The Long Way Back, page 11
Deep down, Charlie had feared this. It was why Eva was back at the camp, tucked in her sleeping bag and oblivious to the way the night had tilted. Charlie had followed the men, intentionally letting them take her farther and farther away from her daughter and the temptation of her smooth limbs, raven hair, perfectly bowed lips.
Rico led the way, and there was something off about his gait. It was exaggerated and clumsy, and Charlie doubted it was because the night was dark and the terrain unfamiliar. He was on something, she was sure of it. But just when she was about to feign exhaustion and insist they go back, the trees thinned and cleared altogether, and they emerged on a thin strip of pebbled beach.
The moon was full and fat in the sky, casting a golden glow on the expanse of dark water before them. Small waves crisscrossed the channel as currents swept around the tiny islands, and the moonlight dancing between the crests and troughs made the ocean seem alight with magic. Above them, a billion stars flickered in a liquid galaxy. Charlie must have gasped at the sight, because Jett snaked an arm around her and pulled her to him.
“Look for surface activity,” he told her, his mouth almost touching her ear, his breath hot and suggestive. “Exhales, dorsal fins, blows. There are several resident pods here.”
Charlie froze, the spell broken, and calculated whether it was better for her to stay put or pull away. Every nerve ending sparked with the understanding that she had to play this very carefully. As she hesitated, Jett’s fingers curled under the hem of her fleece, tickling the place where the waist of her jeans met her warm stomach, and after a wrought moment of indecision, she slipped from his embrace and rushed to the edge of the water, pointing. “There!”
Of course, there was nothing to see. They indulged her for a while, pretending to study the bay like the tour guides they supposedly were, but when Rico tired of the charade, he went to lean against a boulder at the trailhead. Jett took Charlie by the hand and tugged her away from the coastline toward the trees.
“I should get back,” she said, going with it, hoping that she had misjudged him and that was exactly where they were headed. Back to the little campsite and the tent where she could curl up next to Eva and calm her banging heart. Back to a place of tenuous safety. But after just a few steps, Jett stopped short and spun to face her. Before she could react, he cupped her head in his hands and kissed her, parting her lips with his tongue and pinching her jaw with his thumbs until her mouth opened to his.
Something sharp and bitter exploded on her tongue. Jett was taller than her, and pressed tight against him, Charlie could feel the hard curve of his every muscle. She couldn’t overpower him, but she struggled and pushed anyway, choking on the chalky tab that he’d slipped into her mouth with his kiss. She coughed and turned her head, spitting out what was left of it onto the rocky beach.
Jett dropped her as if stung. “Goddammit! Did you just spit it out? That was good stuff!”
“What did you give me?” Charlie croaked.
“Nothing if you spit it out.”
“Tell me what it was!” Even though she was shaking so hard her teeth chattered, Charlie’s fear was galvanizing into a pure and steely fury.
“Chill out. We thought it’s what you wanted. You came for this, remember?”
Charlie couldn’t even respond. She came for this? She wracked her mind, trying to read a hidden meaning in their messages, in her acceptance of what she believed was a casual invitation. How had she ended up here? And what had Jett tried to slip her? Acid or ecstasy, maybe PCP? Beyond a little weed in high school, Charlie was virginal when it came to drugs.
Jett reached for her. “It’s fine,” he said smoothly, trying to gather her into his arms again. “You don’t have to—”
“Don’t touch me!” Charlie didn’t mean to scream, but her words echoed off the craggy rocks, the expanse of dark water.
“Hey,” Jett held up his hands in surrender, yet he didn’t move away. “Whatever. Be a bitch.”
There was no real venom in his voice, but in the moonlight, Charlie could see that his eyes were cold and glazed. She didn’t trust him, not for a second, and she backed away slowly, her hiking boots sliding on the damp stones. “Don’t touch me,” she said again, softer. And then she took off, sprinting for the path. Rico was there, and he put out a hand as if to stop her, but he was high and miscalculated the distance. Charlie evaded him easily, and tore down the trail, impervious to the switch of branches as they lashed against the exposed skin of her hands, neck, and cheeks. She twisted her ankle and almost went down, but she sucked in a cry and kept going, putting as much distance between her and the men as she could.
But what good would it do? They were alone on the island with nowhere to go and no one to call for help. In a matter of minutes, Charlie had sprinted past the dock and the pit toilets into the clearing where their tents crouched beneath the sweeping evergreens, despair hot on her heels. There was a utility knife in her pack, but it was dull and rusty, hardly a weapon. And they had no phone signal out here, not even a single wavering bar. Charlie and Eva were well and truly on their own.
When her fingers began to tingle, Charlie wasn’t sure if it was adrenaline or the dust that had dissolved on her tongue. Either way, she was terrified and murderous, a blunt edge that could hardly see past the next second and her staggering need to keep her daughter safe. Working quickly, she unzipped the tent to check on Eva (sleeping soundly) and rummage for the knife (right where she left it). Then she sat cross-legged in front of the closed tent flap, her knife and her rage the only things between Eva and a brutal world.
