A Slow Ruin

by Pamela Crane

  I knew enough about private investigators from my research and countless calls and interviews after Vera disappeared to know that most couldn’t help me. Without a single viable lead, their hands were tied. They could interview all the same friends, question all the same people, follow all the same leads as the police, and land back at the starting line. One PI called our case “an untouchable”—the cases of runaway teens who didn’t want to be found. With virtually no traceability—no electronic bank transactions, cash only, house-hopping, no phone—they were the ones no PI wanted to touch. Except Dickhead Daniel, after a grueling two-hour lunch entertaining him with surf-and-turf and the most expensive wine we had in the cellar, was certain that Private Investigator Ari Wilburn could help us. How could someone in Durham, North Carolina—a solid eight-hour drive—help me from two states away?

  “That’s tech for ya,” Daniel slurred as we shoved him out onto the porch. “Hey, stay in touch, man! And you”—he pointed a wobbly finger at me—“stay gorgeous.”

  I offered him a polite smile, urged him to call an Uber, then slammed the door shut.

  I was glad to be proven wrong.

  Ari, as she told me to call her, didn’t need to meet in person. Apparently she was a seasoned pro at locating missing people with a blank canvas past. One was her best friend’s little girl who was stolen by a child trafficking ring. If this woman could face hardened criminals and find a child with no past, I was willing to put my trust in her to find out who a license plate from over a decade ago was registered to.

  I had given her the only details I had—a license plate number and state. I couldn’t recall the make or model of car. Then she told me she’d call me back when she had something. When the phone rang barely an hour later showing her number on my screen, my heart raced. From the kitchen where I diced vegetables for dinner, I called out to Oliver over the sound of the kids playing the board game Guess Who? in the living room.

  “Does your person have green eyes, Idiot?” Sydney yelled.

  “Nope!” Eliot yelled back.

  They tended to shout everything these days, one always talking louder over the other, when all I wanted was silence.

  I answered the phone on my way up the stairs toward the den, where I hid and hoped the kids wouldn’t find me, as they did any time I dared answer my phone. They had a special radar for when a call was extra important, and thus their own petty squabbles became extra urgent. Like Sydney sticking her tongue out at Eliot. Or Eliot taking her game piece. Well, this time they’d have to settle their differences themselves.

  “Hi, Ari. I hope you have good news for me,” I answered.

  “Actually, I do. I found out who that license plate was registered to,” she replied. “A man by the name of Bennett Hunter.”

  Bennett Hunter. Bennett Hunter. Why did that sound so familiar?

  I gasped.

  Ari continued, though my thoughts were stuck on that name. “I was able to locate a current address for him, but no updated phone number. I’d need to do more digging to find that out.”

  “Is the address local to Pittsburgh?” I asked.

  “Yes, about twenty minutes or so from your home. But Felicity”—her voice lowered in a warning—“I know what you’re planning on doing. Please do not go to his house. I’d suggest letting the police handle it from here.”

  I couldn’t do that. The whole point was to prevent the police from discovering I had kidnapped my daughter.

  “I understand.”

  She must have dealt with my type before, because after giving me the address, she followed up by saying, “If you do decide to go without the police, at least bring your husband with you. Absolutely do not go alone. You never know what kind of danger you could be putting yourself in.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you want me to follow up on getting an updated phone number?”

  I didn’t need her digging for more. Contacting Bennett herself and finding out what I had done. I had no idea if she was required by law to turn me in if she discovered I had committed a crime. The fewer people who knew, the safer.

  “No, that’s okay. Not right now, at least. I’ll see where this takes me first, and if I end up needing more, I’ll let you know.”

  “Sounds good.” She paused, then said, “Hey, take care of yourself, Felicity. And be safe, whatever you do.”

  I hung up, and for the first time since Vera disappeared I sensed we were nearing the end of this very long, harrowing search.

  “Ollie!” I screamed, searching for him room to room. I finally found him outside in the backyard raking leaves—lately, a favorite tension-reliever. Against the brilliant blue sky random speckles of orange and red clung stubbornly to the skeletal branches, falling with feathery elegance when a breeze at last dislodged them.

