“Thanks for coming in, Annabel.”

Dave Winter sat across from her, the garish light of the interview room reflecting off his badge.

“What’s happened? Is it bad?”

It was bad, Bel knew it. Knot tumbling through the empty pit of her stomach, nothing to catch on.

Dad had been missing for ten days now. It was temporary, a test, a problem Bel knew how to fix. They couldn’t take that away from her, Bel didn’t know how to live without him.

“This is going to be pretty hard for you to hear, Annabel.” Harder if he didn’t hurry the fuck up with it.

Bel locked her jaw, readying herself. If Dad was dead, then so was Rachel.

“We tracked down his credit card,” Dave said, shoulders tensed by his ears. “We got a new hit at an ATM, and Vermont State Police were able to get to the scene. It wasn’t your dad using the card. It was a college student, age twenty-two, called Matthew Abbey. Police questioned him about his connection to Charlie Price. There isn’t any.” He sniffed. “He says he found the credit card under a table in a diner he went to last Monday.”

“What diner?” Bel asked, hooking her hands together, holding on.

Dave glanced down at his notes, flicked a page. “In Vermont. The How Cow Café, near Barton.”

Bel recognized the town. “That’s where Robert Meyer lives.”

Dave nodded. “He claims he didn’t see your dad that night, and that nothing was said on that final phone call. But the credit card being found there does point to your dad being in the area.”

Which still left it up in the air: whether Bob from Vermont had lied to Bel or not.

“Matthew Abbey is being charged with credit card fraud, but it didn’t give us any other leads on Charlie’s whereabouts, other than he’d been to that diner last Monday. No cameras, before you ask.”

“OK,” Bel said. That was one update, and it wasn’t so bad. Good, even; it showed that Dad wasn’t traveling around Vermont, spending money on burgers and beer, like he’d chosen to be gone. “What else?”

Dave sighed, took a moment to run his fingers over his mouth. The worst was yet to come, clearly. The bad news and then the very bad news.

“What?” Bel broke, a tightening at the back of her throat, that tremor before you cried or before you threw up, somewhere between the two.

“We didn’t just find the credit card,” Dave said carefully.

Bel’s mind skipped ahead of him, got lost there. Fuck. No, what else did they find? Not his body. No, no, no.

“We found his phone and his passport. The phone was switched off, as we knew. They were found together, by a janitor, in a trash can at a private airfield in Vermont.” Dave paused. “Right up by the Canadian border.”

He left it there, as though that were enough, the full story: beginning, middle, end.

“What are you trying to tell me?” Bel angled forward, trailing shadows on the table from her hair, her stomach an endless cliff drop to the end of the world.

“Annabel,” he said, even softer. “I don’t think your dad’s in the country anymore. Looks like he wanted to go, left voluntarily. The credit card hits threw us off for a while, but he probably crossed the border last week.” Dave cleared his throat. “Got on a small, private aircraft and we didn’t know

about it, because, well, our running theory is he ditched his old passport because he’d acquired another one, under a new identity.”

Bel shook her head.

Dave continued. “We believe that’s why he might have gone to see Robert Meyer. An individual who has ties to online criminal activity, who may be involved in that kind of thing.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, Annabel,” Dave said, and he did look it, eyes slumped and heavy, a troubled fold in his chin. “I really wanted to help you find him, after…everything. But all the signs point to the fact that Charlie left voluntarily, that he’s left the country, potentially using a different name. It’s not a crime to leave your old life behind, as much as it hurts.”

“No,” Bel said, voice finally catching, shedding its skin, coming out as a whisper.

“He’s outside of our jurisdiction now. Way outside. I’m sorry, but we can’t look for him anymore.” Dave’s eyes darkened farther. “I want to be honest with you, Annabel, because we’ve been through it all, you and me. Your mom’s disappearance, and you were a big part of the reason it stuck with me so long, that tiny little girl left alone in the backseat. Then what happened with Phillip Alves, and everything since Rachel came back. I want you to be able to trust me when I tell you. We can’t look for Charlie anymore and, if I’m being honest, it seems like he doesn’t want to be found.”

—

Bel slammed the front door, an explosion of sound, echoing down the hallways and trenches of number 33. Slammed her bedroom door too, falling face-first on her bed, burying her head between the pillows.

There was no reaction to the double explosion, no creeping feet, no quiet knocks on her door. Rachel must not be in. Good, because Bel couldn’t see her right now. If she did, she knew their cold war would catch fire, started by her.

Dad did not choose to disappear to Canada, to leave his old life behind with Bel in it. Dave Winter was wrong. Unbelievable, asking him to trust her. Bel didn’t trust him; she didn’t trust anyone.

