Hey, now, I didn’t say that.
But you keep interviewing him! How many times has he been down to the station now, five? And besides, that’s what everybody thinks.
Who’s everybody?
My parents, my husband, my brother, people who post on the message board. Even her family—except Abby. But Abby’s always loved Greg, I mean, like a big brother. Abby would never think...but if you think Greg had something to do with it—
I didn’t say that. I wanted to know what you thought. You know her, you know the dynamics best, right?
Of course. I’m her best friend. We’re practically sisters.
Tell me this, that last couple months, or weeks even, was anything different? To do with her and Greg, or even nothing to do with Greg. Anything—even if you don’t think it’s significant. Was she having any conflict with anyone else?
ABBY
IN THE END, THERE WAS NO WATER BREAKING, NO SUDDEN onset of cramps in the night, no mucous plug in the toilet, no Braxton Hicks. None of the things you told me to watch out for. Just the progressive tightening of a blood pressure cuff around my bicep, extra proteins in my urine.
You would have noticed the symptoms, picked up on the subtle differences between a normal pregnancy and pre-eclampsia before my blood pressure spiked. You would have told me I had to keep eating even when I didn’t feel like it, you would have brought me yogurt and stirred it for me because you know I hate the fruit on the bottom. Remember after Cam dumped me for Jessica and you made taco casserole but then forgot to set the timer, and I ranted for so long by the time we remembered, the noodles had hardened into concrete slabs? A hot mess, literally.
You would have asked me more about my headaches, given me a scalp massage. You would have noticed the puffy fingers, the water retention. You would have reminded me about my doctor’s appointment instead of letting me sleep through it, caught in a dream where you went for your run, and I followed you, chased you down the street. You ran too fast, I couldn’t catch you. The baby was in the way. I couldn’t breathe, my lungs burned, wait! Wait for me! You didn’t even see me. I couldn’t catch you. I couldn’t stop you. And then I woke up, and just barely got myself to the bathroom before I threw up.
My mother showed up behind me, bent down on her knees and put her hands on my shoulders. I puked again, into the filthy toilet basin and up along the sides. There was vomit in my hair. My mom lifted the strands away from my neck. “Oh, Abby, my Abby.” Stop touching me! “We’re going to the hospital now.” No! I’m not going anywhere with you! Leave me alone!
By the time they got me up on the exam table, it was too late, too late for prevention, for bedrest, for monitoring. The baby’s heart rate dropped. They had to put me under, but I could still feel the first slice. I could see my mother’s wide blue eyes over the blue hospital mask that covered her nose and mouth. Why did you do this to me, Tash? Why did you leave me? I can’t do this without you!
“We’re going to do this fast,” said the anesthesiologist. “When you wake up, you’re going to have a baby.” The numbness came, like a high.
A niece. You knew. You knew you knew.
Summer Natasha Bell. July 13, 2002. Three-and-a-half weeks early. Emergency C-section. Five pounds, two ounces.
I woke up, and she was here.
Just like when I woke up, and you were gone.
Tip #94
July 14, 2002
Um, I’m calling about that missing girl from Calgary? I work at a gas station in Kathyrn, I think that girl came in here. She was driving a black vehicle—I didn’t catch the licence plate. She came in, bought some snacks. Paid in cash. She had um, jeans and a hoodie, I think. Don’t remember the colour. I only recognized her after I saw the news later. [...] Yeah, she was alone. [...] No, we don’t have surveillance. I mean, we have cameras around, so people don’t steal stuff, but they don’t actually work. Real cameras are expensive.
REUBEN
REUBEN GOT THE PHOTOS FROM THE VIC’S CAMERA DEVELOPED prior to heading out, but hasn’t looked at them yet. The station said it had a backlog; he could have taken the prints somewhere like Walmart and had a quicker turnaround, but with all the publicity, he didn’t want to risk someone making an extra copy and selling them to the media or something. Now, parked out back of the vic’s ex-boyfriend’s condo in an unmarked car, in full view of the parking garage and the back stairwell exit, Reuben flips on his overhead light and takes the photos out of the package.
