by S. B. Caves
I Know Where She Is
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
Part Two
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Part Three
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Epilogue
Copyright
I Know Where She Is
S.B. Caves
For my wife
Part One
1
Francine didn’t notice the letter until she was on her way to the kitchen for another glass of vodka. She spotted the white envelope standing out against the grey carpet and automatically assumed it to be a fast-food flyer. She picked the envelope up, turned it over. It was unmarked, no stamp, and the fold hadn’t been glued down but tucked inside. She took it to the kitchen, set her glass down on the counter and removed the small sheet of lined paper from inside. Five words were scrawled in jagged chicken scratch:
I KNOW WHERE SHE IS.
It took a second for the sentence to calibrate in Francine’s mind. She inhaled sharply and traced her eyes over the writing again to ensure she hadn’t misread it. Then she opened the envelope and tipped it upside down as though an explanation might fall out, like a vital piece of the trick missing from the magician’s hat. She realised she could hear herself panting, and was suddenly burning inside her blouse. The moisture evaporated from her mouth.
She folded the paper up and placed it delicately back inside the envelope, then padded to the front door and swung it open. Barefoot, she stepped out onto the cold concrete and looked around. Nobody there. She walked over to the balcony and peered down into the vacant courtyard below, her eyes searching for movement in the shadows. She turned and saw light through the door panes of number 40. She rang the bell, could hear the muffled blare of their television from within.
A small Chinese lady opened the door and stared up at her blankly.
‘Hi,’ Francine began, unsure as to whether the woman even spoke English. ‘Sorry to bother you. I live next door.’ She pointed at her apartment, despite crossing paths with the woman almost every day. For six years they’d maintained an unspoken treaty with one another. I won’t bother you with small talk or empty pleasantries if you will extend me the same courtesy. Up until now, it had worked just fine. ‘I got a letter through my door today. It didn’t have a name on it or anything. I was wondering if you saw someone come by my place.’
‘No,’ the woman replied with a small shake of the head.
‘You haven’t seen anyone hanging around the building? Anyone you don’t recognise?’
‘No,’ she repeated, defensively this time.
‘Okay, thanks.’ Francine walked to number 36 and pressed the bell, conscious of the Chinese lady still watching from her doorstep. When nobody answered after three rings, Francine cursed and went back inside her own apartment. She poured herself another inch of vodka and stared at the envelope. How could someone write such a vague message and leave no way to get in contact with them? As she gulped from the glass she sloshed vodka down her blouse but didn’t bother to dab at the damp patch. She turned the conundrum over in her mind, trying to make sense of it. The vodka had dulled her body somewhat, but she was still able to think rationally. What it really came down to was this: the author of the note was either pulling a hurtful prank or telling the truth. Perhaps some kids had found her address, knew about what had happened and had decided to venture out in the pouring rain to deliver the letter. The chances of that scenario being plausible slimmed when she considered that they wouldn’t even have the joy of seeing her reaction as she read the message. She hadn’t been bothered by anyone in years, not since she moved to this apartment. Could her address have leaked on the internet? She wasn’t sure how that could be possible, not with the measures she’d taken to prevent such a thing from happening.
No, this felt different. There was a disturbing vagueness to the note. In her experience, if someone wanted to pick open the scab, they didn’t tiptoe around it; the sick bastards went into explicit detail, spilling every sordid scenario they could think of to hurt her.
So what was the alternative? She trudged to the living room and snatched her cell phone off the sofa. Her fingers, clumsy from the alcohol, located Will’s number then hovered over the screen for a moment before dialling. She paced the living room, waiting for him to answer, biting her thumbnail and hearing the click of her teeth inside her skull. It rang six, seven, eight times before it went to voicemail, and she tasted blood from her thumb. She hung up and redialled, the phone slippery in her palm. Again the dial tone droned on, and for one fleeting, terrible second she thought she was going to get the voicemail again. But then he answered, his voice distant with confusion.
‘Francine?’
‘Yeah, it’s me.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Yeah, hello. It’s Francine.’
‘I got that. Um … how are you?’
‘I think it might be a good idea if we talked, like face to face. Can you come over?’
‘What?’
In the staccato silence that segmented their dialogue, Francine could hear Sheila hovering close by, muttering, meek and curious.
‘Look, can you come over? Right now, tonight. I have something I need to show you.’
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t want to do this on the phone, Will. I wouldn’t be calling you if it wasn’t important.’
He paused, exhaled. ‘We might not have the same opinion on what’s important at eight o’clock at night when it’s pissing down with rain,’ he said, and ever so faintly, Francine heard a squeak from Sheila.
Heat flared through her chest, a ring of fire burning the nape of her neck. She felt sweat trickle down her back. ‘You won’t have to be here for very long, I promise. I just …’ She faltered, her skull heavy as a cement mixer. ‘Can you come or not, Will?’
He took a few breaths to consider her question, or to receive instruction from Sheila, Francine wasn’t sure which, and then said, ‘Is it some kind of emergency?’