Bel punched the pillow with a closed fist, then the other. It was Rachel, it was Rachel, it was all Rachel, and she was the only one who could see it. The alternative was to side with Dave Winter, to believe Dad chose to go, to leave her, and Bel would never go that way. That way hurt much, much more.

Bel rolled over, stared at the ceiling.

The credit card left in a diner, for someone to find, to distract the police: That must have been Rachel, right? She must have staged the phone call to Bob from Vermont too. She must have planted the phone and the passport to make it look like Dad had crossed the border. Rachel was the expert in disappearing, after all; maybe she’d simply had to re-create her own. But how could Bel prove it, now the police had given up on him, now she was all on her own?

They didn’t know when the phone and passport were dumped, but the credit card had to have been left last Monday, or the Sunday before, for the student to have found it Monday afternoon.

So where was Rachel in those first two days after Dad disappeared? On the Sunday she was here, at home. But Monday…

A memory stirred. In the kitchen that evening. Bel throwing away a carton of apple juice; she’d only drunk it to piss Rachel off. There had been a takeout coffee cup in the trash, hadn’t there? That was what she was catching on, her mind trying to pull back, to remember the logo. Wait, what was the name of the diner again, where Dad’s credit card was found?

The How Cow Café; she heard it back in Dave Winter’s voice, snapping to attention.

Bel scrambled for her laptop at the end of the bed. Pressed the button, willing it to wake up faster.

She typed How Cow Café Vermont into Google and clicked enter, the laptop dipping up and down with her touch.

A page of results.

The diner’s website, and an image of their logo.

A red background. A white cartoon cow against it, pursed lips to blow a steaming mug of coffee. This was it, wasn’t it? The same thing she saw in the trash downstairs last week. Her memory wasn’t that clear, hadn’t held on to it because she hadn’t realized it would ever be important. But she remembered enough, and this couldn’t be a coincidence.

Last Monday, Rachel planted the credit card in that diner in Barton, Vermont, on her way to dump the phone and passport farther north at the airfield. Thought she’d grab a cup of coffee to keep her going. Had it in the car on the drive back to Gorham. Took it inside the house to throw it away. She’d planned everything, but she hadn’t planned on Bel seeing it.

That was evidence. Real evidence that Rachel was the one making it look like Dad disappeared. If Bel found it, then Dave Winter would have to trust her right back, wouldn’t he?

Bel didn’t waste another second.

She darted out of her room, heavy down the steps like rolling thunder.

Into the kitchen, she pulled the cupboard handle, the double trash cans rolling out, crashing at the end of the hinge.

Both were almost empty. Their contents buried at the bottom, hidden by the waves and surges of the trash bag.

Bel pushed her hand inside. Grabbing handfuls and bringing them to the light so she could see.

Eggshells and banana skins. Plastic food wrappers.

Used coffee grounds, bleeding brown all over her fingers. The cup wasn’t in this one.

The other side held more promise; cardboard toilet rolls and bits of paper. But Bel dug both hands through and couldn’t find the cup.

Rachel must have taken out the trash. It would be in the garbage cans outside.

Bel was on her feet again, flying through the house.

She collided with the front door, leaving it open as she sprinted down the steps to the garbage cans. They were both left out, by the sidewalk,

because it was always Dad’s job to bring them in.

Bel skidded to a stop in front of them.

The metal can first. Bel unhooked the elasticated cord from the lid. It was black bear season, didn’t you know?

She pushed the lid off and it fell on the path, clattering, spinning on its rim like this was just a game, a building sound of drums.

Bel looked; there was only one black trash bag here, crumpled at the bottom. She lowered her arm inside. Cold metal pressed into her armpit as she reached. She grabbed the top of the bag and pulled it out.

Fingers clumsy as she undid the knot.

It released and so did the smell, a sour undertone to the spring air.

Bel pulled the opening wide, sorting through with her hand, flinching every time it touched something wet.

It was too dark inside the bag to see anything, and she trusted her eyes more than her fingers, who lied to her, turning everything into spiders and slugs.

Bel stood up and upturned the bag, trash falling all around, a wrapper clinging to her boots.

She bent down in the middle of it all, sweeping her hand through the mess. Apple cores and broccoli stumps—dinner last night—slimy bits of plastic, crumpled paper towels with orange greasy stains, the hard outer skins of an onion, a lump of cheese fuzzy with mold. Bel checked everything; the cup wasn’t here.

But she wasn’t giving up. Rachel could have put it in the recycling instead. She must have.

Bel flipped the lid off the recycling bin, folded bits of cardboard and paper and cartons shifting in front of her eyes.

Her heart double time, a pressure building behind her face, reaching for her eyes. Bel gripped the bin and turned it over, spilling everything to the grass. Shaking it for the shy bits stuck at the bottom.

