Missing Pieces

by Meredith Tate

  Lara spun toward me. “Did you have something to do with this?”

  “No, I swear!”

  “Good.” She uncorked a bottle of white wine and tossed the cork into the sink. “You know, for all that shit Tracy Bailey caused me in my life…” She slugged back a swig, straight from the bottle, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Her face contorted into a sick grin. “I hope they catch her.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Oh, don’t I?” She flicked her hair behind her shoulder, proceeding down the hall toward her room, bottle in hand.

  My heart raced.

  This is my only chance.

  I took a deep breath.

  “Lara! Wait!”

  That was two hours ago. A lot has happened.

  I race down the dark streets on foot because they took my car. My heart thumps louder each time my sneakers hit the pavement, but I can’t slow down. I don’t have much time.

  If she’s alive, I’ve only got twenty-four hours to find her. If she’s not…

  Blood trickles down my face, but I don’t feel it like they want me to. I wipe it away and keep running. My pulse races through my skin as I jog to our old neighborhood, pushing my cramping lungs with each step. It’s miles away, but it doesn’t matter.

  I’ll find her.

  I did something. Something big. For her. For us. For myself.

  I left Lara Goodren.

  Tracy Bailey

  After one quick stop, I park Sam’s car at the tallest bridge in town. It’s secluded and ghostlike, only one lane wide. Two dim street lights illuminate the green, rusty posts, creating elongated shadows in the night. Howling wind rustles through the sloppy ponytail I tied as a hasty disguise.

  Sirens blaze in the distance, probably looking for me. They’ll never look here—at least, not until it’s too late. I won’t give them the satisfaction of killing me.

  Mustering every ounce of strength in my broken body, I climb the maintenance ladder to the top. I used to drive over this bridge sometimes, and I always had a perverse curiosity about this service ladder. I’ve always wanted to climb it.

  Every inch of my body screams, fingers stiff with dried blood. Bruised and broken, I press on.

  The plan must be carried out. All the way to the bitter end.

  I reach the top and cling to a rusty pole. One hundred feet below, icy white rapids rush in sickening gushes. I close my eyes, heart pounding. My jagged breaths slice through my lungs.

  Don’t be afraid. I pat my belly. It’ll be over soon.

  I kick my shoe over the edge, into the dark abyss.

  Something for them to find, when they can’t find my body.

  I remove the first layer of my three coats and drape it from the beam above. It sways in the wind, but stays in place.

  Piren, wherever you are, I love you. I hope you find my note. And I hope you don’t hate me.

  I clench my fingers around the rungs of the bridge, close my eyes, and lean my body over the edge.

  This is good-bye.

  Piren Allston

  The Mayor gave me twenty-four hours to pack before the Lornstown shuttle whisks me away. I ran to his office to confess my crime immediately after leaving Lara. I caught him just as he was putting on his coat. His guards pinned me to the desk and cut my face, right then and there. I didn’t even feel it.

  They confiscated my car; legally, it’s now Lara’s.

  My Partner screamed till her face turned purple. She called me a thousand ugly names and hurled a shoe at me; it bounced off the doorframe as I dashed outside. Her echoing wails followed me a block, but she didn’t.

  My family doesn’t know what I’ve done, but they will soon. I sent them a letter explaining why I did it. I hope they receive it before the newspaper prints the story and desecrates me. At least they’ll hear my side.

  I don’t expect them to forgive me. They’ll probably hate me until they die. Regardless, I love them, and that will never change. I can’t force myself to stop loving them simply because I am not with them; that’s not how love works. Love is not a light switch you can flip on and off as you please. It’s not something you can manufacture or create. It’s not a decision you can make. You can’t destroy it with a law, or beat it out with fists. It swarms you when you least expect it, and grabs hold of you.

  I didn’t choose to fall for Tracy Bailey. But I did.

  I know her better than anyone in the world, which is why I know where to go. There is only one place in the whole world to find my best friend.

  Face dripping in blood and sweat, I race through Harker’s Woods and into the clearing. My feet catch and trip over the rungs as I throw myself to the treehouse floor, panting.

  My heart stops.

  She’s not here.

  That’s when I find the note.

  Part Eight: Twenty-Four Years Old

  Tracy Bailey

  No, I didn’t kill myself.

  Maybe there was a time I wanted to end my life. Wanted to stop the pain. Wanted to jump off a bridge into the rushing rapids and hurl myself into final peace. But something changed that night. The night he almost killed me and my baby.