Several photos feature the vic’s sister. A silly one with her sticking her tongue out for the camera, her belly significantly smaller than Reuben recalls. These must stretch over a few months, at least. A few at a doctor’s appointment, lil sis on an exam table—an ultrasound, probably. Further back, there are shots of the vic’s sister’s birthday, the sister seated at the kitchen table blowing out the candles on a slightly lopsided chocolate iced cake. Reuben bets the vic made the birthday cake herself. He’s gotten to know her so well through all the interviews—she’s the type to put in the effort and make something homemade. A few more pics of the vic in running gear, shorts and a T-shirt, a white paper bib with the number 603 printed on the front, a 10k medal around her neck. Judging by the weather, probably taken in the last few months.
Reuben’s always got a guy tracking the ex-boyfriend, the likely perp, during searches, too. Sometimes a perp—usually a husband or a boyfriend—will deliberately lead searchers to a body, making it look like he stumbled across it by accident. That way, the body gets found, the perp can go from anxious spouse to grieving widower, bury the body (and hence, the evidence), and move forward with their new life. Done and done.
Reuben closes his eyes for a second. His head throbs. It would have been a hell of a lot easier had there been video surveillance in the perp’s apartment. According to the property manager, cameras were installed in the elevators, lobby, and the parking garage, but not on the apartment floors. When Reuben interviewed the neighbours, none claimed to have heard or seen anything. Reuben had easily found a pathway in and out of the building via stairwells and a back exit that wouldn’t be captured on video. So much for security.
He found the back exit propped open with a rock, surrounded by a scattering of cigarette butts of different types. A couple neighbours whose complexes, like the perp’s, didn’t have balconies, confirmed that they went out back to smoke, and that they often used rocks to prop open the door so they could come back in without having to go around front and use their keys. The perp didn’t smoke, as far as Reuben knew. Reuben briefly thought about having the rock sent for fingerprinting. Maybe his perp’s prints would show up, proving he’d touched it recently, perhaps during an escape and re-entry the night of July sixth, during which he claimed to be inside his condo, sick. But that would never work. Even if he got prints off the rock, all it would prove was that the perp had touched it at some point, not when. Same with the back door handle. The evidence would never hold up.
Reuben can only supervise the one door, and physical surveillance keeps him away from the office. He brought paperwork so he could do both at the same time; and he hasn’t been completely honest with his boss about staking out the condo complex either. The perp parks underground, which means that, if he exits the building out the front door, it’ll be on foot. Out back, he could exit on foot or in his vehicle. Reuben has a hunch that the guy might be trying to cover his tracks. Perps do this sometimes; revisit a scene once an investigation is underway, to hide or dispose of evidence. Reuben can’t miss his window—bad guys who clean up after themselves usually do it early on.
Someone exits the condo complex back door, leans against the wall, lights up. Reuben puts the photos face down on the empty passenger seat and squints at the figure amid the exhaled puff of grey smoke. Female.
He’s had his guys at the station go through the guy’s garbage already and inventory everything. Note anything that even looked remotely like blood. Any cleaning supplies, sponges, or paper towels. He has the list o
f the guy’s trash in his file with him right now. Bathroom garbage: used Kleenex, sock with hole in it, empty pill packets (NyQuil), floss, used razor, crusty toothpaste tube. Kitchen garbage: Ramen noodle packages, two rotting apples, balled up paper towels smeared with ambiguous fluid, mouldy block of cheddar cheese. The guy also recycles—go figure, earth nerd. That bin contained a few empty cans of Coke, some unopened junk mail flyers, a condo notice about the water being turned off, a partially rinsed plastic yogurt container. Vanilla.
How long has he been sitting here now? Reuben turns on the car engine to check the time on the dash. Almost two hours. Fuck. Seven cars have either entered or exited, but not the perp’s. He could just leave. But then he will have wasted his time, and he’ll feel stupid.
