Blair had probably freaked out. “Yeah, we had fake IDs and were worried about getting into trouble.”
“But your father – I did speak to him.”
“My father?”
“Yeah, I had left him a voicemail when I was at the airport waiting to fly back home. When you used my cell to call their landline, their number was in the call log.”
“What did he say?”
“That you were fine but your sister was missing.” He continues. “I told him to call me if they needed anything. I explained how I found you. You know, I’m really sorry about your father…” There’s a long pause as I wait for him to resume, but the silence drags on, like he’s giving me a chance to speak.
“The only reason I know he passed away was because I called to talk to him about a trip I took back to Oahu. This was a couple of years later, a man I took surf lessons from mentioned your missing sister.”
My eyes blur as I stop pacing, sitting down on the bed with a thud.
Daddy’s dead? I grip the phone, trying not to sob before we hang up.
All I can sputter is, “Really?”
“The guy said he used to live in Honolulu but was sent back home after his best friend was under suspicion for her disappearance. His family was worried he was caught up in a bad crowd.”
Forcing myself to pull it together, I ask. “Nicholas Mercer?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“What’s he doing now?” I wonder out loud.
“Said he lives in Utah. This was years ago, though. Still was coming in the summer months to work so he could continue to surf. Only way his family would let him come back to Oahu. He had to earn money for school.”
I thank Peter for his information, condolences, and hang up, stunned.
My Daddy…you would think he’d be the first person I’d search online for information about but I can’t, not at the moment.
Swallowing bile and regret, I look instead for Nicholas Mercer, finding a private practice with his name in Salt Lake City. So he did become a dentist, joining the family business. He’s married with two children. I wouldn’t have recognized him, his frame filled-out now and his blond hair’s balding.
The former head of security at The Waterfront, Mark Matsen, comes up in police interviews. He’s no longer with hotel security, retired now but still living on Oahu. He’s started his own private investigation services, according to a news article from 2005. One of the detectives that interviewed me at the hospital mentioned him, saying Mark was on vacation in the domestic U.S. but would be extremely interested in talking to me when he got back.
I dial the number listed for him, leaving a message.
Will Loomis surprisingly isn’t on social media, but is mentioned repeatedly as a person of interest in almost every piece of information I find on the case.
How did The Mole slip a pill in our drinks if he were sitting in a corner? He could’ve just picked us out and dropped something in a glass before we were served. It was a fairly busy night and we did both go to the bathroom. I realize how easy targets we were. I wonder how many other girls trust their drinks to complete strangers without realizing the cruel intentions of some.
Who else did we see that night that might have insight? The Mole has to be a regular. Maybe an employee can suggest some repeat customers.
The bartender.
What was his name?
I look at the police report.
David Michael Edwards.
Googling him, I find no social media accounts.
I call The Ocean Club, which is now The Sandlot.
Exhaling, I drum my fingers against the keyboard.
Ah, it makes sense now. A piece of the puzzle comes together. Bridget did disappear from the same spot. So this is a preferred hangout for the Mole.
The woman who answers the phone remembers him. “Yeah, I used to be a waitress back then. David’s no longer employed here, hasn’t been since we switched owners recently.”
“I’m an old friend from high school. Can you tell me how to get in touch with him?”
Annoyed, the lady says, “I don’t know, have you tried social media?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me ask the owner,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say to empty air.
She puts the phone down, shouting at the top of her lungs at a man named Herb. “K, I’m back.” She picks up the receiver. “He quit, moved on to another job."
I consider asking where, but she’s already hung up the phone.
41
Blair
Driving to Omaha, I catch the red-eye flight to Oahu, not bothering to tell Priscilla where I’m headed. Mark will be surprised when he gets back from his trip to find out I’m here, but I’m not counting on it as pleasant, since he told me to stay put.
The rental car’s nondescript, a boring white sedan with four tires and economy fuel. Blending in’s important if I’m going to dredge up the past. I don’t bother checking into my hotel, an expensive dump not far from where we stayed all those years ago.
Even in the seven years since I’ve been here, progress has been ongoing, buildings torn down, renovated, and re-named.
The Waterfront is now owned by a large hotel conglomerate.
The Ocean Club is now called The Sandlot.
Different decor, more of a hipster vibe, appealing to a younger crowd.
Tentatively I walk by it, headed there to take care of my first order of business. My sandals trek through the sand, the beach filled with families, towels, sandcastles, and vendors. I walk up to the tiki hut, knock-off sunglasses and surf boards dangling precariously from hooks.
“What're you doing here?” His voice cracks, recognizing me instantly. "You know you're supposed to stay five hundred yards from me." He’s in his early thirties, aging, and not for the better. His once-muscular stature has been replaced with a gut that hangs over his boardshorts, his t-shirt too short for his height. The sun has worn lines across his bronzed skin, making him look years older than he is. There’s a scar down his neck, long and jagged.
I try not to stare, curious where it came from. Did his girlfriend slash him with a knife? Did Bristol defend herself against him?