  I’ve always been a survivor. I’m good at surviving. I survived twenty-four years of life, waiting for something to happen. I allowed myself to survive, but not to live.

  As Sam throttled me, my survival instinct slipped away. The one thin string inside me, the single thread forcing me to hang on, snapped.

  But as if my child fueled me with strength, as if my little unborn baby saved my life, something inside me shifted. It was a hunger, a deep down desire to live. Because surviving, going through the motions of a meaningless existence, isn’t living.

  Standing on the bridge, my life flashed before my eyes; it was all cold and dark. When I left that blood-stained jacket on the post, I left my old life with it.

  I didn’t die. I said good-bye to Tracy Bailey.

  Every piece of evidence I planted—the coat, the shoe, Sam’s abandoned car by the bridge—will point the cops to my suicide. The frantic phone call probably helped.

  My parents, my friends, and my sister will believe it. I’m a Partner-murderer now; no one can know I’m alive. I couldn’t risk anyone tracing me to Lornstown; they needed to believe my death. My parents will mourn, but they will return to their old lives. Veronica will ache, and picturing her bereaved face clenches me inside. But I can’t protect her; she must do that for herself. In the end, I know she’ll find peace and happiness, and so must I. In this town, being a murderer is less of a taint than loving the wrong person. In their eyes, I committed the worst sin before ever laying eyes on that hammer.

  I’m on my second bus now, after a long, five a.m. train. Hair tucked under my hood, I mask my drooping eyes in thick sunglasses. Two layered jackets conceal my bleeding body.

  I’m going to Lornstown.

  No. I pat my stomach. We’re going to Lornstown.

  We’re going home.

  I don’t expect Piren to leave Lara and find me, not after all we’ve been through. After all we’ve done to each other. But I do expect him to find the note. At news of my suicide, he’ll come to the treehouse for answers, I know he will. He knows me well enough to go there, and I know him well enough to know that.

  He’s a father, and he doesn’t even know. Maybe he never will.

  And someday, if he wants to come find me, I’ll be here. I’ll wait for him. I’ll build a home for us—our own Lornstown cabin treehouse. I’ll build it with my own hands, and add to it over time. I’ll raise our child the best I can—without a Ceremony in sight. I can see my baby running through The Lighthouse with Evan, causing all sorts of mischief. I’m proud already.

  Maybe someday Piren will come. Maybe today, maybe in a year, maybe in a hundred years, but I will be here waiting. Being with him in Lornstown was my fondest memory, and I’ll hold it forever. If he never comes to Lornstown, if I never see his face again, I’ll still revel in knowing that for those few
short hours, he was mine.

  The note I left in the treehouse was short:

  I’ll cya under the arch.

  And I intend to go to that arch as often as I can.

  I’ll see a doctor in Lornstown to fix my broken body. Fix what I hastily bandaged together with whatever I could find, because I’m worth fixing. Piren thinks so, and he’s my best friend, so I’m inclined to believe him. Plus, I need to be healthy—I’m a mother now.

  The doors slide open, and I’ve arrived at that quaint farming town, at the mouth of my treacherous hike. I hoist my bag over the seats and jump off the bus. I take a deep breath.

  Here we go. You ready?

  The arduous hike wrecks my torn muscles, but within a few hours, the sprawling Lornstown wall peeks from the horizon, and I quicken my step. Stumbling and panting, I reach the arch at the top of the hill.

  That’s when I see him. Framed in the archway, face marred, hair matted, caked in dirt, my best friend waits. My legs freeze, heart jumping into my throat.

  I can’t breathe, can’t think. All I can do is gape.

  “You know, for a great adventurer—” he steps toward me “—you suck at disguise. I could tell it was you a mile away.”

  It’s Piren. My best friend. My missing puzzle piece.

  “How…how did you get here?”

  “Oh, a limo,” he says. “The Lornstown shuttle.”

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  “An hour or two. I dunno.” He sprouts a half-smile.

  My stomach knots with a tangled mess of emotion.

  Don’t you dare cry.

  “But you…Lara…”

  “No.” He steps closer. “It’s over.”

  I brush his scar with my finger, crimson blood cemented across his cheek.

  “You’re Banished.” The word cracks in my mouth.

  “I am.”

  “They caught you. Because of me?”

