Don't Try To Find Me: A Novel

by Holly Brown

  Day_14

  I CAN’T TELL B. what happened. He’d probably think it’s my fault. He said not to leave the house.

  Once I got back, I locked the front door and put a chair under the knob for extra security. I wanted so bad to talk to someone. And I thought of who I have in the world, who I could possibly call. Of everyone I know, I most wanted to call Kyle. Which seems weird, since we barely know each other. But I think he’s a good guy, and I remember how it felt to have his arms around me that night on the bus after I saw Hellma shooting up. He was my protection, and it worked. Nothing bad happened to me then.

  But I threw away his phone number in the next bus station. I guess it was partly out of guilt and partly because I thought I wouldn’t need it, since I’d be with B. soon. I don’t even know Kyle’s last name. I’ll probably never see or talk to him again. Suddenly, that seems really sad. It’s not so easy to meet a good guy.

  I keep listening for footsteps in the hall, though there never are any. I’m probably just being paranoid. I’ve been living with B. for a while; it might have rubbed off.

  Or B. just knows there are things in the world to be afraid of. Like those people on the bus knew.

  Okay, back up. Calm down.

  I was on my way home after a trip to the dog park. It was the postapocalyptic part of my walk. A truck pulled up next to me. It had a gun rack in the bed, and there were big rifles in it, like for hunting. The driver had gray hair and a lot of gray scruff on his face.

  He smiled, all friendly, and I thought he was probably a nice old guy, though I don’t like people talking to me. “Hi,” he twanged. I’d never heard an accent that thick outside of TV. The other people I’ve talked to in Durham have more subtle accents, like the corners have been rounded off; this guy sounded like a sawed-off shotgun.

  “Hi,” I said, and kept walking.

  He drove along next to me, really slow. There were a few parked cars but no people. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “I’m great.” I made myself smile, to confirm my story, but I didn’t turn toward him. I didn’t stop walking.

  “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  “I don’t think so.” He still sounded friendly, but I was more nervous by the second.

  “I never forget a face. Especially not a pretty one like yours.”

  I almost told him that he couldn’t have seen me somewhere, I barely go anywhere, but I wasn’t about to offer information. He was creeping me out, hard-core.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Here,” I said. “Durham.”

  He laughed. I was only a block from the apartment building, but I realized I was going to have to keep walking. There was no way I was going to let him see where I lived. “Come on,” he said. “Be straight with me.”

  “No, really, I am.”

  “Not with that accent you got.”

  I didn’t owe him an answer. He wasn’t a cop or my dad or the neighborhood watch. Maybe ignoring him would make him go away.

  “I bet you’re from out west somewhere,” he said. “California, maybe?”

  I kept my head down.

  “Am I getting warm?”

  I glanced over at him. He was still driving along, slow as can be, and he had this smile on his face, like he could play this game all day.

  “So it is California. I knew it!” He sounded gleeful. “What are you doing so far from home?”

  “Going to college,” I said in a low voice, since ignoring him wasn’t helping.

  “You look a little young for college.”

  “I’ve always looked young.”

  “No,” he said with unnerving certainty. “I’ve seen you.”

  I debated whether to take off running and cross behind one of the buildings, but what if he kept driving around until he found me? “This is making me uncomfortable.”

  “What is? Us talking?”

  I nodded, eyes averted.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m just being friendly to an out-of-towner.” He paused. “Oh, right, you said you’re local.” The way he emphasized the word “local” sounded menacing. There were cars parked on this block, but I wished I could see just one person. “If you’re in some trouble,” he said, “I’d help you get out of it.”

  “No, thanks. Not in any trouble.”

  “There might be people out there who’d give anything to find you.” When I glanced at him, he was giving me this appraising look. It was like he thought there was a bounty on my head, and he was trying to decide what I’m worth.

  Was he thinking of kidnapping me?

  He hadn’t made a move, still looked utterly relaxed driving alongside me.