He’s wearing Ray-Bans that he pulls up on his head, incredulous.
I smile sweetly. "That ended years ago."
Timid, he darts his eyes around at the beachgoers. "What do you want from me?" He holds his palms out. "I’ve told you and everyone else, I don't know anything."
"I want my baby sister back."
"I've told you all I know, the cops, your family..." He shakes his head. "You've ruined my life."
"I ruined your life?" I narrow my eyes, incredulous. "I go on a vacation ten years ago with my sister, and only one of us came home."
"Blair...what did you come here for?"
"Justice."
"What do you want me to do?” He pounds the register. “Confess to a crime I didn't commit? I've been carrying guilt around all these years."
"Yeah, because you're guilty."
"No, just because I was the last one to see her alive doesn’t make me a murderer.” He looks at the ocean, a lone surfer out on the waves. “And now everyone looks at me like I am one."
"No one even remembers her..." I whisper. "That's the problem."
"Everyone remembers." He looks over his shoulder. "I'm working as a mechanic in a second-rate shop because I can't get a job anywhere."
"You were a felon long before I met you."
"Not with those types of accusations.” He motions at the cash register. “I still have to teach surf lessons to make ends meet like when I was twenty.”
"You were never charged."
"You wanna get coffee?" Will smirks. "Actually, no, you’ll throw the scalding pot in my face."
"No, I'm not going anywhere with you." I say. "I'm watching you, and so are they."
"Who?"
"Why Bridget?"
"Huh?" He purses his lip. "Who’s Bridge
t?"
"Where's Nicholas at?" I ask. “You still friends?”
"None of your damn business."
"He still live on the island?"
"No."
"But he was in dental school."
He shakes his head at me, disgusted. "Are you really that selfish?"
"Huh?"
"You think you're the only one whose life changed when Bristol went missing?"
"No, it ruined my parents’ lives, too."
"It affected us all, Blair. We were with both of you that night. We were drinking with you. The last ones to see her." He bites his lip. “We all paid the price, believe me.”
"How does one person vanish without a trace?"
Turning on his heel, he checks his clipboard, grabs a wetsuit and a whistle.
"Will?" I yell.
He turns his head, looking over his shoulder.
"It will all end when you confess."
"I'm not giving a false confession, Blair," he hollers. "Now get the fuck away from me before I have your crazy ass put in jail for harassment."
42
Bristol
After I get off the phone, I take Houston for a walk down the street, his eyes watchful and protective. We don’t venture out too far, staying on the sidewalk and in plain sight of the neighbor’s houses.
Max picks up the baby from the sitter and offers to bring take-out back after work. We eat Chinese food, my stomach still adjusting to an Americanized diet, egg drop soup my choice to avoid getting sick. He tells me about some stray kittens that were found in a cardboard box near the beach. They were dropped off by a concerned citizen at his office, and now he is re-homing them. I offer to make some signs.
We talk about my class and he asks me lots of questions on what I learned. My face burns, I must seem so stupid to him. He doesn’t make me feel that way, but I’m self-conscious.
Pulling a box out of the kitchen drawer, he surprises me with my own cell phone, my excitement palpable as I open up what is more savvy than anything I’ve ever owned. Thanking him profusely, he gives me a quick tutorial on basic functions.
It’s for my safety, he says. “I programmed myself in under ‘Animal House.’” We both laugh.
Eyeing his watch, he tickles the baby. “I’ve gotta get going.”
“Do you mind if I take a bath?” I ask him as he stands to put on his jacket.
“Not at all.” He smiles at me. “I’m going to catch a movie with Dylan.” Dylan’s his best friend, him and his wife are both doctors and have let us borrow all their old baby stuff.
I’m relieved to be alone. “Enjoy.” I climb the stairs, putting the baby in his bassinet, his breathing even as he slumbers.
Sitting down with the laptop and a glass of sparkling apple juice, the idea of drinking wine nauseating, I look up my father, Bruce Bellamy.
I know he’s dead but I couldn’t comprehend it earlier. It was such a surprise, researching his death wasn’t something I could just do. Reading his obituary, tears stream down my cheeks, not only because of sadness, but because of the cause of death. My mouth gapes when it mentions his blood alcohol content being three times the legal limit. I’d never seen my father take a sip in his life.
Is this what happened after I didn’t come home?
Shaking, I tell myself it has nothing to do with me, yet I know deep down, it has everything to do with me. Wasn’t it Newton’s law that said, ‘for every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction’? My disappearance didn’t just affect me negatively, it affected everyone that came in contact with me.
Leaving the door open, I start a bath, adding bubbles and warm water, surprised I can even stomach taking one. The water soothes me, and this is a real jetted tub compared to the metal basin, a different experience entirely, one I can separate.
Sinking down, careful to keep my left arm from getting wet, I lean back slowly.
My mind racing, I gnaw at my finger. The stress Daddy must have been under. Yet I was alive this whole time and he never knew.
It’s just not fair.
