The next day, I don’t so much wake up as I float out of sleep. Images I thought were figments of dreams spin in my head, solidifying into scenes that I’m forced to admit really happened.
Mistake number… well, truth be told, I kind of lost count. What I should have done was get in Laura’s car and go straight home. Not go back to the party. I shouldn’t have accepted another beer, or any of the subsequent beers, for that matter. And I definitely shouldn’t have made out with my married ex.
I sit up with a groan. I don’t want to contemplate how I got home—it better not involve driving in the state I was in. When I look around, I realize I’d passed out on top of my childhood bed with the bedspread still on. At least I also seem to be fully dressed in the same ratty clothes I remember wearing. On my sweatshirt is something that looks suspiciously close to a vomit stain.
That’s when I realize what dragged me out of sleep. There’s polite knocking on the door that must have been going for quite some time.
At least I can get up. It’s reassuring. I think it just hit me so hard because I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in forever. My head hurts, but I don’t feel like I might puke (again?). With a lot of hope and a lot of coffee and some aspirin, I just might get myself back into shape.
Right now though, there’s no time to brew coffee or look for aspirin. Assuming Laura even has aspirin. Speaking of the devil—why doesn’t she open the damn door?
“Coming!” I yell out. The knocking stops. I make my way to the door and throw it open, only to find myself staring at Frank in his police uniform.
Uh-oh. Don’t tell me I did drive.
But just as I’m about to give in to panic, I notice several things. Laura is nowhere to be seen and neither is her car. Also, Frank is smiling, and in his hand, he’s holding the last thing I expected to see.
“I’ve got great news, Stephanie!” he says, and thrusts my stolen backpack toward me. “Is this a good time?”
“It’s a great time,” I bleat, a little overcome by what’s happening.
“See? I told you. Just some hooligans—one of them tried to pawn your laptop down on Main. It wasn’t too hard to get the whole thing back. Check to see that everything’s there, and then we can close the case, eh?”
“Thank you,” I say, dumbfounded.
“And that’s not all. I did what you asked, found the files about the Fortiers in the archives.”
“Wow. I really appreciate it—”
“Your mom’s not home? I thought I’d say hi while I’m here.”
“No. And I’m afraid I don’t know when she’ll be back.” I glance surreptitiously over my shoulder into the empty house.
“Oh, well. Just tell her I stopped by. Here.” He holds out a thin folder, one of those beige ones used at doctors’ offices. “I made you some copies of the stuff I thought was pertinent. Sorry there isn’t more. A lot of it got lost, and some of it got requisitioned by the SQ for their investigation. But if you have any questions, feel free to drop by.”
“I will,” I say, and take the folder gingerly. It really does look thinner than a nineties fashion model.
“But if you do show up, please don’t leave your stuff unattended this time,” he jokes. “Not that we’re superbusy out here, but I do have other things to do.”
I thank him. It’s a little unfair to him—he did just save me $3,000 I don’t have for a new laptop—but I’m relieved to shut the door. I take my stuff and the folder into the kitchen, where I set it up on the kitchen table. The coffee machine beckons, but first things first. I boot up the Mac and groan with relief when it appears to be working perfectly. My Michelle Fortier files are even still open, just as I left them. Not a letter amiss.
My heart still thrumming, my hands a little shaky, I finally get that coffee started. While the machine hisses, I flip open the skinny folder.
At first glance, it’s not much. There are a couple of reports dating from a year before Michelle went missing, and they all deal with property crimes—something about the Fortiers’ livestock. Someone killed some calves and some sheep, and judging by the sparsely worded reports, the police thought it was just vandalism by some local teenagers. This goes hand in hand with my conclusion that the Fortiers weren’t well-liked. Were the teenagers to blame or their parents?
The last report is what catches my eye. Apparently, there was a robbery, which I guess explains the bars on the windows. This in a town where people didn’t lock their doors at night until recently. This report has the same uncanny quality as the others, turned up to eleven. It doesn’t say explicitly there were no signs of forced entry, but it also doesn’t mention how the robbers got in, no smashed windows or broken-down doors or picked locks. Most of the report is an inventory of what got stolen. Marie Fortier’s jewelry, described in detail. I assume it’s so that the police could track it down through pawnshops, like Frank did with my poor laptop. There are mentions of several solid gold chains, ruby stud earrings, a ruby bracelet, and a ruby-and-diamond pavé ring.
Once I reach the end of the page with the description, I flip it over only to find that I’ve gotten to the end. It doesn’t say what ended up happening, whether the police had any suspects or caught anyone. The date on the report is a month before Michelle’s disappearance. I imagine the jewelry wasn’t much of a priority for poor Marie after that.
I finish my coffee, make myself breakfast, and even manage to choke it down. It turns out to be worth the effort because afterward I feel almost like myself. On top of that, the events of yesterday are starting to come back to me, which doesn’t necessarily turn out to be a good thing. In the shower, I freeze up as I rinse the conditioner out of my hair. Wasn’t there something about old cabins and, oh God, a date? I push the curtain aside to steal a glance at my phone, which sits by the sink. I need to text Luc or, better yet, call him—now—and cancel.
I step out of the shower, water pooling immediately around my feet, and pick up the phone. But my thumb hovers over the screen without doing anything. It feels like a long time goes by before I quietly put the phone back without ever unlocking it and step shamefully back into the shower.
By the time Luc shows up, my hair’s been blow-dried, and I’m dressed in a slightly cleaner and more put-together version of yesterday’s outfit. I tried not to think about it too much as I swiped on some concealer and mascara.
Luc knocks on the door, and I come to open it.
“Hi,” he says. He looks fresh as a rose. I note none of the bluish undereye circles I’m hiding under my layer of Maybelline or anything else that might suggest a hangover. The F-150 waits by the curb, way too shiny for the surroundings. Like he just washed it this morning.
Aren’t people going to talk? In Marly, that’s basically all people do. And he’s basically spoon-feeding them the good stuff, picking me up in his car in the middle of the day.
He seems oblivious. Maybe that’s the point.
“I’m the one who drove you home,” he says to my carefully worded inquiry. “In that old beater of Laura’s. I haven’t driven a car that crappy since I was sixteen.”
I happen to remember what car he drove at sixteen very well, at least as well as all the stuff we did in the back seat. That car was way nicer than anything Laura could dream of, but I don’t point it out.
“What would your dad say if he caught you driving drunk?” I ask acidly.
Luc shrugs. “I wasn’t drunk. Some people are just better at holding their liquor.” He gives me a brief once-over—blink and you’d miss it, but I don’t miss it. To me, he might as well have wolf-whistled. But then he grins, and it’s gone. He gestures at the pickup.
“Anyway, you seem none the worse for wear. Are you coming or not?”
For all his nonchalance about town gossips, I notice Luc isn’t taking the main street. As soon as we’re out of town proper, he joyfully hits the gas pedal as if relieved to no longer have to be furtive. With a deep roar, the truck accelerates, and I feel an effervescence, a feeling that reminds me of the joyrides we used to go on, of how we used to make out in that not-so-crappy car of his. The weather’s great, and the sun is shining—in such weather, even the flat, depressing fields around Marly don’t look all that glum. I pretend to look out the window but keep sneaking sideways glances at Luc, who also looks happy and relaxed.
The last thing I want to do is ruin the happy mood, but some questions need to be asked.
