Somebody's Daughter

by David Bell

  But the family rarely went anymore. Every spring and summer, Michael and Angela made a vow to spend more time there, but they never made it more than once in a season. His parents almost never went, even though they still owned the property and paid for the place to be maintained. It seemed to Michael as though they’d forgotten they enjoyed going there or that the place had ever meant anything to them. His mother certainly hadn’t been there since his dad died.

  Only Lynn went regularly. Michael knew she spent days at the lake, using the quiet, solitary space to work on songs, to rehearse, or to just be away and alone. She tried from time to time to invite the rest of the family out there, to gather everyone together like they did when they were kids, but it never happened. Like Michael, she grumbled about their parents’ lack of interest in the place. She even approached Michael once, several years earlier, and asked if he minded if she took over the property when their parents were gone.

  Michael told her he didn’t care.

  They approached the cottage on the familiar narrow road. Trees, their leaves rich and green in the summer morning, reached over the car from both sides. Between the houses they passed, Michael saw the dark water shimmering in the sun.

  “There’s a road up there,” Michael said. “Turn right, and the house is the second on the right.”

  The detective made the turn and found the house without saying anything else. She pulled into the small driveway, the gravel pinging against the underside of the car. Disappointment crept over Michael. No other cars in the driveway, no sign of Lynn. The house remained closed up and shuttered. Michael couldn’t be sure anyone from his family had been there all spring or summer. Maybe the woman who cleaned or the guy who took care of the lawn had come by. None of the neighbors were out either, but on the water, a boat cruised by, leaving a foamy wake.

  They sat in the car with the engine still running, the air-conditioning rushing over them.

  “See anything unusual?” Griffin asked.

  “No,” Michael said. “It looks empty.”

  “Well, let’s go look. Just to make sure.”

  Michael reached for the door handle, but Angela’s voice stopped him.

  “Detective,” she said, “can I talk to Michael for a second?”

  Griffin nodded. “Sure. I’ll try the doorbell, see if anyone’s in there.”

  She left, and the two of them were closed back inside the car. Angela turned around in the front seat, adjusting her body so she could face Michael. She looked tired, yes. Her hair slightly greasy, her eyes red, the lines just starting to form at the corners of her mouth more pronounced. But she also looked beautiful. Michael thought that every time he saw her face.

  “Michael, I don’t care what happened out there tonight,” she said. “You did what you had to do.”

  “Nothing happened,” he said. “I mean, nothing you would have to be worried about.”

  “I get it that you and Erica were together, so there’s an intimacy between you that may never go away. It’s not a big deal. And if you have a child together—”

  “I’m not sure we do,” he said. “She told me Felicity may not be mine.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “You don’t sound surprised.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Angela said. “I mean, you’re going to care about this kid whether she’s yours or not. Your mother did. I can’t be mad about someone who doesn’t want to turn his back on a child.” She waited a moment before adding, “I get it. I do.”

  “Thanks. Really.” He wasn’t sure what had prompted the words, but he welcomed them. After a long, crazy night with possibly more craziness ahead, he needed to hear them. And then he wanted to do more, so he reached out and took her hand in his, squeezing it. “You’ll always come first.”

  “I know.”

  Michael thought they were finished, but Angela made no move to leave the car. She kept her eyes on Michael with clearly something else on her mind.

  “Are you ready for this?” she asked.

  “For what?”

  Angela nodded toward the house. “For what we might find in there.”

  “The detective said there was another potential crime scene,” Michael said. “At some other guy’s house.”

  “True,” she said. “They’re checking everywhere, I guess. But we can’t really know. . . .”

  Michael looked past her at the house, saw Detective Griffin pressing her head against a window, trying to see in. “Looks like nothing so far.”

  “Let’s just hope Lynn’s safe. And Felicity.”

  Michael reached up and squeezed Angela’s hand. She smiled back at him.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Absolutely.”

  chapter

  seventy-five

  Griffin watched the two of them, Michael and Angela Frazier, exit the car and walk toward her at the front of the house. She’d given them a moment alone inside the car, and she could only imagine what they’d had to say to each other. At times like that, when she contemplated the complications and awkward moments in a marriage, she felt lucky to be single, to have only Rory and Coco for company.

  “Do you have a key?” she asked.

  “I know where it’s hidden.” Michael went to a flower bed, one filled with purple, pink, and white perennials, and upended a small ceramic frog. Something rattled inside, making a pinging noise, and then a key fell out. “Security is pretty light out here.”

  “I’m guessing your sister knows about that,” Griffin said.

  “Sure. The whole family does. We’ve never carried our own keys to the lake cottage. It’s been a while, but we wouldn’t forget that.”

  Griffin stepped aside while he inserted the key and, after some maneuvering, unlocked the door. He looked back at her.

  “I’ll let you go in first,” he said.

  “I need to.” She went past him, stepping into the small foyer. “Hello?”