Angrily, I pound my fist quietly into the side of the tub, feeling sorry for myself but trying not to wake the baby. Sobbing, it’s as if I’m releasing ten years of frustration and sadness. Ripped away from my family and friends, the four walls a prison, I let it all go, my shoulders shaking, my body trembling underneath the scalding water.
Hearing a noise, I hold my breath for a second. The baby isn’t making any sounds, the monitor silent beside me. I wonder if Houston’s chewing on one of his toys.
Sliding down, I try and make myself invisible as heavy footsteps enter the bedroom, the cherry wood thumping underneath.
Houston barks frantically.
I look up, my eyes clouded with tears.
He’s standing there, arms crossed, looking at me.
It all comes back to me when I see him.
My heart thuds, the next couple of beats slamming into my chest.
Closing my eyes, I sink lower in the water.
43
Bristol
“What do you want?” I wipe a tear away with the back of my hand, submerging farther into the bubbles so my nakedness and scars aren’t visible. I don’t want him to see all of the burn marks, judge my past even more than he already must.
“Bristol.” He takes a small step into the bathroom, leaning against the frame.
A chill tingles down my spine. “What did you just call me?”
“Your real name.” He takes another step towards me, the mirrors foggy from the steam. I stare straight ahead at the glass shower wall in front of me, afraid of him noticing the way my lower lip trembles.
“How did you know?” I whisper, avoiding his pensive gaze.
Max lowers himself to the floor, hands resting on his knees.
Taking pity on me, he doesn’t try to make eye contact. “I forgot to show you the ‘browser history’ option on the computer.”
I’m confused. “What does that mean?”
“That I could see what you looked at today.” He’s nonchalant. “Like a log of every site you’ve visited, everything you’ve searched.”
“You were spying on me?” I furiously thrust my washcloth in the water, angrily twisting it in a knot.
He holds his head held down in shame. “Bristol, why didn’t you tell me what happened to you?”
I’m silent for a minute.
“My name’s Bridget.”
“Bristol Anne Bellamy.” He speaks it slowly, emphasizing my first, middle, and last name. “And you’re twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight, definitely not eighteen.”
“Because...” I say, “I’m not Bristol anymore.”
“But you’re not Bridget. We’ve already established that.” He hunches forward. “She’s dead, right?”
I shudder. “Please don’t say that. Not if I can help it.” I try and change the subject. “What happened to the movie?”
“Dylan got called in to work a shift. I was going to see if you wanted to go and we could ask my neighbor to watch the baby.”
“I’m not feeling well tonight.”
“I know. I can see that.”
“I’ll leave tomorrow. I can go to the shelter.”
“Dammit, Bristol, I don’t want you to leave. I just want to know what happened to you, how I can help you, who you are, not the façade, but the person you were before you disappeared. You’ve left me with more questions than answers since I found you on that trail.”
“I don’t know who I am, don’t you get it? I have a name. but I’ve been presumed dead for a decade and my life stopped at seventeen.” I burrow my face in my knees, “I don’t have the answers, just questions.”
I rise, my hands shaking as I hold the edge of the tub for balance. “I’m trying to find a sick pervert who gets off on murdering girls.”
Stepping out, I stomp my wet foot on the bath mat. “I’ve been removed from life and it’s like I fell into a pit of blackness for ten years.”
�
��Is this why you don’t want the baby?”
“Don’t say it that way, don’t you dare say it that way.” I reach down for a towel, wrapping it tight around my chest. “Will you hand me my robe please?”
Max stands, yanking it from the back of the door. “Is it because the baby belongs to him? Is there guilt so you don’t want to keep him, to give him a name?”
“Why should I tell you, so you can judge me?” I’m lashing out at him and it’s not fair.
“Bristol…” He starts to reach for my hand, but stops himself, scared he’ll spook me and I’ll shut down completely.
Whispering, I lean on the bathroom counter, my face contorted in the steamy mirror. “I don’t know how to care for myself, let alone him.”
“Jesus, Bristol, this is...” He runs a hand through his dark hair. “There are no words. Ten years is a long time.” I see tears in his eyes as he gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’ll leave you alone.” He doesn’t shut the door, leaving the room instead, I hear his footsteps trailing back downstairs. “Okay,” I say to his back.
My hands quiver, the soft cotton robe drawn to my body. Sinking to the floor, my eyes gaze at the white and grey tile, the sleepy labradoodle that’s now perched near the small window in the bathroom my protector. He gallantly raises his head to reinforce this.
A few minutes later, I hear a phone ring downstairs, hushed voices, and then a door slams shut, the silence impenetrable. I’m paranoid, the connotation I have with doors closing reminds me of The Mole.
I decide to get a cup of tea, noticing a handwritten note beside the stove. Max had to rush to his practice to perform emergency surgery on a dog that’s been attacked.
Moving restlessly around the house, I can’t seem to quiet my mind and body. The tea kettles whistles, my fingers tapping the gray and white Quartz countertops.
Into the Night Page 30
