology. She likes being a detective, but she's getting more and more into other aspects of the job as well.
After ordering both of our drinks, I grab one of the little tables that Coffee Break has just put out. I greatly appreciate this new development because otherwise we'd have to return back inside and sit on the bench. Pregnancy is really taking it out of Sydney, and she needs to rest at practically every opportunity she can get.
She's not here yet, so I scroll through my phone. After a little bit of social media, I open the reading app and try to focus on one of the many books that I have started in the last couple of months and have yet to finish. I used to be a prolific reader. It used to be the only thing I would do in my spare time, more than even watch television, but then things changed.
Suddenly an idea pops into my head. I took a writing class where we did a series of prompts just describing the world around us. The concept was that you position yourself as, theoretically, the character in this world, and you start to describe what you see.
Let's say, you look down at your coffee cup and notice the way that the little bit of dew rolls down the cardboard sleeve and the way that it tastes tart with just a little bit of bitterness and a hint of sweetness. You put yourself in this place, just like your character would be. You describe what you see, and after that, you can go from there. Who is this person who is seeing this? Why are they here? What do they want?
I open my phone and pull up the Pages app where I have the bit of the outline of my book. I have a lot of it written, but I've gotten in the groove of writing at my dining room table in front of a laptop with a carefully curated list of things around me. A lit candle, a clock, something yummy to eat, not really breakfast, but a fig bar or scone or bagel, but now I just begin to type, my thumbs moving feverishly as if I'm texting.
One paragraph becomes another and another as I describe the coffee shop, the police station, and everything else around me, my character, not surprisingly, is waiting for her friend to show up who is running late. When I see Sydney walking around the corner, her bump protruding, I continue to type, finishing my thought, but then going on and including the details of her wobble and exactly how she moves and how tired she looks.
That's the last thing I type before standing up and wrapping my arms around her and telling her that she looks beautiful.
"Thanks. That's kind of you to say," she mumbles with a shrug and melts onto the chair. "Definitely don't feel like it."
10
I tell Sydney how great she looks, and she just rolls her eyes, but I can tell that she appreciates the sentiment.
"I'm just tired all the time," she says. "The nausea's kind of gone away now, but I'm just exhausted. Like, taking a shower is exhausting. I don't even know what's going to happen after I have this baby. I mean, how am I going to take care of it when I physically can't even get out of bed?"
"I'm sure that's going to go away. That's just your hormones," I promise her, even though I’m not really sure. "From what I read briefly online, it's really the ATG hormone that makes you feel really tired and nauseous, depending on what kind of pregnancy you're having."
"I mean, even sitting behind the desk is asking too much. I want to take my maternity leave now, but I need to save it for when I actually have her."
"Her?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
She tilts her head to one side and gives me a familiar smile. At that moment, she glows. "Yeah, I'm having a little girl."
"Oh my God. I'm so excited for you."
I wrap my hands around hers and notice that hers have recently been manicured and taken care of by professionals, while mine are cracked and peeled.
She smiles and I smile with her, tossing her hair from one side to another. "My hair's so frizzy," she complains, even though it looks great to me. It's not perfectly straight or as silky as usual, and she complains of the fact that using the hairdryer is just too much at this point, so she's just letting it air dry.
"Well, at least you got it clean," I offer and she shakes her head.
"You know, your constant positivity is driving me a little bit up the wall, to be honest."
"What are you talking about?" I gasp, but in that exaggerated way where I'm not being utterly sincere.
"Yeah. I'm sick of it. I'm complaining, and I need you to listen to me complaining and that's it. Can you just do that for me, and not just be this little crappy ray of sunshine?"
"Okay. I'll do better.” I laugh, but Sydney doesn't look amused.
We've been through lots of bad relationships together, mine a lot worse than hers. She likes to say that she lucked out and just had a few guys ghost her as opposed to what happened between me and Thomas, but I'm not jealous at all of what she's going through now.
Patrick has never hit her, but he has cheated and lied, and she's taken him back. We still haven't talked about this yet, not in any great detail. She basically announced the fact that they're getting back together and they're having a baby, and I think that she's trying to do her best with it.
If she's taking him back, I shouldn't judge. Who knows? Maybe he can be this great guy for her.
But I have my doubts. I worry about them together and I worry about how he treats her, so once in a while I just ask, and this is one of those days.
“So, how's it going with Patrick?"
She shrugs. "It's okay. I mean, he's being really understanding about the pregnancy."
"Understanding about the pregnancy? What does that mean exactly?" I ask.
"Well, you know how I'm so tired and not exactly being the best girlfriend.”
I furrow my brow.
"You're having a baby. His baby. He should be trying to take care of your every need."
"Yeah, I know, and he is. I just misspoke."