  Oliver passed one look over me, dropped the rake, and ran toward me. “Hey, are you okay?”

  I shook my head, nodded, I didn’t know what I was doing. “I know where Vera is. And it’s bad. Real bad.”

  “Where?”

  “She’s with Bennett Hunter.”

  He looked at me quizzically, the pieces not quite fitting.

  “Bennett Hunter, Ollie. Marin’s maiden name is Hunter. Vera is with Marin’s father!”

  Chapter 36

  Marin

  “Mortimer Randolph’s law partners must really have it in for you.” Deputy Levine, who had hauled me to the police station in the back of his cruiser, opened the metal door of the interrogation room, releasing me to the myriad suspects and criminals waiting in the lobby for their turn.

  “I’ve never seen an autopsy turned around so quickly,” he continued.

  It took two hours for me to plead my case, that no, I did not put a lethal dose of ibuprofen in Mortimer Randolph’s coffee. And no, I had no idea over-the-counter NSAIDs could cause a heart attack, which was exactly what dear Mortimer died from in the middle of chastising Karen, his legal secretary, over the phone. Yes, Mortimer and I had had our differences, and yes, I had told him off rather royally on one occasion—the partners had clearly done their homework. And yes, Mortimer took a heap of pills each day that I never administered—it wasn’t part of my job, I was only his assistant, not his home nurse—so it’s possible he mixed up his meds himself. And of course it was unexpected when I discovered I was his sole beneficiary—I admitted this news came from Karen, but I didn’t disclose the circumstances—because it sure looked a lot like a murder motive to Levine.

  Motive was not a word that should have applied to me; it was a word used in Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, an episode of which I happened to have a small speaking part in.

  I was lucky enough that my alibi held water, and Mortimer’s time of death didn’t coincide with when I was at his house. Though it did beg the question: who spiked his coffee, and what did they have to gain? Because it certainly wasn’t me, even though I had the most to gain.

  I was surprised to see the remnant of daylight outside the police station when I exited through the double doors; it felt like I’d been in there throughout the night. It was early evening, yet my eyelids felt heavy, my heart exhausted from overworking itself, even my jaw ached from clenching so long. It was stressful being interrogated for homicide! As I spotted Cody sullenly waiting in his red truck, I realized the night was just getting started.

  “You’re saying secrets are killing our marriage. So let’s get rid of the secrets and keep the marriage.” Those were the last words Cody had left me with before Deputy Levine had showed up at our house. And Cody still wanted an answer.

  I was afraid. Not of Cody. But of the bomb I was about to detonate.

  We drove home in an uneasy silence that I wasn’t used to with him. I could smell the faint odor of alcohol on him, and I could sense confrontation flowing in his blood. Fifteen minutes and a million thoughts later, we walked into the kitchen together. Cody tossed a stack of mail and a small brown package on the counter, ad
dressed to me. Normally I loved getting packages, but right now I was too stressed to give it another thought. In the middle of the counter was a bottle of Absolut Vanilia vodka. It’d be empty before the night was over.

  Wedging the ugly orange counter between us, he glared at me, his gaze intense, almost terrifying. Jack Nicholson in The Shining terrifying. And I felt every ounce of anxiety all at once as I prepared to tell him my darkest secret ever. The secret that brought me into his life and took Vera away.

  “You ready to talk?” he asked me.

  “Are you ready to listen?” I snapped back.

  I was no shrinking violet, even when I was in the wrong. Because he was in the wrong too. We stood on equal footing. Him a cheater, me a liar. At least I had an excuse. I knew he’d never be ready for the truth. Beneath the superior exterior, he was just a scared little boy afraid of things that went bump in the night. The things he couldn’t see or didn’t understand. I breathed in, breathed out, then dove in:

  “I know where Vera is.”

  Cody’s jaw dropped. “What? And you haven’t told Felicity or Oliver yet?”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly where she is. I don’t have an address, but I know who she’s with.”