She dropped to her knees, checking under and inside folded boxes. Flipping through cartons and packaging, eyes moving faster than her hands. They knew before her. The cup wasn’t here either.

Bel went through it all again, trash and recycling, filth soaking into the knees of her jeans, grime embedding under her fingernails, hoping she could change the answer if she hoped hard enough. It had to be here. Please, please.

She dropped to the ground, sitting in the middle of the desperate swirl of trash, cascading and shifting around her, hands dirty and stained and empty.

It wasn’t here. It wasn’t here and Rachel had won again.

Bel kicked out at the trash, a growl breaking free from her throat, sparking the red hot inside her again.

“What are you doing there?” asked a small voice behind her. Frail and familiar.

Bel’s head whipped around.

Ms. Nosy from number 32, being nosy, living up to her name. Standing on the sidewalk with her arms tucked behind her, watching Bel in her pile of trash, a scowl on her face.

“I’m taking the trash out,” Bel said, near hysterical, her arms wide, encircling her throne of garbage.

“You shouldn’t have them out.” Ms. Nelson tutted the final word. “It’s Tuesday today. Trash gets collected on a Monday morning.”

A sinking feeling in Bel’s gut, beside the well of red hot. And there it was. The cup would have been right here. But Bel was too late. A day and a half too late, and her evidence was gone, lost forever.

“Fuck,” she erupted, kicking out again.

Ms. Nelson bristled. “It’s all right, dear. They come again next week.” Bel couldn’t cry so she laughed instead, staring down at her filthy hands. Ms. Nelson laughed nervously too, rocking on her heels.

“You should clean that up, seal the trash cans. Don’t want to attract bears. It’s black bear seas—”

“I know it’s black bear season,” Bel snapped, wiping her hands on her jeans.

“Yes, well.” Ms. Nelson inspected her own clean hands. “I wanted to ask: It’s your grandfather’s birthday this week, isn’t it?”

“Friday,” Bel mumbled, not looking up. Because it was some kind of deadline in her mind. A small voice in her head that said if Dad wasn’t home by then, he never would be.

“You know, he used to be one of my best customers,” she said, like it was Bel’s fault somehow. “Pat would be in the bookstore every other week. Don’t see him around anymore.”

“No,” Bel said, because she didn’t want to be having this conversation, any conversation, while she sat here in this stinking pile of trash with no way to bring Dad home.

“I wondered whether I should drop a few new books around, for his birthday. Is that a nice idea?” Ms. Nelson said, looking down at her.

“Really nice idea, Ms. Nelson, except you know he can’t read anymore.

Can’t even remember who I am.”

Forgetting was just another way of leaving, and everybody left eventually. Hopefully Ms. Nelson would too, because it was hard to fall apart with her standing over you.

“Oh.” She drew a sharp breath, whistling between her teeth. Still, she didn’t go. Stepped even closer.

“I tried to call Chief Winter today,” she said. “Have the police done anything more about that man?”

“What man?” Bel asked, pressing her teeth together until they hurt. “The man who’s been watching your house.”

“There is no man!” Bel exploded, the red hot behind her eyes now. “There is no fucking man! Rachel made him up, OK? She made my dad disappear, and it’s my fault, I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight!”

Ms. Nelson took a step back, blinking slowly at her.

Bel let out a long breath, trying to bring herself back from the edge.

“It was just someone from the press, Ms. Nelson. You know those news vans? There were lots of men watching the house. They’ve all gone now.”

Bel rose to her knees, grasping the discarded trash bag that billowed in the breeze. “Nice seeing you, Ms. Nelson,” she said, hoping to finally dismiss her. But Bel couldn’t resist one last barb, unleashing some of her simmering rage. “Maybe stop watching our house too. Everyone knows you do. Some neighbors even call you Ms. Nosy.”

Ms. Nelson’s face fell, her mouth tightening into a thin line. The sight brought Bel no satisfaction.

Without a farewell, Ms. Nelson turned on her heel and left as Bel began gathering handfuls of trash into the bag.

She had to clean this up before Rachel returned. If Rachel remained oblivious to any issues, there was still hope. Bel’s instincts told her Dad wasn’t in Canada, but he had to be somewhere, just as Rachel had been for sixteen years.

Her words to Ms. Nelson rang true: she shouldn’t have let Rachel out of her sight. Bel regretted avoiding Rachel initially, staying out of the house and her way. She’d inadvertently given Rachel time alone to scheme and act, resulting in Dad’s disappearance.

No more.

Bel had already begun letting Rachel in, spending time together, feigning a mother-daughter bond. It had brought her closer to the truth, but she needed to go further.

She’d watch Rachel constantly, stick to her side, become her shadow.

Because Rachel would lead her straight to Dad. “Won’t let you out of my sight.”