Buried Deep, page 1
Buried Deep
Copyright @ 2021 Whitney Kelly writing as Margot Hunt
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
On the morning my once-perfect life changed forever, I was chatting with my daughter, Paige, on the phone. I tucked the phone against my shoulder and looked at the to-do list on the kitchen counter. “I’ve ordered the flowers,” I said. “I mailed the invitations last week, and the Black Swan is going to handle the catering. Do you think renting a photo booth is overkill?”
“Definitely. No photo booth,” Paige said.
“Really? I thought it might be fun!”
“Mom, you’re way over obsessing about this.”
“I’m not obsessing. Your father will only turn fifty once. I want everything to be perfect.”
Six years earlier, to celebrate my fortieth birthday, James had whisked me away on a two-week trip to Italy. We’d toured Rome, Florence, and Pisa, and then capped off the vacation with a three-day cooking course in Venice. I knew throwing a party wasn’t nearly as glamorous as a trip to Europe, but I was determined to make the day special for James.
“It’s not a surprise party, is it?” Paige asked.
I laughed. “No. You know how your dad is about surprises.”
“Yeah.” Paige sighed. “I think you really should consider taking up a hobby. Other than planning fancy parties, that is.”
I paused, stung by this comment. Paige was six weeks into her freshman year at Northwestern, and I was still adjusting to the fact that she was now living in a different state and leading a new life entirely apart from me. I was excited for Paige, my only child, and all the opportunities that lay before her, but since she’d left for school, my days had started to feel flat. I reminisced about everything we’d been through together: First, there had been the joyous but never-ending work of the baby and toddler years. Then, once Paige got a little older, and she started to excel at lacrosse, I was constantly shuttling her to practices and games, even spending whole weekends away when her team competed out of town. Her prowess on the field grew, and I was there every step of the way, cheering her on, shaping my life around hers—and I was more than happy to do it. But now she was off at college, on a full athletic scholarship, and my days were suddenly empty.
Maybe Paige was right. Maybe I did need a hobby. But what? I thought about the most common activities around our small Florida town. Golf? Pilates? Gardening? In my past life, before Paige was born and after I finished college, I had worked at a public relations firm for a few years. I’d been good at it, too—but not exactly passionate. Once I had a baby, it was so easy to let it all go. To walk away from my job, as though I’d never have to worry about finding a way to fill my time again.
“Mom, are you there?” Paige’s voice was loud in my ear, pulling me back to our conversation.
“Yes, I’m here. I’m just not sure I’m ready to ditch the photo booth idea.”
“Then get the photo booth.”
“I think I will. How was practice today?”
“Awesome! I mean, we did so many wind sprints, I almost puked. But Coach said that my stick skills are getting better. Coming from him, that’s practically gushing. He never compliments anyone.”
I listened to my daughter chattering happily and pictured her walking across campus, book bag slung over one shoulder, dark ponytail bouncing behind her. Paige had inherited her father’s long, lean body and angular features, but she had my bright-blue eyes and light dusting of freckles, which she claimed to hate.
Paige finally drew a breath, and said, “What else is going on there? How’s Stella doing?”
I glanced down at our chunky pug. Stella was sniffing around at my feet, ever hopeful that a rotisserie chicken would appear on the floor in front of her. This had happened once before, when James was carving and the chicken slipped off the counter. Stella pounced on it, and James chased around after her, trying to retrieve the chicken, while Paige and I looked on, laughing so hard we had to lean against one another for support. Now, Stella looked up expectantly at me and wagged her tail, as curly as a pig’s.
“She’s fine. Snarfling around for food, as usual.”
“Oh, don’t be mean! Give her a cookie.”
Stella suddenly turned and stared intently in the direction of the front foyer. A moment later, the doorbell rang. She let out a bark—more of a high-pitched yip—and scampered off toward the door.
“Honey, there’s someone at the door,” I said into the phone. “Can I call you back later?”
“No, that’s okay. I’m on my way to meet some friends. We’re having a study group for our sociology exam next week.”
I smiled. Back in my day, that had been code for I’m sneaking out to get drunk on cheap beer. Then again, Paige took both her lacrosse and her scholarship seriously, so knowing her, she probably was headed off to study.
“Talk to you later,” I said, and we hung up.
Stella was standing guard, pacing in front of the door and throwing her round head up as she barked. I think she liked the way it sounded, echoing around the two-story space.
“Steady on, girl,” I told her.
I scooped the pug up and opened the door. A blast of heat hit me—it was late September, which had always been my least favorite month of the year. While the weather was cooling off in other parts of the country, summer was still in full force in South Florida.