‘Yes, I think it is.’
‘And you can’t tell me what it’s about?’
Now it was her turn to hesitate, knowing that he would recoil, that he would berate her, or maybe hang up. ‘It’s about Autumn.’ She was going to leave it there, but the vodka told her the sentence needed an exclamation mark. ‘Obviously it’s about Autumn. Why else would I call?’
‘I see.’
‘Right. You see. So can you come over?’
‘Why can’t you come to me?’ At this, a flittering whisper protested, but Francine couldn’t pick out exactly what was said. She heard muffled sounds, presumably as he covered the phone to say something to Sheila. Then he added, ‘I mean, I can meet you somewhere. It doesn’t seem fair that I should drive all the way over to you.’
‘All right.’ Francine swept a clammy hand down her face. ‘I’ll leave in ten minutes and phone you when I’m near. Will there be a diner open or something l
ike that?’
‘I’m not staying to have coffee and doughnuts, Francine. I’ve got things to do here.’
‘Fine. We’ll just go sunbathing then, shall we?’ She felt the anger rise in her throat like bile. She swallowed it down before continuing. ‘I meant a diner where we can go to be out of the rain. What do you think I’m trying to do here, lure you into some kind of date?’
Sighing, he said, ‘We can talk in the car, surely?’
The muscles in her jaw tensed. ‘Works for me. I’ll be there in an hour.’
‘Don’t keep me waiting around for you.’
He hung up before she could retort, and childish as it was, she resented that he’d had the last word, knowing that he’d done it to spite her. No, maybe that wasn’t completely true. He might have done it for Sheila’s benefit, and this thought only made the ropes of tension tighten across her neck and shoulders.
She went to the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water before swigging a capful of Listerine. In the mirror, she saw that her eyes were glassy and bloodshot, but she could pass that off as exhaustion if he mentioned it.
She changed into a baggy sweater and a pair of unflattering jeans that gave her a white momma ass – a phrase she’d picked up on one of the numerous trashy reality TV shows she cycled through. In truth, her ass wasn’t as flat as the jeans made out, and anyway, today was Thursday, which meant she was allowed pancakes for breakfast and vodka for dinner, but tomorrow would be five miles on the treadmill, squats and that godawful rowing machine.
The more she walked around her apartment, the drunker she felt. ‘I’ll end up killing someone,’ she murmured to herself, and decided to make a Thermos of instant coffee.
She put the letter in her jeans pocket and kept her hand on it as she descended through the apartment complex. She wanted to be able to feel it at all times, to stop it from sprouting a pair of wings and flying off into the night. As she stepped out of the lobby and into the snarling wind, she was pelted by freezing rain that had started up. She jogged across to her car, rummaging for her keys, and was drenched through by the time she was behind the wheel. At the very least, the cold shock of the downpour managed to chase away some of the lethargy. Rain tattooed the roof of the car as she turned on the engine and waited for the heater to warm up. She unscrewed the lid of the Thermos and sipped coffee, hoping it would battle the chill.
When she pulled out of the parking lot, she had to turn the wipers on full speed, the rubber squealing rhythmically. She drove slowly and carefully, her chest squashed against the wheel as she leaned in close to peer through the bleary windscreen. When she stopped at a light or behind a row of cars in traffic, she could feel the wheels gently pulling away from her until she applied more pressure to the brake pedal. It would be easy to skid and spin out of control, slick as the streets were. She made sure she kept her distance, gauging the other cars by the smudged red spheres of their brake lights.
It was easier driving on the freeway, where she didn’t have to stop and start so much. Lightning crackled over the mountains in the distance, leaving witchy after-images in the sky. The thunder sounded like the world was tearing in half. Francine began to feel apprehensive, but she knew it was the letter and not the weather that had frayed her nerves. She drank some more coffee to still the squirming snakes in her stomach.
With her mind drifting, she nearly missed the exit to Sycamore. She’d only been to Will’s house twice since he’d moved there, and only once since he got together with Sheila. It was, in her opinion, a town with a lot of nothing going on, where the six-screen cinema was the height of excitement and the bowling alley served as the venue of choice for date nights because it did 2-for-1 beers on weekends. It was a place where things took their time to change, if they changed at all. Francine understood why he liked it.
She pulled into the parking lot of a brightly lit drive-thru restaurant called Clucky’s Chicken and Waffle and dialled Will’s number.
‘Stay where you are,’ he said, sounding bored. ‘I can be there in fifteen.’
The two inches of coffee left in the Thermos was lukewarm, but she drank it down in one go, then crunched on some mints from the glove box. The rain was now a misty spray, but the wind maintained its aggression. In the parked car adjacent to hers, a teenage couple, maybe seventeen, were laughing as they ate chicken out of a bucket. She could just about make out the muted rhythm of the music from their stereo. The girl got out of the car and walked into the front of the restaurant, and as she waddled back waving a handful of napkins at the boy, Francine noticed that she was heavily pregnant. So young, she thought. At that age, the girl probably still believed in the myth of undying love; that what she and her partner had was unique enough to deflect all the hardships the world would throw at them. But there was nothing unique about them. That fierce animal lust would lose its potency, and with time, their fascination with each other would wither and crumble to silence. That was when you could be sure that you truly resented someone: when you could no longer summon the emotion to shout.