  “No. I turned myself in. I made the choice.”

  “And you…you’ll stay here?” I ask. “With me?”

  “Always. Forever. I promise.”

  Maybe when love is the unstoppable force, there is no object it can’t move. And maybe when it reaches that immovable object, that single thing standing in its way, it will find a way around. It will find a way to live.

  I take a deep breath. “I have to tell you something.” I press my hands to my belly. “I’m pregnant.”

  His lip quivers. He darts his eyes to my stomach and back up to my face.

  “Is it…?”

  “Yours.” I meet his eyes. “Are you upset?”

  He reaches out a trembling hand and presses it over mine.

  “No way,” he says. “I just…I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it.”

  “Trace, I missed you, I—”

  I throw my arms around his neck, locking his lips to mine. My heart bounds.

  It’s not forbidden anymore.

  As we kiss, my lips curl into a giggly smile. He pulls away.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m just…happy.”

  His toothy grin expands across his face. “To our new lives?”

  “The best adventure yet.”

  He takes my hand, and we pass under the arch together.

  “I love you, Tracy Bailey.”

  “I love you, Piren Allston.”

  And I always will.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to acknowledge everyone at Omnific Publishing for believing in me and this story from the beginning. I couldn’t have done it without the help of the Omnific staff, especially Elizabeth Harper, Colleen Wagner, Jennifer Haren, Micha Stone, and Lisa O’Hara. Also to Omnific’s partner, Gallery Books (Simon & Schuster).

  I would like to especially thank editor extraordinaire, Sean Riley, for putting up with my emails at all hours of the day and night, and for believing in my vision for Missing Pieces. Thank you for everything!

  I’d like to thank Carrie Fenn, my first CP, and the amazing Christina de Henry Tessan at Girl Friday Productions for helping me develop this story. Also, Molly Dean Stevens and Jamie Howard, for being so supportive and amazing.

  Steve Shannon, for taking my author photos and helping me design my website, and my wonderfully talented cousin Elizabeth Siegel for designing my banner.

  I couldn’t have done it without the support of my amazing family, especially my parents, Jessica and Paul Tate, and my grandmother, Elizabeth Ross.

  My eleventh-grade English teacher, Joann McGlynn, who encouraged me to pursue my dreams—your words stuck with me, even a decade later.

  To my in-laws—Vincent F., Michele, Catherine, Ryan, Gabriella, Alexander, Brianna—for supporting not only my book, but their son/ brother/ uncle’s decision to marry a writer!

  Everyone in the Tate/ Ross/ Bombardier/ Servello families, Diane Pion, and all those who might as well be family—especially Aunt Robin and Uncle Larry, and the Dame School Group.

  My wonderful husband, Vincent, for wrangling my sloppy first drafts and proof reading Missing Pieces more times than I can count. Also, for being so unconditionally supportive of my writing and giving me the chance to follow my dreams—I love you!

  Kate Smith—thank you for all your authorly guidance over the past few years, and for blurbing my book!

  To the St. Louis Writer’s Guild, especially the Write Pack Radio team and Thursday table—Jamie, Jennifer, David, Melanie, Brad, Kathleen, Teresa, Matt, Emma, Fedora, Peter, and everyone else—I’m so grateful to you for welcoming this NH girl into the fold.

  The three friends I’ve known since the dawn of time: Kristina Rieger, Caitlin Clark, and Jill Schaffer—thank you for being there all these years. Bekah Mar-Tang—thanks for putting up with all my freak-out texts while I wrote this book. Kirsten Cowan—for being all around awesome. Finally, to Brendan Bly, Alexis Carr, Monica Craver, Amy Debevoise, Audrey Desbiens, Katie Gill, Chris Kinnier, Amy & Eric Lousararian, Paige MacDougall, Brett Roell, Caitlin Stevenson, Lydia Timmons, Sarah Winters, and Molly Wyant. Thank you for believing in me. Your support means the world.

  About the Author

  A proud New Hampshire native, Meredith Tate lives in St. Louis with her husband, Vincent. Meredith has a master’s degree in social work from the University of New Hampshire and is a licensed certified social worker. She is a contributor to the St. Louis Writer’s Guild’s Write Pack Radio Show every Sunday afternoon. When she’s not writing, Meredith enjoys traveling to new places, playing the piano, befriending wild geese, and spending time with family and friends. Much like her characters, she’s always up for another adventure.

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