  I needed to head back toward the dog park neighborhood, where it was populated. Eventually, though, I was going to have to find my way back here.

  “You’ve got me confused with someone else,” I said. “I’m a college student, and I’d like to be alone now.”

  “I bet you could use some money. I wouldn’t mind paying for services rendered.”

  “I don’t need any money.”

  “We all need money. And I’ve heard girls from California don’t take themselves so seriously. It’s a little looser out there, isn’t it?”

  “No,” I said.

  I stopped walking, and he stopped his car. I didn’t know what to do, whether to run (where to?) or whether to scream (who’d hear me?), and then I just started crying.

  He stared at me for a long minute, and then he said, “You have a nice day,” and drove off. His sudden chivalry was as scary as anything that had come before it. It might have been a trick to get me to relax, to head home, and then he would grab me later. But, I reminded myself, B. would be home later. I’d have protection.

  I started running home, looking around the whole time like a demented bobblehead doll. I had images of the old guy careening around a corner and throwing me in the bed of the pickup truck, next to the gun rack, and never being heard from again.

  I can’t tell B. what happened. He’ll be so mad at me for going out, for possibly ruining everything.

  No, he wouldn’t be mad. He’d just hug me and tell me how glad he is that I’m safe.

  Maybe he’d do that.

  Day 14

  I SHOULD HAVE SEEN this coming. It all started that day in San Francisco, when I was too upset to go meet the Chronicle reporter with Paul after the morning show. When he told me not to go meet the reporter with him. Then he proceeded to tour the East Coast without me.

  This is all Paul’s fault.

  Through the fish-eye, I see him talking to reporters, his carry-on bag lying at his feet. It’s only three of them, but there are hulking cameras and boom mikes. They got here early this morning, with no press junket scheduled, which means that the media is now camping outside my front door. I didn’t respond to their knocks. It’s obvious what they want to talk to me about, and I most definitely have no comment.

  There were tweets after each interview, in each city, of the “Where’s the mother?” variety. Paul assured me that he was managing our public perception. He was talking back to every negative comment, maintaining our image. As it turns out, he was only maintaining his own image. Because every time he responded to a tweet or a comment, it reinforced the idea that he was in this alone, that I was nowhere on record, and what kind of mother would be so uninvolved in the search for her daughter?

  A guilty one, that’s what kind of mother.

  Strickland doesn’t have a Twitter account, but he obviously leaked to someone. An anonymous blogger found out that I was late to work the day Marley disappeared and that I lied to the police about it. Now the blogosphere is alive with speculation about what else I might be hiding. The link to the San Francisco interview has popped up on a ton of different sites, and complete strangers are parsing my every word. One website written by a body language “expert” analyzed my microexpressions and gestures, and reached some pretty dire conclusions. His post about me had hundred
s of comments; the others on his site were averaging ten. What are the odds he’ll keep posting about me?

  I suppose I should be grateful that the reporters didn’t arrive in time to see Michael leaving. But it’s hard to muster gratitude right now. Things have moved from the virtual world to the real one, where they can actually hurt me. And hurt Marley, too, if certain information gets out.

  Paul’s still schmoozing the reporters outside. The windows are closed so I can’t hear him. You don’t have to be a body language expert to see it’s energizing him. He’s actually enjoying this, and I’m fuming.

  As he turns to come inside, I hurry away. There’s no way those people are going to catch even a glimpse of me.

  Once the door is shut behind him, I motion him into the living room. In a heated whisper, afraid of the sensitivity of the boom mikes, I say, “They have no right to stake out our house.” He affects this instantly weary expression, like I’m exhausting him, and it galls me. He’s got energy to talk to reporters but not to me?

  “We need them,” he says. “They’re part of our nationwide search party. They’re doing what the police can’t.” He sets his suitcase down. “Well, it’s good to see you, too.” His smile is wry. I can’t smile back.

  “On Twitter,” I stage-whisper, “they have it out for me. Now it’s the reporters. And you know Strickland is gunning for me.” I stride around the room in agitation.