The rest of the night was a shadowed smudge of rustlings and whispers and fears. Charlie wasn’t sure if she was hallucinating or dreaming, if the flecks of drug that had dissolved on her tongue were powerful enough to pull her under even though she fought with everything she had to stay alert, awake, afloat. There were moments of clarity—an owl hooting in the trees, the snitch of a zipper, Eva talking in her sleep—and then long stretches of flickering lights, menacing sounds, uncertainty.
Until: “Mom? Mom, did you sleep out here?” Eva’s hands on her shoulders, the fizz of laughter in her voice. “You’re freezing!”
Charlie bolted up, and pain pooled at the base of her skull. She was parched and tender, her back sore from the uneven ground and her hands so stiff with cold she couldn’t form fists.
“Oh my gosh. Did you guys drink last night?” Eva’s smile quirked as she reached to pull a twig from Charlie’s hair. “Wow. I mean, wow. I’ve never seen you quite so…” She flapped her hands in Charlie’s direction as if her appearance needed no explanation.
“Are you okay?” Charlie’s icy fingers cradled Eva’s cheeks. The girl’s eyes were clear and luminous in the morning light, her skin warm, but not hot.
“I’m fine! I told you all I needed was sleep.” Eva stepped carefully out of the tent and wrapped Charlie in a hug. “I’m more worried about you. You have scratches all over your neck. What did you do last night?”
Charlie held her daughter at arm’s length and studied her face, ignoring the questions she couldn’t begin to answer. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Great! And I can’t believe we’re going to kayak with orcas today!” Eva squealed. Then she leaned close and whispered: “It’s okay if you like Jett.”
Charlie’s eyes pricked with tears, but she blinked them away before Eva could see them. Over her daughter’s shoulder she could see Jett unzip his own tent and crawl out, yawning and stretching with his fingers interlaced over his head. She watched him for a moment, and when he glanced over, she flinched. But Jett’s gaze slid away, and he smiled as if nothing had happened.
“Who’s ready to see orcas today?” he called, clapping his hands twice.
Eva jumped up, giggling. “Me!” she half shouted, her enthusiasm zinging through the small campsite. “Pick me! Pick me!”
Charlie couldn’t watch. Taking a shuddering breath, she turned to the tent and began to zip up the flap. When her knee rolled onto something sharp, she looked down and realized it was the knife she had clutched for most of the night. It was stained and ineffectual, half-buried beneath dried evergreen needles and bits of loamy earth. Charlie stared at it for a minute, uncertain about everything. Was it all a bad dream? What really happened last night? She couldn’t say for sure. And because the morning fire was already starting to crackle behind her, and she could hear Jett talking about instant coffee and maple brown sugar oatmeal, she palmed the knife, flicked it closed, and tucked it in a pocket on her thigh. She wiped both hands over her face and finger-combed her hair. Then she stood slowly, with only the slightest hint of a wobble.
Eva was okay, and that was all that mattered. It was the only thing that had ever mattered.
CHAPTER 8
SUNDAY
When Detective James turns into the parking lot of the marina, Charlie is pulled taut between elation and terror. Half of her is convinced that the authorities have given in and are going to let her take the Summer Moon out to search for her daughter. The other half fears that they’ve found something she will be required to identify. Please, dear God, she thinks. Don’t let it be someone.
It’s been a quiet drive, punctuated only by the intermittent click of the blinker and the drum of Agent Turner’s fingers on the console until Detective James tells him to stop. Now Charlie feels wound tight as a spring and just as restrained, and before she can stop herself, she blurts: “Did you find Eva? You have to tell me.”
Detective James says, “We don’t, actually,” at the exact moment that Agent Turner looks over the seat back at her and says, “No.” His brown eyes are immense and unexpectedly reassuring, and Charlie suddenly wants to grab his arm in both of her hands just so she has something to hold on to. Instead, she laces her fingers together in her lap.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “I thought… I mean, maybe you…”
“We have some leads,” Agent Turner admits, and by the sharp huff from the detective in the driver’s seat, Charlie surmises that the FBI agent is going off-script. It’s cold comfort—she suspects Detective James doesn’t like her very much, though they’re probably just playing Good Cop/Bad Cop with her—but she’s thankful for Agent Turner’s honesty anyway. She needs all the allies she can get, even if they’re pretend.
“We’ve actually set up our mobile command center in the boathouse,” Agent Turner continues. “The building is not really in use, and it made sense for us to be as close to the search effort as possible.”
It did make sense. Still, Charlie wonders how her fellow mariners feel about the prolonged presence of law enforcement at their little haven. Of the roped-off parking spaces near the small building, the extra security, the Summer Moon lashed to the floating dock and wrapped in a garland of drooping police tape. Spring is the best, most hopeful time of year on the lake, and Eva’s disappearance—as shocking and horrible as it is—has a ripple effect that radiates consequences for anyone even tangentially involved. It’s painfully obvious when Charlie steps out of the refined sedan and onto the gravel of the parking lot. Instead of music drifting from the rows of docks and the low hum of chatter as her friends get their boats ready for summer, it’s a ghost town. Only Weston and Thea are visible from their slip in the very last row. They’re watching the newcomers, and when Charlie looks in their direction, Thea raises her hand in greeting and then presses it over her heart. Charlie is too choked up to even lift a finger in reply.
