by Jo Crow
A voicemail wasn’t anything to be afraid of, I knew, but after everything that had gone on, I couldn’t get over the fear that something had happened. Worst-case scenarios flashed through my mind.
Francine, calling to tell me someone from town had come and taken James from her.
Francine, wailing as she struggled to explain that James had seized and choked.
Amanda, panicked and fearful because she’d seen her father, too, and the look in his eyes had been murderous.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to calm myself down. It was just a voicemail—a single voicemail. If something bad had happened, there would be multiple missed calls, and texts, and messages. I had nothing to worry about.
Summoning all of my courage, I tapped on the message and held the phone to my ear.
“Hello, Clara.” The voice was one I recognized right away—Jerry Appleton. “I’ve gone through my archives, and I’ve assembled some documents you might find interesting. You can stop by the office at any time during business hours to get them. Of course, if that doesn’t work for you, you could always call to arrange a dinner with myself and Francine. I’d gladly take you back to the office after hours if you wanted to stop by and catch up. Call me back as soon as you can, and we’ll set up a time to meet. Until then, take care.”
The anxiety knotted in my chest unfurled, and I sucked in a breath to relieve my lungs. I’d been right—there was nothing to be worried about. My day couldn’t get any worse. In fact, it was shaping up to be a hell of a lot better if Jerry had something worth sharing.
I called Jerry back, pinching the phone to my ear with my shoulder while I tucked my purse back into place on the floor to prepare for my drive. As I sat back up, the call connected. “Hello?”
“Hi, Jerry. It’s Clara.” I sat back in my seat and ran my hand along the top of the steering wheel. “I got your voicemail, and I’m calling back to set up some plans. Are you at the office right now?”
“I am.” Jerry chuckled. “I can’t convince you to come over for dinner? Not even with James over there?”
“Maybe later. I’m still trying to get my head on straight after everything that’s happened.”
“Fair enough. When can I expect you?”
“Fifteen minutes?” I wasn’t expecting there to be much traffic. “I’m already in the car. I just got off the set.”
“I’ll be ready for you. See you then.”
“See you soon.”
I took a second to collect myself, then started the car and backed out and down the long road leading back to the street.
At last, I thought, I’d have some answers.
A pale blue plastic tote the size of a shoebox sat on Jerry Appleton’s desk. In it, aged and dusty, were notebooks. Some, like the books I’d received from Mrs. Hendricks, were black Moleskin journals, their covers bent and their spines creased. Others broke from that pattern. There were spiral notebooks, tiny notepads, and even a collection of pages stapled together, tucked inside a protective plastic sheet.
I looked up from the tote to Jerry Appleton who sat on the other side. His hands were folded on the desk, his expression drawn. With finality, he nodded at the tote. “This is what I was able to gather.”
“All of these are my father’s?”
“All of them.” Jerry threaded his fingers together, somber. “When he disappeared, I made sure to keep what I could. Journals like these are… private. I let the police have your father’s business affairs, but these contain fragments of your father’s soul, and I didn’t want them exposed to the world.”
A shiver raced down my spine and buried itself in my lower back. I set my hands on the edges of Jerry’s desk and leaned forward, trying to make sense of what he was telling me. “You… kept information from the police?”
“I did what I had to do in order to protect your father’s memory.” Jerry wouldn’t meet my eye. “There are some bonds between friends that aren’t meant to be broken, even in death.”
Jerry’s loyalty was outstanding, but the implications of what he’d done got under my skin. What if the information in the journals could have led the police to my parents before they were killed? I had no idea how long they were tortured, how long they suffered before they were killed, how they died, or what conditions they were held in. There was a chance the journals held key evidence that could have helped the police to find them, or to assist with the murder investigation.
I pushed away from the desk and shook my head, trying the best I could not to let the revelation get to me. There was no changing the past. What was done was done. Jerry had made his choice, and I’d made mine—now we had to live with them.
“It wasn’t an easy decision.” Jerry pushed the tote toward me, but he didn’t rise from his desk. “I know you think very highly of your father, and I maintain that, although he didn’t always make the best choices, he always did what he did for the best reasons. As a mother, you should understand that the face he put on for his family and the man he really was weren’t always aligned.”
“I feel like I know less about my father the more I try to get to know him.” The invitation to take the tote was clear, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not yet. The journals were old and neglected, but there was power in them—a look into a world so close to my own; one I’d never been a part of.
“Knowing less is sometimes knowing more.” Jerry shook his head. Slowly, he rose from his desk. One hand on his back, showing his age, he straightened his posture. Then, once he was standing upright, he came around the desk to stand at my side. “I’m sorry. I really am. No daughter should have to learn these things about her father.”
“But here I am.” I gave Jerry a sad smile. A part of me harbored resentment toward him for keeping my father’s belongings from the police, but Jerry was a kind soul—one of the few I could depend on in this twisted town. “Thank you for helping me. I know you were close with my father, and it must have taken a lot for you to trust me with this last piece of him.”