  The walls were paneled, the carpet thick and out-of-date. Ahead, she saw the living room, the furniture rustic and past its prime. But everything appeared neat and orderly and well maintained. It looked like a lake home should look—comfortable and inviting.

  Griffin went into the living room with the two of them behind her. She called out again but received no response.

  “Lynn?” Michael called.

  They waited. By that point, Griffin didn’t expect to hear anything. The place felt empty and unused. She doubted anyone was there.

  Michael and Angela fanned out, going down the hallway where Griffin presumed the bedrooms were. Griffin walked through the living room and then the small dining room, seeing nothing. She went out to the kitchen and lifted the lid off the garbage can. Empty. She pulled open the refrigerator door. A jar of pickles, one bottle of an obscure IPA, and a box of baking soda.

  Griffin tried not to feel disappointment, tried not to see the whole trip to Cottonsville and then the lake house as a failure. But how could she not? She’d risked a lot coming out there after the disaster she’d stirred up with the Flowers family. If she came away with nothing again . . .

  “Find anything?” Angela asked, walking into the kitchen.

  “No. Looks pretty empty.”

  “Nothing in the bedrooms either.”

  Griffin looked around the kitchen, examining the walls, the cupboards, and counters, hoping to see something. Anything. She pointed to a row of hooks next to the refrigerator. “The keys. There’s an empty hook.”

  A set of small hooks mounted on a strip of wood hung next to the refrigerator. Each hook contained a set of keys . . . except for the last one on the right. It was empty.

  “Are they always full except when someone is using a set of keys?” Griffin asked.

  “I thought so. Michael?”

  “What are the keys for?” Griffin asked as they waited for Michael to come to t
he kitchen.

  “The shed out back. The garage. And the car.”

  “A car?”

  “Yeah.”

  Michael came into the room. “What’s up?”

  “Isn’t there always a set of keys on that last hook?” Angela asked. “They keep a car in the garage here. An old station wagon. It’s just for guests to use or whatever. Right, Michael?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe my mom did something with them. She might have taken the car somewhere. Hell, she might have sold it. She was talking about it.”

  “Let’s go check the garage, okay?” Griffin said. “Just to be sure.”

  They left the kitchen, heading back toward the front of the house. Michael pointed the way, indicating the door that led from the house to the garage. It was in the hallway where the bedrooms were.

  He hesitated, looking back at Griffin. She read the look on his face. He didn’t want to open it, so she stepped forward. She twisted the small lock and pulled on the knob.

  The garage smelled like a combination of motor oil and gas fumes. The car sat there, its grill and headlights looking at Griffin like a giant face. She felt the disappointment again, creeping through the center of her body.

  Then Michael stepped up beside her. “Shit,” he said. “Oh, shit.”

  “What?”

  Then she saw it.

  The car wasn’t a wagon. It was an SUV.

  And the front bumper and fender were smashed as though it had been in an accident.

  chapter

  seventy-six

  Angela watched as Michael went past her and the detective. He walked to the edge of the car, reaching out with his hand to touch the damage to the bumper.

  “Don’t touch it,” Griffin said.

  Michael didn’t. But he also didn’t move away from the vehicle. He stared at it as if transfixed.

  “That’s not the car that’s supposed to be here,” Angela said, anticipating the detective’s question. “That’s Lynn’s car. Her Lexus.”

  Michael remained frozen in place, the look on his face distant.

  The detective moved to the passenger side. She reached into her pocket and brought out a small flashlight. She shone it through the window, moving the beam around the interior of the vehicle.

  Angela moved forward, stopping alongside Michael. She reached out and placed her hand gently on his arm. “Do you want to come inside and let the detective work?”

  “Where is she, Angela?” he asked. “Lynn’s hurt. She’s in trouble.”

  “We don’t know that for sure. Maybe this accident happened a while ago.”

  “And no one knew? Why hide the car here? What if someone took . . . I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “What if this Jake Little hurt both of them?” he asked. “What if he did something to Felicity and hurt Lynn?”

  “It looks like she had an accident, Michael. The only question is why she put her car here and took your parents’. It means . . .”

  “Someone else could have done it.”

  “I guess. But . . . well, we don’t know anything, do we?”

  Angela looked over at the detective, hoping for reassurance or support. She would have settled for and been happy with a good old-fashioned shrug.

  But the detective stood stock-still, the beam of the flashlight fixed on one particular place inside the car. Something Angela and Michael couldn’t see.

  “What is it?” Angela asked. One horrifying thought popped into her head. A body. A dead person.

  A dead child.

  She started shaking her head to wipe the image away, but it stayed.

  “What is it?” she asked again.

  “Blood,” the detective said. “There’s a bloodstain on the seat in the back. A pretty big one. And it looks relatively fresh.”

  Her words released Michael from his spot. He moved forward, following the beam of the flashlight with his eyes. Angela came up behind him and saw what the detective had seen: a bloodstain the size of a dinner plate on the backseat of the car.

  Angela turned to say something to the detective, but the beam disappeared.