A man I didn’t recognize was standing on my front step. He was a composite of greys—short-cropped steel-colored hair, ashen complexion, light grey suit.
“I’m Detective Michael Forsythe,” he said. “With the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Monroe County? Where’s that?”
“The Keys.”
“You’re a long way from home, then,” I said. While our town, Shoreham, was technically considered South Florida, the Keys were much farther south. It took at least two hours to drive there if the traffic was light, which it rarely was.
“I’m looking for James Cabot,” Detective Forsythe said. “Is he here?”
I smiled at the detective and held out my hand. “I’m Maggie Cabot. James is my husband. He’s still at work. Is there something I can help you with?”
The detective shook my hand but did not return my smile. “No, I need to speak to your husband. Do you know where I can find him?”
“Like I said, he’s at work. He’s an orthopedist. I know he had surgery this morning, but he should be back in his office by now.” I gave the detective the address of James’s office, a building located a block away from the hospital. He wrote it down in a pocket-sized spiral notebook. “Is there a problem?”
The detective gave me a strange look, which I couldn’t read.
“Did you know a woman named Hannah Nilsson?” he asked.
Hannah Nilsson. Just hearing her name after all these years still made me uneasy. I struggled to keep my expression blank, to not give him whatever reaction he must’ve been watching for.
“No. I never met Hannah. James and I started dating years after all that.”
The detective continued to gaze at me far longer than I was comfortable with. Finally, he nodded.
“Thank you for your help.” He nodded at Stella. “Cute dog.”
He turned and left, and I went back into the house. I shut the door and set Stella down.
Then I did something I rarely bothered with in our small seaside town: I locked the deadbolt on the front door.
James had, of course, told me about Hannah Nilsson. He filled me in on the details during our third date. James had taken me to a steak house, and over medium-rare filets, creamed spinach, and large goblets of Pinot Noir, we’d started discussing our past relationships.
“You actually broke up with someone because he had bad table manners?” James had asked.
“They weren’t just bad,” I’d said, laughing. “He licked his fingers after every bite of food. It was disgusting. All I could think was I can’t possibly spend the rest of my life sitting across the table from someone who licks his fingers.”
“That is pretty gross.”
“What about you? What was your worst b
James had stopped smiling then. “Actually . . . my last girlfriend disappeared.”
“Disappeared? What do you mean?”
So, James told me. He and Hannah had dated for around seven months while he was finishing his residency in Miami. She’d been an aspiring model and was starting to find some modest success. When they met, her picture was already featured on a box of at-home hair coloring, she’d done a few small magazine shoots—that sort of thing. But then she was tapped to model in a series of Guess jeans print ads. Similar campaigns had launched models like Claudia Schiffer and Anna Nicole Smith into stardom. All of a sudden, Hannah was poised for real fame, and she knew it.
She disappeared the weekend before the photo shoot was scheduled.
James and Hannah went camping in the Keys, at a state park in Key Largo. They picked the campsite because it was on the water, near a coral reef where they planned to go snorkeling. Three friends joined them: Parker Reed, James’s best friend since childhood and at that time, his roommate in Miami. Nico Barlos, who was also doing his residency at the same hospital as James. And Diana Gillespie, Nico’s girlfriend.
On the first night of their planned two-night stay, the group had been drinking heavily until late at night. At some point, after they’d all gone to sleep, Hannah left her tent and stumbled off in the direction of the beach. Parker—who hadn’t made it into his tent, but fell asleep next to the campfire—woke up briefly and saw her leave the campsite, but he fell back asleep almost immediately.
Hannah Nilsson was never seen again.
The next morning, when the rest of the party got up and realized she was missing, no one panicked at first. They assumed she’d gone for a walk or an early-morning swim. But as the hours passed, and she didn’t return, their concern grew, especially once they found the tee-shirt she’d been wearing that night on the beach. This was back in 1993—before anyone had smartphones tracking their location. It was still pretty rare to have a cell phone at all. Nico drove into the nearest town and called the police from the first pay phone he found. A uniformed officer arrived, and when it became clear that this was not a simple case of a drunk tourist who’d wandered off and gotten lost, more police were called in. They searched the immediate area for hours, but nothing was found. A larger search of the campgrounds was done a couple days later, this time with dogs and local volunteers. But the dogs could only track Hannah’s scent to the shoreline, and lost it there.
Of course, Hannah’s companions that weekend were interviewed extensively. James and his friends were eventually allowed to return to Miami, but James—Hannah’s boyfriend, and therefore the top suspect, if it turned out that any foul play had occurred—was interviewed four times.