“It’s not half as hard when I know you need them more than I do.” Jerry picked the tote up from his desk and held it toward me, and I accepted it from his hands directly. “Whatever you read, whatever you find out, know that your father loved you very much.”
“I know.” Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes, but didn’t grow large enough to fall. I blinked away the excess moisture. “Thank you.”
“There’s no need to thank me. I don’t say what I don’t mean.” Jerry lay a hand on my shoulder. If I hadn’t been holding the tote, I would have hugged him—the look in his eyes was serene; he demonstrated his total trust in me, and everything I was doing.
There were no more words.
I smiled at him, and he smiled back. It was a kind, mournful smile that spoke of understanding. The hand on my shoulder squeezed as if to tell me everything would be fine, then withdrew. Jerry showed me out of the office. We said small goodbyes in the doorway, and then I was on my own.
Back at the McNair estate, I’d tricked myself into thinking that recovering my father’s belongings from Jerry would somehow bolster my mood—that with the potential to make a discovery that would help me figure out what was going on, I’d be over the moon with excitement and relief. The truth was far removed from my expectations.
I was afraid.
There was a reason Jerry hadn’t released my father’s journals to the police, and there was a reason why Mrs. Hendricks had collected what she could and kept it away from the world. Like snakeskin snagged on branches, pieces of my father had rubbed off on the world and had been collected by those he was closest to; I was trying to assemble those pieces, not knowing if I’d find a garden snake or a king cobra.
I returned to the car I’d borrowed from Jerry and set the tote on the passenger seat. What I needed was a plan, not only so I could most effectively search for relevant information, but so that I could steel myself against what I would potentially uncover. The trust I had in my father was
gone. He wasn’t the man I thought he was, and I needed to accept that in order to keep digging into his past. But how could I set the past aside when I lived with the consequences of it every day? To admit that I didn’t know felt like failure, like I’d fought so hard against nothing at all… and my mother?
I had a feeling my mother was the same way.
The journals were silent company. Their pages, yet to be uncovered, mocked me from where I sat. Inside, I would either discover that all my fears were baseless, and my father’s affairs and shady business dealings were where the corruption ended, or I would discover the world was a darker place than I knew.
Heart in my throat, I took the topmost journal and flipped to the front page. Luckily, the entries were dated. Book by book, I assembled a chronological journey into the part of my father he kept secret from everyone else. When I was done, the contents of the tote had been reorganized, the most recent journal on the top.
Names caught my eye as I flipped through and, as I overlooked the task before me, they haunted my memory. Rachel Harwood, Amanda’s mother, who’d killed herself at the McNair estate. Gino Hunt, who I knew had tracked my father on my mother’s behalf as she prepared for their divorce. Jerry Appleton, whom I trusted with my life. And Clara, the girl who’d grown up year by year from an innocent young child into a rebellious young woman with a chip on her shoulder the size of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
I didn’t think I’d like learning what my father had thought of me in the days before he died. I hadn’t been a perfect daughter, and it pained me that I’d spent my youth causing him as many problems as I could.
Even if he was the bad man Gino led me to believe he was, he hadn’t deserved that—and neither had my mother.
There were still a few hours to go before nightfall, and that meant I had time to sit outside and pour through the first journals, looking for clues about what had gone wrong in my father’s life, and who might be responsible for his death.
But I couldn’t wait until I got home. I knew I’d be distracted getting James ready for bed; passing pleasantries with Francine as she told me about his day; preparing our evening meal.
So, sitting in the quiet parking lot, sick to my stomach, I let go my fears. Steeling myself against what I might find, I selected the first journal off the stack. I cracked the cover and smoothed the first page out, intending to skim unless I found something that snagged me.
19
May 1, 2007
There’s a special place in hell for men like Al Miller and his band of cronies. What kind of man storms another man’s company and stops production because his invoices haven’t been paid in full? I should get Appleton to throw his ass in jail, sue him for every goddamn penny he’s worth. It’s not like I didn’t pay the bill. I had Vincelli pay him enough of it to keep him happy. The rest would have hit his account sometime if he’d just given me the chance to get it sorted. Vincelli’s good with the account details. He’s a goddamn good accountant, and Miller knows it.
Doesn’t he know how many people are calling me? How many invoices I receive in a day? We’re big leagues, but the economy is shot and we’re having to pinch pennies, too. You’d think another businessman would understand that.
Obviously not.
If Appleton doesn’t do something about this, I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands. This is ridiculous. I’m not running this business to play games, and I won’t entertain children who think they can barge into my company and make demands like schoolyard bullies.
No more.
I don’t care if I haven’t paid their invoices. I don’t care how many phone calls or letters I get. I’m doing everything in my power to make as many people happy as I can, and it’s about time I started trying to make myself happy, too.
May 19, 2007
She’s grounded. She will never not be grounded again. I don’t care if it makes me a horrible father, or if she hates me for the rest of her life. I’ve tried too hard to set her up for a future of success, and she’s fought me every step of the way.