  Griffin had her phone out, calling for more help.

  “I’m calling Trudeau,” she said. “I’m letting my colleagues know about this.”

  chapter

  seventy-seven

  Michael continued to stare into the backseat of the car, even after the detective removed the flashlight beam and the garage fell back into its murky, midmorning gloom. He remembered not to touch the car. But he stared and stared, wishing that the bloodstain on the backseat of Lynn’s car would resolve itself into something benevolent.

  Spaghetti sauce . . . chocolate syrup . . . Hi-C . . .

  But nothing else fit. It looked like blood. Coupled with the damage to the front of the car, the conclusion was obvious.

  From what seemed miles away, he heard the detective making phone calls. First requesting some kind of assistance from the local police. And then a longer call in which she appeared to be arguing with her superiors. Only snippets made it through the halo of fog that enveloped Michael’s head.

  “I know I’m not. . . . I really found something. . . . As soon as you can . . . Yes, of course I told them. . . . No, I’m not leaving the scene. . . .”

  Then Angela leaned in close, practically whispering in his ear.

  “Michael? Why don’t we go into the house?”

  “She’s hurt. Lynn’s hurt. That man, that Jake Little . . . You said he beat up Tolliver. He’s violent.”

  “We don’t know anything for sure. Let the police look into it.”

  “Why would there be blood in the backseat if Lynn was okay?”

  “I can’t answer that,” Angela said. “Why don’t we go inside?”

  “Where else might she be?” Griffin asked. “Where does she go? Where does she have friends?”

  Michael looked at Angela. “Nashville is one place. She has friends all over the country. New York. California. She’s traveled everywhere. She said she wasn’t home.”

  “Anyone else?” Griffin asked. “Boyfriends? Girlfriends? Other relatives?”

  Michael started to list a few names, old friends of Lynn’s he’d met on a few occasions.

  “Where would she go if she were in any kind of trouble?” Griffin asked. “If she needed to feel safe? Or secure?”

  But before he said anything, they heard the sound of a car arriving, the tires crunching over the gravel right outside the garage.

  “It’s Lynn,” Michael said. “She came back.”

  Griffin held her index finger in the air, asking for quiet or calm or both. She left the garage, going back through the house. “Stay in here,” she said.

  Michael started to follow the detective, but Angela placed her hand on his forearm, stopping him. She looked into his eyes, their gazes locking in the garage.

  “They’ll find her,” Angela said. “Okay? Both of them.”

  “My mom . . . I keep thinking of her. I don’t want her to have to experience another loss. Of any kind.”

  “Let’s not go there yet. We can’t.”

  “You talked to her on the phone last night too. Did she sound normal?”

  “Mostly. She said she was tired. That was all.”

  “So you don’t know where she was?” Michael asked.

  “The police will figure that out with the phone records. They’ll do everything they can.”

  Michael tried to corral his racing thoughts. He moved past Angela, taking a few steps back into the house. The sunlight came through the windows, brightening the space enough to make him squint. Angela followed along behind.

  “Who would she turn to if she got into a jam?” Angela asked. “If she needed help?”

  Michael shrugged. “Us. Mom. Her family .
. .”

  “Would she go to your mom’s house?” Angela asked.

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  Angela reached out. She took Michael in an embrace, pulling him close so he felt her warmth, felt the comfort of her body against his. He closed his eyes for a moment, his mind stumbling back to images of Lynn as a child, seeing her young and vulnerable and innocent. The sun-bleached days in the yard. The late nights talking in her room.

  The day at the swing set.

  “I don’t want anything bad to happen to her,” he said, feeling the brush of Angela’s hair against his face.

  “I know,” she said, her voice a comforting whisper.

  Michael pulled back. “Wait. Where’s Detective Griffin? Why isn’t she back?”

  “She’s outside.”

  “Let’s go see,” he said. “It could be her.”

  They walked to the front of the house, hand in hand. But when Michael pushed the door open, he saw Detective Griffin in the yard, standing over a squirming man. Despite his erratic movements, she managed to work a pair of handcuffs loose from her belt and slap them onto the man’s wrists. The way his face was mashed into the grass looked painful.

  “What the hell?” Michael said.

  “That’s him,” Angela said. “That’s Jake Little. Erica’s ex-boyfriend.”

  “Let me up. Let me up.” His words were strained, his face red.

  Detective Griffin stood over him, her index finger raised. “Mr. Little, I’m handcuffing you for your own safety and the safety of others. I’m going to check your pockets now.”

  “Stop,” he said. “I didn’t do anything.”

  The detective patted his pockets, then slipped her fingers in. She tossed aside keys, some tissues, a crumpled piece of paper, and a wallet.

  Griffin took the man by one of his arms and rolled him over so his face came out of the grass. He squinted as the sun fell across his eyes.

  The detective raised her index finger again. “Now, Mr. Little, do you know the whereabouts of Felicity Frazier or Lynn Frazier?”