  I want to tell Paul what I found out, about Marley’s needing a therapist again; then maybe the police can lean on Michael to break confidentiality. But leading Strickland to Michael would be a huge risk.

  “Strickland isn’t gunning for you,” Paul says in that too-patient voice of his.

  “How do you know? And lower your voice.”

  He complies, barely suppressing an eye roll. “He’s a total professional.”

  I snort.

  “You shouldn’t have lied to him. If you stopped at Starbucks, you should have told him that from the beginning.”

  “Yes, I stopped at Starbucks. I’m guilty of drinking a latte. But there are people online saying I killed Marley! We should sue them.”

  “We can’t sue them.”

  “Stop being so calm!” I’m fighting not to scream. “Why are they allowed to say these things? They have no proof. They have their ideas about how a mother in my situation is supposed to act. What do any of them know?”

  “It’s not all bad,” he says. “We’re getting hits like you wouldn’t believe.” He slumps on the couch. This really is the most tired he’s looked since all this began. He’s been running on adrenaline, thinking he could bring Marley home by controlling every variable. Perhaps he’s finally recognizing his limits.

  I’m the one with the adrenaline now. “We have to stop them.”

  “If it gets more people looking for Marley—”

  “You don’t care. Because it’s not you they’re accusing. I’m the one with the scarlet letter.”

  “Believe me, Rachel, I’d prefer if this wasn’t the way interest was being generated. I’m trying to look on the bright side.” He runs a hand through his hair, eyelids drooping.

  “Am I boring you, Paul? Do you need a nap?” The truth is, he probably does need a nap. He’s been going, going, going for days. He did a three-city tour, with multiple journalists from TV, print, and online. I shouldn’t be angry at him. He couldn’t have foreseen this. But I did, and he never gave me a real chance to object. “What were those reporters outside asking you? Was it about me?”

  He can’t deny it. I watch him parse his words. “Among other things. But I defended you. Without sounding defensive, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  He’s staring over at his suitcase. I’m supposed to get the hint that he wants to stop talking so he can unpack and unwind. It’s what we do: He telegraphs his intention, I acquiesce. Well, not this time.

  “What if I get arrested?” I demand.

  “You won’t get arrested.”

  “How do you know?”

  He’s quiet a long moment. He never expects to have to answer to me. I’m supposed to back down. “I talked to Officer Strickland. He doesn’t have any proof that Marley didn’t leave of her own accord. Everything suggests that she got on a cross-country bus.” His eyebrows knit. There’s more.

  “What else did Strickland say?”

  He doesn’t want to meet my eyes. If this was Kyle, he’d start the next sentence with “Honestly.”

  “What did he say?” I repeat.

  “There’s no record that she actually got on a bus. We have a guy who drove her near the bus station and says he saw her go inside, but we don’t know for sure that anyone sold her a ticket.”

  “Because the ticket seller would get in trouble. Because he’s covering his own ass.”

  He sighs. I know he likes to shower after a long flight, and to unpack. He wants to hang every unworn bit of clothing back up and put the rest in the hamper. I know his habits so well. That’s the most intimate thing about us anymore.

  “So now Strickland doesn’t believe that she was on a bus, is that what you’re telling me?” I persist. Because this is important. Because I could be a suspect in my own daughter’s disappearance.

  “He’s just doing his job, exploring all avenues.”

  My eyes widen. “He’s releasing information to anonymous bloggers! He thinks I—I don’t even know what. That I kidnapped Marley and am hiding her somewhere? That I killed her? What? You tell me.”

  “He hasn’t said any of that to me.”

  “He suspects me of something. And now he’s telling you that Marley might not have gotten on a bus. What about Kyle? Didn’t Kyle seem honest to you?” It occurs to me that Kyle might not be the strongest witness. He did lie to Marley, and she lied right back. “Marley called herself Vicky. That’s proof.”

  “To you and me, it’s proof. Listen, I believe Kyle. But there have been a ton of Marley sightings. Some of them are bound to be false. People like their five minutes of fame.”

