Bel pushed her chair away, its feet screeching against the tiles, cutting the room into shreds. Grandpa slapped his hands to his ears.
“You OK, Bel?” Rachel asked. Could she see something, read the undoing behind Bel’s eyes?
“Need some water.”
But she didn’t go for the glasses. She opened the cupboard below, where they kept the overspill of mugs, not the ones in daily rotation. Chasing a hunch, a feeling in her gut, the knot leading the way. Sherry was talking about herself, reclaiming the focus, as Bel hid behind the cupboard door.
Her hand dug through, moving rows of flowery and patterned mugs aside, searching for a specific one. Dad’s favorite. The one that she or Rachel had broken, that he’d thrown away. Bel couldn’t remember breaking it, apologizing just in case.
It was here, hiding in the shadows at the back. Santa’s beaming face and cracked skin. Unbroken. Never broken in the first place. Bel blinked to make sure.
She’d believed it because Dad told her so. Just like the Taco Bell story. Like everything else: forgetting to seal the trash cans even though it was black bear season and she remembered sealing them. Leaving windows open, even though she had no memory of it. Faucets running.
Bel came apart, sorting through her memories, the ones Dad had obscured, tried to change. She unpicked them all, going back years, separating herself from him, sorting the true from the only-true-because- Dad-told-her.
When she was done, fully undone, she built herself back, in a new shape.
Bel straightened up into it, the mug dangling from her fingers.
It was Rachel too, Dad always said. Front door left open. Oven forgotten, burned food. It used to terrify Bel, to share something with that ghost of a mother, to be like her in any way. But now she realized, nothing like that had happened in the house, not once, since Dad went missing. Because the link wasn’t between her and Rachel, it had been Dad all along. Lying to them, making them doubt their own memories so they’d need him all the more. And Bel had needed him, maybe too much, the second voice in her head, not truly herself without him.
Fuck.
One of the last things Dad said to her was a warning, that she was being manipulated. But it was much closer to home than that.
Bel pulled out the trash can, dumped the Santa mug inside, where it belonged.
She didn’t bother with another excuse, leaving the kitchen, eyes ahead, finally knowing the way.
Up the stairs, to her room.
Her parents were liars. Rachel wasn’t who she thought she was. But Dad wasn’t either.
Something came back to her, in Phillip Alves’s feverish voice. Why would she do something to him, if he hadn’t done something to her first?
Bel knew where she was going, her gut leading the way. To the bookshelves mounted on the wall.
The green hardcover spine she knew too well.
Bel pulled out her copy of The Memory Thief, flicking through the pages, something staring her in the face, but she didn’t know what. She just knew it was important, a sign Rachel had given that she was finally able to see.
She went back to the very start, the page with the copyright and publisher information, eyes scanning.
She found it, about halfway down.
Originally published in hardcover and ebook March 2008. She ran her finger over the date.
March 2008. After Rachel disappeared. One month after.
Rachel had told Bel it was one of her favorites, but she couldn’t have read it before she went missing. The man hadn’t let her have books in the basement, but Bel knew there never was a man or a basement. So unless Rachel was lying about having read the book at all—and that didn’t feel like the answer—then Rachel had read this book sometime in those sixteen years when she was disappeared.
And there was more, the way forward. But it wasn’t about this copy here, in Bel’s hands. Or the new one downstairs that Rachel had wrapped up. It was about the one in Grandpa’s house. Did someone give you this book? Bel knew that was the way, to finally solve the mystery of what really happened to Rachel Price. But to find it, she had to accept where the truth would take her. That the answers to Rachel’s disappearance and reappearance led back to Dad somehow, she knew it in her gut, as tangible as the knot. All the hints she’d rejected, pushed away to find another lead, hiding from it, clinging to that alibi as the answer to anyone’s doubt, even her own. What Grandma Susan said. What Mr. Tripp said. What Phillip Alves said. The lock on Rachel’s door that she hadn’t locked since Dad went
away.
Bel replaced the book, glanced at the photo frame on her windowsill. Her twelfth birthday. Story Land. Dad beaming, arms wrapped around her. She picked it up, searched Dad’s eyes.