I’m tired of it.
I won’t let anyone take that away from her. I fought too long and gave up too much to have it end like this. I know she’s damaged, but I’m done making excuses for her. It’s been ten years, now. Ten years. She needs to grow up. She needs to move on. She needs to pull her act together and stop sneaking out behind my back. If she only knew the things I did for her. If she could only see behind her own selfish motives.
So, until she sees, she’s staying in her room. She won’t go out. She won’t do anything unless I know where she’s going, who she’s with, and when she’ll be back.
I won’t lose her. Not after everything I went through for her.
I wish she could understand.
May 29, 2007
If I never hear the name Gino Hunt again, it’ll be too soon. The man is a loon. I’ve been tracking his comings and goings, recording them in my schedule, just to see how often he’s tailing me. I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to this. It feels like I’m a deer during open season. What the hell has gotten into her head?
But no deer does what I do. No deer holds this town together. No deer is the glue that keeps this godawful small-town economy from spiraling down the drain. She’s after blood, but what am I supposed to do? I’m a busy man, and I don’t have time for games. I don’t have time for anything at all.
Something’s got to give. I can’t keep going on like this, tracked like a goddamn animal by my own wife.
June 4, 2007
Glenda served me divorce papers today. I ripped them up in front of her; let them fall to the floor for Flora to clean up like the trash they are. Who does she think she is, serving me divorce papers? I don’t have time for a divorce. Court, legal office visits, a move, the issue of our adult daughter… all of it is too much. There’s no way she can expect I’m going to let her divorce me when we have an empire at stake. The McNair business takes every inch of my heart and soul. She knew that when she married me. If she doesn’t like it, that’s too bad.
I should have had her sign the prenup like my dad said. What the hell was I thinking?
June 17, 2007
Clara has gone off the deep end, because I didn’t already have enough stress in my life. The police brought her home last night after she was caught engaging indecently with Gary Kilvar in the park after hours. If they catch her doing it one more time, they told me she’ll be arrested. When they said it, she didn’t even flinch. She looked at me with those dead eyes of hers like all of it is my fault.
All of it is my fault.
I hate what I’ve done to her. I hate myself. Why the hell did it have to turn out like this? She spends all of her time sneaking out to have sex with married men, thinking I don’t know, but what am I supposed to do? This is the monster I created, and it’s time for me to face the facts and accept she will be my undoing. Not even visiting with Flora helps anymore.
I swear to god, that girl is going to kill me.
On June 19, 2007, my parents disappeared while I was out meeting Gary Kilvar, already a distant memory. The journal fell from my fingers and landed in my lap. I lay my head against the headrest and stared at the ceiling of the car for a long while, digesting what I’d just read.
Earlier journals, spanning back to the time I was little, hadn’t given me much insight into my father’s life. Apart from details about the women he was seeing behind my mother’s back, there was little there I found important. I’d skipped those earliest journals to focus on the ones closest to the time he disappeared. But there was nothing. Al Miller’s name had come up but, by the sounds of it, Al had gotten what he wanted, and there wouldn’t have been enough time for Jerry to serve him any papers before my father’s disappearance. All the other entries were standard.
Work, my father’s failing marriage and his numerous affairs, and my teenage behavior.
All of it had driven a man trying his best to hold his hometown together to the end of
his rope. And then, as everything in his life was falling apart all at once, it had ended abruptly. Part of me wanted to dismiss my parents’ disappearance as self-inflicted. If my father was that strung out, wouldn’t it make sense? If my mother had served him divorce papers two weeks before, there was no way she would have dressed up to go out on a date with him. Had he found her ready to leave the house to see another man and flipped?
No.
It was a convenient excuse, and it was tempting to fall back on, if only so I could have some closure, but that couldn’t have been it. According to the original police investigation, my father’s fingertips had been sliced off. There was a chance he could have done it himself, but the blood splatter patterns indicated he’d been bound, just like my mother had been.
Bound. Tortured. Killed.
No matter how much my father resented my mother for trying to end their marriage, he wouldn’t have done that. He was a bad man, but he wasn’t insane. At least, I didn’t think so.
Someone else had been involved—someone else who’d been involved in my father’s life. Maybe one of the contractors he’d gypped, or someone from town who’d been fired and was angry about it. It had to be someone who’d lived in Hickory Hills all their life, or else why would the murderer have left their possessions with them? The dress, the cufflinks, the hairpiece… all of those items were valuable to my parents in some way, and they all meant something to me. Whoever it was had to have working knowledge of the family—years of insider information that would have revealed to him the importance of those small objects in our lives.
My father wasn’t responsible for the disappearances—someone with a grudge against our family was.
I tried not to linger on it for too long. Skimming the journals had taken a lot out of me, with not much to show for it. All of the same questions remained unanswered, and I had no more leads than I had when I’d started reading.