  “Pretending you saw a runaway counts as fame now?”

  He yawns, and that does it. I might be a prime suspect in Marley’s disappearance, and even that can’t hold his interest? I glare at him. “I knew this would happen.”

  “You knew what would happen?”

  “You told me the risks of a full-fledged media campaign, that it could lead to scrutiny, but you didn’t give me a chance to say no. Not really. You told me in front of Strickland. You backed me into a corner. On purpose.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because you want to do what you want to do, no matter how it hurts the rest of us.”

  Now he’s angry. He stands up to face off with me. “That’s not fair. I’ve been busting my ass, flying around the country, tweeting—tweeting, like I’m a fourteen-year-old myself—so I can find Marley. This isn’t about me.”

  “Sure it is. It’s about you being the one who finds her.”

  “You’re under a lot of stress,” he says carefully. “But trust me, you’re not in danger.”

  The unspoken words: Marley is. The subtext: Stop being so self-involved; be like me. I think of Michael’s diagnosis of Paul as a narcissist: someone who needs everyone’s eyes on him so he can feel important while not caring about anyone else’s feelings. He’s sure living up to it right now.

  “All those people who think I’m guilty,” I say, “they also think you’re a saint. That’s no accident, is it?”

  “I need a shower.” He moves toward his suitcase, but I block his path.

  “The suspicion’s pinned on me. And maybe that’s how you wanted it, because you’re the one with something to hide.”

  He looks flabbergasted. Genuinely speechless. But he could be a great actor, what do I know?

  I’m not going to rescind. He needs to respond. Finally, he says, “I can’t believe that after everything, you’d doubt my intentions.”

  I think of what Michael said, about intentions not
matching actions. I don’t doubt what Paul feels; I’m questioning what he’s done. Michael might have been alluding to things Marley had told him. He could have been telling me I was onto something and that I need to keep going, keep searching. I need to, for example, find out the password to Paul’s computer.

  Paul walks around me to get to his suitcase and mutters, “Can you tell me why I should believe you?” His back is to me. “I don’t know why you lied to your supervisor about a flat tire so you could sit in your car and drink coffee. Then you lied to the police about it, too. Did you lie about anything else?”

  “You know I would never do anything to hurt Marley!”

  “Right back at you.” His suitcase in hand, he circles me and heads for the stairs. Over his shoulder, he says, “I guess we have to believe each other. What’s the alternative?”

  One alternative is that I confess everything, right now. He puts Candace on speaker phone and we figure out the best way to proceed. Whether I tell Strickland, whether we come clean on our website, whether we leak it. There must be other possibilities but what do I know? I’m not a PR specialist or a private investigator. I’m just Marley’s mother.

  Another alternative? I find a way into Paul’s computer.

  He’s on his way up the stairs. He’ll shower, and then he’ll probably lie down for a while. There are fresh sheets on the bed and no traces of Michael’s having been here.

  I’m not going to confess. If it was only a friendship with Michael—even a friendship that the public will misconstrue as an affair—that would be one thing. But there’s more to it than that, and not only because he was Marley’s therapist and was so recently in my bed. There’s also what’s hidden in plain sight, and Paul won’t forgive that.

  I shouldn’t have let Michael stay over. I shouldn’t have lied to Strickland, but what choice did I have? If I’d told him that I was off talking to Dr. Michael in Starbucks, he’d really have something to investigate.

  I wish I had someone I could talk to, someone to trust. It can’t be Paul right now. And Michael betrayed me. More important, he betrayed Marley. She needed help and he didn’t give it or see that she got it somewhere else. A part of me still can’t believe that he let her down that way. In voice mail after voice mail, he’s tried to explain it away: Marley didn’t seem that upset when she came to him; he believed she’d use the tools she learned from him to handle things; he thought she’d talk to me in her own time; he was thrown, unprepared, didn’t properly evaluate the situation; he was plain wrong.