  Never mind. I wanted to stop right now. I couldn’t tell him. This was a huge mistake I wanted to reverse. But it was too late, and I knew it was the right thing to do. I winced at the sickening wave of nausea roiling in my belly. I was taking too long to speak.

  “Tell me!” Cody yelled.

  “She’s with my stepfather, Bennett Hunter,” I blurted out. “I don’t know if she sought him out or he kidnapped her or what. All I know is Vera found out about him and connected with him. I checked the only place he’s ever lived—the house I grew up in—and he’s not there. The place was vacant. I have no idea where they could be, and I tried calling him, left a million messages begging him to speak to me, to let me know if Vera was okay, but he wouldn’t call me back and now his phone is disconnected. I don’t know what to do or how to reach him.”

  “I don’t understand. What does your stepdad have to do with Vera? Why would Oliver’s kid be with your family, Marin?”

  I realized none of this made sense without context. Okay, we were about to go down the rabbit hole, and it was gonna get messy. I grabbed the bottle of vodka and took a full-mouthed swig, then slid the bottle across the table at him. “You’ll need this.”

  He lifted the bottle and gulped.

  “It’s a long, complicated story…and I hope you’ll forgive me after you hear the whole thing. I promise you Bennett is not a threat to Vera. But if he isn’t already dead, he will be soon.”

  Chapter 37

  Marin

  Fifteen years ago…

  I had scrubbed and scoured, ruining my Mary J. Blige T-shirt with bleach stains trying to wash the blood residue out of the bathtub. Chunks of afterbirth and placenta collected near the drain, almost making me vomit as I scooped them up in a paper towel and flushed them. Only after the fact did I pray I didn’t clog the pipes. A faint ring of red still circled the ceramic basin, but my muscles were too tired to keep cleaning.

  A lingering excitement mixed with relief still pulsed through my body after a long afternoon helping Mom deliver the baby at home in this very tub. Mom didn’t trust doctors, and Dad didn’t like hospital bills. After hours of labor, all that mattered were those final moments—a body-shuddering animalistic scream as Mom stood under the running shower, Dad circling his arms around her while water coursed over them, me like a major-league catcher with arms and hands splayed, ready for my new sibling to fall into them. I relived the slippery baby dropping into my arms, the full-throated wail, my big exhale, Mom crumbling into the corner of the tub with exhaustion...I would never forget this moment. A little sister. So perfect. I had high hopes for her. She’d get Mom clean. Repair our family. Our love for her would fix all wounds.

  It was halfway through the season finale of Gilmore Girls when I noticed the time. Mom and Dad should have been home by now. They were only supposed to take Mom and the baby—they hadn’t named her yet, but I liked the name Jasmine—to the hospital to get checked out, but it had been over two hours and still they weren’t home.

  A normal kid in a normal family wouldn’t have worried. Parents two hours late? No big deal. But I wasn’t a normal kid and I didn’t have a normal family. I spent my life being conditioned into a state of perpetual fear. And it all circled around Mom.

  It wasn’t Mom I was afraid of. She’d never laid a hand on me. It was being alone—particularly being alone with her—that terrified me. Not like there was much of a difference between the two.

  It was shortly after my real dad—Devin and Josie forever—died in battle in Afghanistan when the fear started. I was ten, and the day was crystal clear in my memory. Mom’s new boyfriend Ray stopping by, bringing candy for me and coke for Mom. He left her passed out on the floor, and hours later, as lunchtime turned into dinnertime, my tiny tummy rumbled for something of more substance than the empty orange box of Reece’s Pieces. I shook her arm, trying to wake her. I screamed and cried until the neighbor, Mr. Bennett, overheard me and came running over. Ten minutes later an EMT revived her, finger poised to dial social services to come take me. But Mr. Bennett came to my rescue that day, came to Mom’s rescue too, as he assured the EMT he was family and would take care of me until Mom was better. Soon after that, Mr. Bennett became Bennett, then Bennett became Dad. And Dad became the buffer between me and the constant pain and humiliation of having a druggie mother.