You don't have to be a detective to know that she's covering up for him, but I still don't know how to get through to her. When I press her harder, she closes off. She doesn't want to talk. Instead, she invites me to her baby shower.
"We thought that we would have it together, just invite people from the department, that kind of thing."
"Yeah, that sounds good.” I nod. "I can help you with anything you need."
"I'd like that. So, how are things with Luke going?" Sydney asks.
"Actually, really well. He's really nice and sweet. He likes to cook, so, you know, that's always nice."
"Oh, God. I wish that Patrick was like that. We got into this thing where basically I'm the one doing all the cooking, even now, and I keep telling him I won't be able to do this all after having the baby. I mean, I'll have to really prioritize that. But when he's visiting, he just keeps pestering me and telling me how much he loves my food."
Suddenly at that moment, Patrick walks up to us. He places his arm over Sydney’s shoulder and gives her a light kiss on the cheek. She smiles and her whole face lights up. He smiles at her and winks at me, and then gets a more serious expression on his face, asking about my sister. I fill them in on some of the
details. I don't really have much to say.
“I’m so sorry, Kaitlyn. If there's anything I can do, just let me know."
"Yeah, of course," I say, choking up just a little, but fighting against it.
The three of us chat for a little while and after grabbing a sandwich, Patrick bids farewell and tells me that he is going to hang out with Luke later tonight. This is news to me, but I do know that they're close. I've asked Luke a little bit about Patrick and Sydney, but he's stayed away from saying too much because they are friends and, at this point, his allegiance is a little bit confused, perhaps being tested.
I finish the last of my green mocha tea while Sydney is still working on her pink strawberry coffee concoction.
"This is the only thing I can really keep down," she admits, and I shrug, tilting my head slightly. "Well, as far as things to eat, I guess it’s not too bad."
I laugh and she laughs along with me.
"Look, I know that you're watching me. You're like a hawk, examining me for any signs of trauma, about to pounce, but I'm fine. We're fine," Sydney says, trying to put me at ease. "I love spending time with him and he loves spending time with me. We're having this baby. We're giving this a chance."
"When's the wedding?” I ask.
"Soon. We're still talking about what exactly we want to do. Believe it or not, he wants to have a whole big event."
"He does?” I ask.
She nods.
"He's got a lot of friends. His family has a lot of friends. He wants to have a big party."
"And you?” I ask.
"I don't know. I was never that girl that wanted the big dress, the veil, all that stuff. But I don't know. Now, it sounds kind of maybe, maybe I should do that. Maybe it will be good. It would be a real commitment."
"But is that what you want?” I ask. "Do you want to marry him?"
Sydney looks up at me and pauses for a moment. “Yes, I do.”
11
After walking Sydney back to her desk, I walk by the crime tech's office and pop in to ask him about any updates. Benjamin is an old acquaintance of mine and we’ve always gotten along well. He's easygoing and casual and someone who Thomas always hated.
"Hey, your hair's growing out." I laugh, pointing to the curls that are just starting to come in. He smiles at me and gives me a wink.
We chat a little bit, of neither this nor that, nothing in particular, and then I finally get to the point.
"Did you find anything on the laptop?"
"Yeah, it’s a treasure trove," Benjamin says. "Unfortunately, too much."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, they posted about their boat on Craigslist and Facebook Marketplace and a bunch of boat sites like Boat Trader. So, they've been getting messages about everything all the time. You’ll have your work cut out for you."
Benjamin duplicates the files and sends me all of the emails and everything else that I need. The Islingtons have been in contact with a lot of people. They've been trying to sell the boat for a couple of months without much luck. It's expensive and the right buyer takes time to find.
A couple of hours pass as I parse through all of the correspondence on my laptop, looking for possible people to contact. I should probably start at the beginning, but there are at least fifty names.
Captain Medvil calls me into his office to ask me what I'm working on and I give him a brief update.
"You really think they're gone?" Captain asks, without looking away from his computer.
"I have no idea," I shake my head, "but they're not at their apartment and they're not on their boat and it didn't seem like they had that much extra cash to spend on hotel rooms. Plus, according to the son, they were always involved, always present. They aren’t the type to just take off.”
"And what about the boat?"
"The boat was very clean. The son was adamant about the fact that it was too clean, but you know how it is. People put something up for sale. They want it to look nicer than when they were living in it."
"Yeah, tell me about it. We're in the process of selling our home and I've never seen it so spotless," the captain says. "Spent all weekend clearing out clutter, and now it looks so nice I don't even know whether it's worth moving.”
I look around his office, at his kids’ drawings all over the walls behind him. There are five framed pictures of his kids, wife, and all of them together, facing his computer. They’re not there for the visitor to look at. They’re not there for show.