The inside of the boathouse has been transformed. The glass cases have been pushed to the side and the desks hold industrial-looking printers. There are folding tables filled with laptops and bulky charging stations outfitted with durable handheld radios. Cords snake across the floor, and a handful people sit on metal chairs in front of oversized screens. They’re typing dutifully or riffling through stacks of papers that Charlie can’t even begin to guess the purpose of.
All this for one missing girl. She’s heartened, and then her stomach bottoms out. If all these people—plus the coast guard and others that she likely doesn’t even know about—haven’t found Eva yet, what are the chances anyone will?
But Charlie doesn’t have time to dwell on this alarming thought because Agent Turner puts a hand between her shoulder blades and directs her past the beehive of activity to a room at the back of the building. It used to be a catchall, a narrow storage room that housed all the odds and ends the Landing Historical Society couldn’t bring themselves to toss, but it’s been cleared out. All that remains is another folding table and yet more dented metal chairs. Agent Turner motions toward one and Charlie sinks into it slowly, perching on the very edge.
“What did you find?” she asks, because no one else is talking.
Detective James ignores her question entirely. “We’d like to record this interview.” He’s typing something on a flat keyboard clicked into a tablet. On top of the portable setup is a small camera that blinks to life at the touch of a button. Charlie stares at the red light for a moment, realizing that someone at one of the computers she just passed is probably right now staring at her face on his screen. She blinks, wondering if she looks like a monster or just a grief-stricken mother.
“Do I need a lawyer?” Charlie’s not even sure who she’s asking. The person on the other side of the recording? Detective James?
It’s Agent Turner who answers. “You haven’t been charged with a crime.”
Not yet, Charlie thinks, filling in the pregnant pause after his words.
“But you have every right to an attorney,” the FBI agent continues. “Would you like to call one?”
“No. I don’t want to waste any more time. What do you want from me? I’ll tell you anything.” Charlie has no idea if her cooperation is seen as disingenuous or sincere, and she doesn’t really care.
“We’d like to talk about Eva Explores,” Detective James says, stepping to the door and accepting a thick folder from a young officer. He closes the door with a thud and fans through the papers, arching his eyebrows at whatever he’s seeing on the pages. He sits down next to Agent Turner, across from Charlie, and places the closed folder neatly in the middle of the table. “Whose idea was it to start the account?”
Charlie squeezes her eyes closed. She doesn’t want to talk about this with them. Not because she has anything to hide, but because it isn’t relevant. They’re barking up the wrong tree. But she gathers her thoughts anyway and begins. “Eva wanted an Instagram account for her thirteenth birthday. I thought she was too young for social media, so we compromised. We started a joint account. It was called the Sutton Girls.”
Agent Turner rolls his hand, encouraging her to continue.
“So I took this picture of Eva and it kind of went viral. We were at Gooseberry Falls, and the water and the light… Everything just blew up from there.” Charlie lifts one shoulder, uncertain of how to explain what had happened to them. What they let happen.
“Is this the photo?” Detective James opens the folder and takes out the top sheet of paper. It’s a printout of their first ever Sutton Girls post, the waterfall shot that started it all. At the bottom of the picture their short caption—the somewhat pretentious Anaïs Nin poem—is printed. And beneath that, the first of what she knows are hundreds of comments.
“That’s it,” Charlie whispers.
“So you took photos of your teenage girl and put them online for the world to see.”
It feels as though Detective James has slapped her. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Lots of people post pictures of their children.” Agent Turner comes to her rescue, but Charlie doesn’t need help. She’s savoring the ache. She needs someone to blame, and it might as well be herself.
“I took lots of pictures of Eva over the years,” she says when she can trust herself to talk again. “I take full responsibility for that. But there were rules. I mean, I didn’t write them down or anything, but we were careful. I usually posted pictures of her back, her feet, her hands. The photos were kind of abstract, you know? I didn’t post her full face.”
Detective James slides the folder toward himself and carefully extracts a sheaf of papers that have been clipped together. He peels them off one by one and places them on the table. There’s the left side of Eva’s face. The right. Her perfect, grinning mouth behind a three-scoop waffle cone dripping with hot fudge sauce. Just the glint of her mischievous blue eyes with a tartan blanket pulled up to the bridge of her nose and a fire roaring behind her. Someone has collected and printed every partial face shot that Eva and Charlie ever posted. The detective keeps laying them out, filling up the table with Eva’s lovely features until he runs out of room and has to stack them on top of each other.
“Never her full face, huh?”
“We know you tried to keep her hidden, Charlotte, but I think you can see how easy it would be for anyone to know exactly who Eva is and what she looks like.” Agent Turner catches her gaze and holds it. “You know you’re both very recognizable.”
Charlie just nods.
“Your daughter is a pretty young woman,” Agent Turner continues. “And you have a lot of followers. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that someone would become obsessed with her. Has she ever had a stalker? Anyone who gave her unwanted attention or made her feel uncomfortable?”