  That wasn’t the only time life with Mom left me scarred and scared. Like when she took me out grocery shopping, only we never made it into the store. We got as far as the parking lot when she did a hit of something that knocked her out, and as the summer temperatures climbed, I yelled from the backseat for her to wake up. A kindly store associate saved me when she called Dad to come get us. A week later Dad sent Mom to rehab, but it wasn’t enough to change her. I had a feeling nothing would ever change her. By this point I was tired of being saved from my own mother.

  Her own selfish feelings were her drug. Whatever made her feel, regardless of how it damaged her daughter. Now plural daughters.

  When I had found the positive pregnancy test in the bathroom garbage can, I was elated. My Pollyannaish thirteen-year-old imagination conjured a magical bond between mother and embryo, one even addiction couldn’t break. But pregnancy didn’t stop Mom until near the end, when the guilt of her crimes against her unborn finally set in. It was three of the best months of my life post-real-dad, packed with endless hours of classic tearjerkers like Love and Basketball and Beaches, and every chick flick in between. Just me and Mom and her huge quivering belly, movie-sized candy and overflowing popcorn, snuggled on the couch giggling like the girls we wanted to be.

  Then today happened. The baby came and broke her.

  “I just needed something for the pain, Bennett,” Mom cried out. She wasn’t asking. She was explaining away what she had already done, drugged out so bad Dad couldn’t reason with her.

  “Josie, what did ya take?” Except it was too late. She was already nodding off while the baby wailed in the background. As he carried the baby and then Mom to the car—we had been down this route many times before—he assured me she’d be okay.

  He meant Mom, but I didn’t want her to be okay.

  I hated her for abandoning us every day as she lolled into her high, leaving me and Dad and now a baby to fight for her life when she so carelessly threw it away. I should have been sad for her, not angry. And yet I couldn’t cry anymore. I had tasted happiness for those perfect months, and now it was…gone. And now I just wanted her gone too. So I told her as much.

  “Why do you keeping doing this to us? Why won’t you just die already and let us live?” I shot the words at her like bullets intended to kill.

  “Marin Hunter! Don’t say that. She’s your mother!” Bennett to Mom’s rescue again.


  I scoffed. “My mother? What kind of mother abandons her child day after day like this? Because that’s what I still am—a kid. No matter how much it seems the other way around!”

  Mom was just cognizant enough to shout back, “I’m not too high to whup your ass, girl!”

  “Whup my ass, huh? You can’t even see straight! We’d all be better off if you died and went to hell, where you deserve to go.” I stormed away to my bedroom.

  Before Dad left, he found me sobbing into my pillow. He thought I was wracked with regret over my outburst, but I was sobbing a prayer to God that He just take Mom away once and for all.

  Dad rubbed circles on my back. “Your mom just needs a doctor’s check-up, Mare. Birthing a baby is a mighty big strain on the body. She’ll be back home in no time.”

  I believed him. I shouldn’t have.

  That was now two and a half hours ago. It was dark outside now, and the credits for Gilmore Girls rolled down the television screen. I channel surfed to a rerun of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air to distract me, wondering if the clock-checking would ever go away, the fear of a parent leaving and never coming back, especially now that a baby relied on us, on me. I was thirteen years old, but most days I imagined this was what thirty felt like. Old. Exhausted. Burdened. Ready to give up.

  On the stove I was stirring Hamburger Helper, the only edible thing we had in the pantry. As I heard a single set of footsteps, I glanced over my shoulder. Dad ambled through the door, his limp more exaggerated than yesterday.

  “Where’s Mom and the baby?”

  He shook his head. He wouldn’t speak.

  “Dad?”

  He sat in his recliner, the one no one else was allowed to sit in. “They’re gone, kiddo.”

  Gone? That made no sense. They had just been here, Mom high as a kite, me screaming at her that I wished she would just die and go to hell, Dad yelling at me not to talk to my mother that way, Mom screaming that she was going to whup my ass, the baby’s hungry cries the backdrop of our screaming fits until one of us finally gave up and walked away. It was always me. But this time it was Dad…taking the baby with him. Now he was home, minus the baby and Mom.