I chuckle. “I've been there myself numerous times. Get tired of living in one apartment, decide you need more space, start going through all your junk downsizing, minimizing, and then bam, suddenly the place isn’t so bad after all. And you wonder, do I even want to go?”
Captain Medvil asks about my sister the way that people usually do, they know that there are no updates, otherwise, they'd hear about it, but I appreciate the effort.
"It's been sort of quiet here, so I was just going to say if you need to make a run up the hill to visit your mom, you can do that."
"Yeah, maybe I will," I say, not being definitive about it one way or another.
The truth is that I've interviewed a lot of people already and I've hit a lot of dead ends. There’re so many unanswered questions and yet, I feel like I'm going around in circles but getting nowhere.
The last time I was up there, I was so certain that my conversation with Lynn Weasel and her mom, Mindy, was going to give us answers. Lynn was in Violet's art class and she had so much information about her secret Instagram page and all the art that she was putting out. She knew all about how Violet tried to find an apprenticeship at a tattoo shop without much luck, getting turned down for being underage before finally connecting with this one in Big Bear City, which was owned by a friend of hers from school.
Their father, my old chemistry teacher, Mr. Shapinsky, had helped his son open that shop, I guess being supportive despite the odds. But soon after that, Cameron was found dead. He had lied to the FBI about knowing Kaitlyn, but he lied to them because he was using drugs. He had overdosed on a concoction of fentanyl and cocaine.
I was so certain that I was on the right track. Finally, I was finding out all of this stuff about Violet’s secret life and that had to lead to answers about her disappearance. It just had to, right?
Mr. Shapinsky was in a grief spiral. He knew something was wrong. He came to talk to the FBI. He went to the cops and then they found his son's body in a known flop house on the outskirts of town.
His death was tragic but also commonplace. It happens every day.
The few people who did agree to talk to me didn't have much to say and after that, I hate to say this, but I started to give up.
I go over some of these details with Captain Medvil, who listens actively by nodding his head. When I’m done, he sucks down a few big gulps of Coca-Cola.
I glance over and look at the painting hanging by a bookshelf. A few weeks ago, we went out with the whole group to a local bar to shoot the breeze and talk about anything but work. After the other guys went home, I bought Captain Medvil the last round and he admitted to me that he had painted that picture himself, taking up painting as a way to relax himself.
That's when I opened up to him more about Violet and my fear that I'll never see her again.
“I don’t know if I ever told you this, but my brother was found murdered many years ago and the guy was never caught,” he said, drinking the last of his whiskey.
I asked him for more details but he threw his hand up and said that he had already said too much.
"I painted that picture for my brother,” Captain Medvil said. “I lost him a long time ago, and it's one of those cases that's probably never going to get solved. You know what I'm talking about. There's just not enough evidence and no witnesses. There's just not enough to go on.”
“At least your brother is dead, gone for sure. There's a closure in that,” I said, trying to offer a silver lining.
He looked at me
like I had smacked him across the face.
“At least your sister's missing. At least there's still some hope that you'll ever see her again."
He was right. He was right about everything.
12
Slowly but surely, I start to make my way down the list of names of everyone who the Islingtons were in contact with. I call them, ask initial preliminary questions, gauge their answers. Most never even met up. A few people had plans but they never did a walk-through. A number did and I make appointments to meet with them.
The first guy, Miles Cornelius, is a lanky, tan, leathered man in his mid-fifties and exactly what you would imagine an old salt of the sea to look like. He's got gray-blonde hair and I meet him on his boat in Westminster, a small working-class dock where rental fees are much cheaper than in the posh Marina del Rey. It's right below LAX and the area is surrounded by storage units and warehouses.
I find him on a 32-foot sailboat that looks like it has seen its share of adventure. He says it's a Catalina and he bought it for cash from some guy twenty years ago and it has been his home ever since.
“Were you looking to upgrade?" I ask as I stand on the slightly rocking dock right next to him.
The dock underneath my feet moves up and down from the little waves created by the moving barge in the water in front of us. I've never been much of a boat person except for the occasional rowboat and the canoe up at the lake. Given how modest his accommodations seem, I find it hard to believe that he would be looking to purchase a 52-foot power boat like the Islingtons were selling.
Miles takes off his baseball cap, soiled and drenched in sweat, and rubs the back of his arm across his forehead. He has a nice friendly smile without any pompousness, self-indulgence, or arrogance. He's the kind of person that you wouldn't mind sharing a table with at Starbucks, knowing full well that he wouldn't bother you by trying to strike up an unwanted conversation.
"I saw the ad," he says, "it sounded like a perfect boat that a buddy of mine would be interested in purchasing. He's in real estate and he just loves being on the water. He's looking for a boat and kind of hired me to be his unofficial broker. Wants to save on the fees and all that."