That’s not strictly true, though, is it, Francine? Father Time didn’t kill you and Will, did he? The vodka had a habit of turning her thoughts to poison, which was why she only ever drank at home, where she could project all her bitterness at the TV. She rubbed her face with her hands in an attempt to massage the dregs of drunkenness away.
Light flooded the car as Will pulled into the parking lot. She opened the door to get out but saw that he was one step ahead, jogging over to her passenger side. She unlocked it for him and he got in, wiping his hands on his chinos.
‘How are you?’ he asked without looking at her. His words, unguarded by his keeper, were already noticeably lighter. He’d grown a neat beard and his hair was longer. He was wearing glasses too, but she suspected his vision was just fine. Perhaps he was going for a Steve Jobs look; probably one of Sheila’s bright ideas.
‘I’m fine. And you?’
‘Yes, busy. September is always a busy time of year for us.’
‘How’s Sheila?’
‘She’s fine,’ he answered quickly. ‘We’re both fine. So … what was it you wanted to talk about?’
Francine turned on the interior light and handed him the letter. He removed the piece of paper, read it, then glanced up at her. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Someone put that through my door tonight.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. They must’ve delivered it and left. It wasn’t there when I came home from work.’
He handed the letter back to her. ‘That’s it? That’s what you’ve called me out for?’
‘I know where she is. They’re talking about Autumn.’
‘It’s a prank.’ He shrugged. ‘I mean, I’m assuming there’s nothing more?’
‘No. It was just this letter. But it’s clearly about Autumn. What if the person who wrote this is telling the truth?’
He inhaled and released an exasperated breath. ‘Francine, you’re chasing shadows. Look at the writing. It’s like some four-year-old scribbled it. It’s nonsense.’
She’d anticipated this response. His role within their dynamic had always been that of resident sceptic. She was the one who sought the counsel of mediums and researched the alternative meditation techniques that might allow her to create a psychic link to Autumn. She would try anything, no matter how ridiculous it seemed or how crazy it made her appear for contemplating it. It had to be better than ignoring the whole thing, training your mind to forget that Autumn had ever existed in order to cope with the pain. That was the weak thing to do and a large brooding part of her hated him for it.
‘I haven’t had any pranks since I’ve lived in Morning House. Nobody’s tried to reach out to me about the case and my number isn’t listed. I don’t think this is a prank, Will. I know that sounds stupid and you think I’m just grasping at straws, but this could really be something. Don’t you think so?’
He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes with thumb
and forefinger. ‘It’s going to be ten years in December. There might be things on the news, articles in the paper. I’m scheduled to appear on breakfast TV for a small segment about it myself. They’re going to have a reconstruction of what she might look like now.’
‘And you didn’t want to tell me this?’
‘It’s a five-minute thing,’ he said irritably. ‘I’m not exactly relishing the idea of seeing what our daughter might look like as a young woman, Francine, but if it brings anything up in the public eye, I’m willing to do it. I didn’t mention it to you because I knew it would be too much for you.’
She snorted. ‘Too much for me? What are you talking about? You don’t have any idea.’
‘Look, the whole point of the segment is to bring Autumn back into the minds of the public, to refresh their memories. If you go on there and have a breakdown on live TV then that’s all they’ll report about. They’ll forget Autumn, they’ll ignore what we’re trying to achieve.’
She leaned back into the seat and gripped the steering wheel to occupy her hands. ‘I’ve done all the crying I’m likely to do. I’m all dried out. But I want to be kept in the loop with these things, Will. I mean that. You don’t get to dictate what I can and can’t be involved in when it comes to our daughter. I don’t care what kind of media training you’ve had. Just don’t shut me out.’
‘Point taken. If anything comes up in the next couple of months, I’ll let you know. Now, is there anything else we need to go over?’
‘Well, I haven’t finished going over this,’ she said, holding the letter up. ‘You think it’s all bullshit, that’s fine. But shouldn’t we at least check it out? We could take it to the police station and have it tested for prints …’
‘Stop, stop, stop.’ He waved his hands. ‘Francine, just get a grip, will you. Listen to what you’re saying. You want to take a piece of paper to the police station to dust it for prints? This is madness.’
‘But what if, Will?’
He shook his head. ‘May I?’ He held out his hand. She passed him the letter again. ‘Let’s assume this is from someone who knows where Autumn is. Let’s just put aside the fact that they’ve taken almost ten years to get in contact. And let us also assume that the purpose of sending you this message was to help you find her. Am I thinking along the same lines as you so far?’