Ninety minutes later, six cars out, two in, and yes! He’s got it! Perp’s Chevy, headed east. Reuben starts the car, his heartbeat galloping as he follows the car onto a main street and the speedometer picks up.
Asshole! Reuben thinks, as a red Mazda cuts him off at a merge and he winds up a few cars behind the perp. If he’d had his car and siren, this wouldn’t have happened, but then, he can’t follow a suspect in a squad car. Eventually he speeds up and gets in front of the Mazda and lines up beside the perp, then lags back a little in case the guy recognizes him. Reuben is wearing a cap and sunglasses, but he’s still gotta be careful. This perp is Ph.D. educated, seems to know how to cover his tracks well.
Papers slide from the passenger seat to the floor as first the perp, then Reuben, make a right turn. There go the photos, the vic’s bank statements, pages of her cellphone and landline bills, and the highlighters Reuben’s been using to make notes. Since the vic left her cellphone at home, they couldn’t ping it for location. No activity on the credit card or debit card, no weird withdrawals over the last several months, either.
Buddy takes Glenmore to Fourteenth, heads south. None of the searches so far have focused on the south. Vic and sis live North West. Reuben squints and studies the top of the perp’s head, the little he can see over the headrest. Take me to her, he thinks. Just take me right to her.
Perp takes the last exit off Fourteenth onto MacLeod Trail and then changes lanes into the far left, turns on Sun Valley Boulevard, and enters a residential area. Where’s he going? When they’d entered the South East, Reuben had assumed they’d end up somewhere rural, remote. And yet—
Reuben slows and tails the perp through a playground zone. Asshole drives at least ten over all the way through; Reuben could totally pull him over, but then he’d lose the destination. The guy finally stops at a white house with greyish trim. Whose house is this? Maybe he had an accomplice? He could have hired a hit man to do his dirty work. Reuben continues down the street a little bit, parks where it is less likely he will be noticed. But he wants to see who answers the door when the perp rings the bell. Reuben squints and tries to make out the house number.
A pudgy older woman comes to the door and embraces the suspect.
Reuben groans audibly inside his vehicle. He doesn’t have to plug in the address to figure out he’s just sat in front of the guy’s condo for three hours and then followed him for half an hour across the city to his mommy’s house.
Reuben reaches down and gathers the fallen papers from the floor, attempts to sort them back into piles. When he tries to put them back in the envelope, he realizes that a few of the photos had gotten stuck in the envelope the first time he removed them. He pulls out the two photos he hadn’t seen the first time through, flips on the car’s overhead light, and studies the shots.
There’s a close-up of the vic, grinning at the camera. Who took this? Reuben wonders. Her sister? The vic looks awfully fancy, though. He studies the picture more closely under the light. A shiny earring dangles from one visible earlobe. A dangly earring suggests a night out. The person in the next shot, Reuben doesn’t recognize, but he holds it for a long time. Is he missing something? No one mentioned a tall, dark-skinned man with close-cropped black hair and a collared shirt. The man looks Indian, possibly Eastern European. Attractive. There’s something about the way he’s tilting his head, his full smile. It’s more natural than posed, like he’s staring into the face of someone he loves. If these two photos were at the back, then they were probably the last shots taken. How did he miss them? Reuben thinks. And what else is he missing?
JOSIE
www.findnatashabell.com
The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. —Deuteronomy 31:8
Dear readers—
I implore you to PLEASE join us in the search for my best friend, Natasha Bell, who has now been missing for eight days. A search has been organized for tomorrow, July 15, beginning at 9:00 a.m., and we need all the volunteers we can get. For those of you who are unable to join us, please remain on the lookout for Natasha. Please distribute her photo and spread the word amongst family, friends, colleagues, and neighbours. We need to keep her name in the media until she is FOUND! I believe she is ALIVE! For those of you who never had a chance to meet Natasha, I wanted to tell you what an amazing woman she is. When we were kids, Natasha saved my brother’s life. The three of us were playing in the ravine near my childhood home, when Jason, my twin brother, had his first seizure. Natasha stopped him from falling and hitting his head. I ran for help. Jason started throwing up, and Natasha put her fingers in his mouth and scooped out the vomit so that he wouldn’t choke. When the ambulance got there, Natasha was holding his head in her lap and he was unconscious. If it hadn’t been for Natasha, he could have died. After that, Natasha decided to become a nurse.