The police eventually determined that Hannah must have gone for a swim, alone and intoxicated. It was presumed that she’d drowned, and her body had been swept off in the outgoing tide. At the time of her disappearance, Hannah was twenty-one, only three years older than Paige was now.
But there were some things James had not told me about Hannah Nilsson. Things I discovered on my own over the years. It was rare that James would mention her, but she did come up every once in a while in conversations with his old friends. And of course, there was the occasional Internet search, usually on a late night when James had been called into the hospital and I’d had a few glasses of wine. Hannah’s disappearance had predated the Internet, but she’d been a model, and pretty girls who disappear attract a kind of attention that can linger on for years.
Hannah was one of the most beautiful people I’d ever seen. Tall and lithe, with sun-kissed skin and wavy blonde hair, pale-blue eyes and a charming, crooked smile. She had a slight gap in between her two front teeth. But rather than marring her beauty, it highlighted it. See? it seemed to say. Even with this imperfection, I’m still a goddess walking among mortals.
According to the journalists who wrote about Hannah’s disappearance, it was widely known in her industry that she was poised not just for success but for stardom. She could have been among the next generation of supermodels, in an era when many of them were more well-known than Hollywood actresses. I’d often wondered if these rosy predictions were really true, or if the reporters who covered her disappearance were mythologizing her, as people tend to do with the deceased. A beautiful girl on the brink of fame mysteriously vanishes? It made for a more interesting story, after all.
When she disappeared, Hannah’s parents were both still alive, and living in her home country of Sweden. They never came to the United States, not even while the search effort was ongoing. In the one interview that Hannah’s mother, Elin, gave to a local newspaper, she’d said simply “I’m not surprised. I always knew Hannah would die young.” It was a shocking statement from a mother, but I figured something may have gotten lost in translation. Both of her parents had since passed away. I knew that Hannah was an only child, and as far as my Internet sleuthing revealed, she had no surviving family.
I also knew that for months after Hannah vanished, James barely ate or slept. But this was another detail James hadn’t mentioned; Parker told me on the night before my wedding. Parker had been James’s best man, and had given a typically witty speech at the rehearsal dinner, spinning a funny story about how James had once worn his surgical scrubs out to a club, thinking it would attract women.
“I’m so happy James found you,” Parker said to me after dinner. By that point, he’d had quite a bit to drink and was slurring his words. “I didn’t think he was ever gonna get over Hannah. There was a time when I thought losing her would actually kill him. Then he met you . . . and it’s like the old James is back.”
Deep down, buried in the dark recesses of my thoughts, I wasn’t sure my husband had ever gotten over Hannah Nilsson. And even as the years passed, and we built a life together—a good life, a happy life, complete with an adored child and a beautiful home—that fear festered inside of me.
James came home late that evening, so late that he missed dinner. That wasn’t unusual—he often got called into last-minute emergency surgeries, or saw patients after hours at his office. But normally, he breezed in looking as fresh as he had when he left in the morning. His work had always energized him, no matter how many hours he put in.
Tonight, though, he looked like hell.
There were dark smudges under his eyes, giving his sharply hewed features a shadowed look. He also hadn’t bothered changing out of his scrubs, which was unusual for him. They were light blue and had his name and the logo of his practice embroidered on the left breast of the short-sleeved top: Shoreham Orthopedics.
“I made a quiche, if you’re hungry,” I said when he walked in. I was in the kitchen, rinsing off my solitary dinner plate and loading it into the dishwasher.
James kissed me, as he always did when he returned home. But when he embraced me, he held me for a few beats longer than usual.
“The police were here today,” I said into his shoulder. James released me and turned away.
“I know. They came to see me, too.”
“They said it was about—” I stopped and swallowed. We almost never spoke about Hannah. Saying her name out loud felt like breaching an unspoken agreement. “Hannah Nilsson.”
“Yes.” James ignored the quiche I’d left out on the counter, and went straight to the cabinet where we kept the liquor. He took out a bottle of Scotch and poured himself a large portion into a crystal lowball glass. This concerned me: James rarely drank, and never during the week, since he operated nearly every day.
“Don’t you have surgery tomorrow?”
“I’ll just have the one.” James took a long sip of the light-amber liquid.
I studied my husband and waited for an explanation.
“They found remains,” he finally said. “Human remains. On Key Largo.”
I inhaled sharply. “And they think it could be Hannah?”
“They already made a positive ID,” he said. “So, it’s definitely Hannah.”
I shook my head, trying to process this information. It had been over twenty-five years since Hannah disappeared. Because her body was never found, everyone assumed that she’d been swept out with the tide. As difficult as it was to think about, I knew that bodies that had been swallowed up by the ocean didn’t suddenly wash back up a quarter of a century later.