Natasha saved my brother’s life, and the lives of countless others through her job. Now it is her turn to be SAVED! Hang in there, Natasha! The Lord is watching over you and your family and friends love you!
ABBY
YOU WOULD EASILY OUTSHINE ME IN THE MOTHERING category, Tash. You’re the one who set up a high interest savings account for Summer before she was even born. You taught me about crib bumpers and SIDS, about the benefits of breast-feeding, the pros and cons of cord blood banking. You sat down with Cam and his parents and hammered out a child support agreement so we wouldn’t have to go to court. You suggested I move in with you when my mom refused to speak to me unless I got an abortion. I mean, what’s her problem? Everybody knows she got pregnant out of wedlock, too. Not before she graduated high school, but still.
Summer is the scrawny alien sucking my nipples raw; screaming until she can’t breathe because she’s too tired to fall asleep; vomiting cloudy white fluid over my shoulder; flinging her arms and legs out from her body when she startles; making that scrunchy, accusing stare that makes her look just like Cam; wriggling seal-slick in the bath, making me feel like I’m going to drop her.
But Summer is mine. And fuck anyone who tries to take her away from me.
One night, the week after she was born, I asked Dad if he would hold her, just hold her for half an hour so I could have a nap, because she screeched every time I tried to put her in the bassinet. I couldn’t stay downstairs anymore with all the shit Josie set up in the living room, the maps of search locations with Xs all over them in fat yellow highlighter, hundreds of that same photo of you. Dad said, “Sure,” and turned away from his computer for a moment, and reached his arms out, took her from me, and then stopped and gazed at her. Had he ever looked at me that way when I was a baby? He said, “Hi, there. Hi.”
But when I woke up, I heard voices in the kitchen. My mom and Kayla.
I got closer, stood at the spot where the two walls met, where I could see them but they couldn’t see me.
“I just think,” Kayla said, “they should consider the possibility more. I mean, she has a number of risk factors.”
I could only see the back of Kayla’s head, that thick auburn bob, the ends curled under. Clearly she had time to sit and curl her hair before coming over to help look for her missing stepsister. Like mothe
r, like daughter. Even without seeing her face, I could tell right away she was on one of her psychologist rants. Kayla keeps reminding us all that, in about a year, she’ll officially be Doctor Kayla Shannon. Like she’s better than the rest of us.
“What kind of red flags?” asked Mom, and I moved a little closer, pressed myself up against the wall.
“I just think ending her relationship probably triggered a lot of feelings of abandonment—you know, from her childhood, from her mother. I would have recommended she see a psychologist about it. CBT—cognitive behavioural therapy—with a trained professional, of course, would have helped. It has an empirical evidence base.”
“Right,” said Mom. I could see the right side of Mom’s face and the back of her head, her thick, dyed blonde hair pulled into a chignon and held in place with a tortoiseshell claw clip. At her age, her hair probably would have looked better if she let it go back to its normal colour, auburn, like Kayla’s. She lifted a mug off the table and sipped from it. The room smelled of coffee, like she and Kayla had come into your house, your kitchen, and made your coffee, and were just having a girl’s coffee date, mother-and-daughter-bonding time.
“It’s highly likely she met criteria for a mood disorder,” Kayla continued. “Her mother had a history of mental illness, right?”
I’d heard comments like this before. “Laurel was extremely unstable,” my mother said, with enthusiasm.
“A family history puts her at higher risk,” Kayla said. “Plus, the burden of taking care of Abby and a newborn. I think Natasha was in way over her head and everything finally caught up with her.”
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