Who was he really, this man? Someone who would leave his daughter alone three hours in the backseat, wet from tears and her own piss because she thought she’d been left all alone in the world again. Bel couldn’t be on his side anymore, because he’d never been on hers.
She put the photo back, face down, making Dad disappear, and that sad, lonely little girl too.
Bel accepted it and she was ready. Knew what she had to do. She darted out of her room and to the stairs.
But she wasn’t alone.
Carter was there, coming up as Bel was going down. “Hey,” Carter said, quietly, blocking the way.
“Hey yourself.” Down three more steps to meet her.
“You OK?” Carter looked up at her, eyes glittering from the ceiling lights.
“Fine. You?”
Carter opened her mouth, a delay before any words came. “Can I talk to you about something?” Adding: “It’s important,” when she saw the look on Bel’s face.
Bel could hear the hurt in Carter’s voice, even though she’d tried to hide it. She knew Carter better than she knew herself, because Bel hadn’t done a great job of knowing herself.
“You can always talk to me,” she said. “But I can’t do this right now, sorry. There’s something I have to do. Will you cover for me? It’s important.”
Carter breathed out. Not a sigh, something deeper. “OK,” she said in a small voice, moving her arm to let Bel through. “I’ll cover for you.”
“Thanks, love you.” Bel hurried down the stairs, into the living room instead. Over to the sofa, where Yordan had placed his bag for Grandpa, everything he might need when away from the house.
Bel reached inside. Incontinence pads and wet wipes. Spare clothes. More than one bottle of pills. She pulled one out, studied it. Painkillers. No, not these. Put them back, tried again. Found another orange pill bottle, squinted to read the words on the label. One after every meal, it said. This was what she was looking for.
Bel slipped the bottle up her sleeve, her fingers well practiced at this. Not because the knot told her to. Because she needed a reason to leave here and go to Grandpa’s house, without Rachel catching on.
—
Her chance came, when Grandpa finished his slice of cake, pushed his plate away.
Bel waited, willing Yordan to move faster. Unknowingly playing a part in another of Bel’s plans. She wouldn’t fail this time.
“You’re all being very quiet tonight,” Sherry commented, which didn’t help the silence, only a temporary fix.
Yordan stood up, excusing himself from his own slices of cake—one from each, to be diplomatic—wandering into the living room.
He was gone a whole minute, reappearing in the archway. “Sorry, I can’t find Pat’s digestion pills. I must have left them at home. I’ll go get them quickly now.”
Bel was ready. She stood up. “Don’t worry, Yordan. I’ll get them, you haven’t finished your cake.”
“No.” Yordan smiled, hand up to refuse. “It’s my job. I left them behind.”
“Really, I don’t mind,” she insisted, doubling down with her eyes. “You stay here with Grandpa. I need some fresh air anyway. Stuffy in here.”
Yordan pursed his lips. Did he know? “Well, if you want?” Bel nodded. “It’s no problem.”
Rachel pushed her chair back. “Bel, you can’t drive. Maybe I should—” “I’ll take my bike.” Bel cut her off. If Rachel got to the house before Bel
did, then maybe she’d never find it, the truth. Rachel didn’t want her to have it. “I’ll be like twenty minutes max. Where are the pills, Yordan?”
“Should be in the cupboard above the coffee machine,” he said, retaking his seat. They were hidden in Bel’s back pocket, actually, sorry, Yordan.
“Be right back,” Bel said, before Rachel could dissent again. Rachel watched her go, something more in her eyes. Carter too.
Bel waved, leaving them in silence again, heading for the front door.
She closed it behind her, the cool evening breeze playing in her hair, throwing it across her face, stinging her worn-out eyes.
She hurried to the garage, through the side door. Ash wasn’t waiting in here for her anymore, but her old bike was, too small but it would do. She wheeled it out into the night, onto the sidewalk, stepped one leg over.
Bel pulled her phone out, held it up until it recognized her face. It didn’t, maybe because it was dark, or maybe because she had changed. She unlocked it with her passcode and scrolled to her messages with Ash.
I was wrong, I’m sorry, she typed, pressed send. She never said sorry, because she never wanted anyone back after she’d pushed them away. I know how to find the truth. I need you. Meet me outside my grandpa’s house. Bring the camera. This is it.
Bel placed her feet on the pedals and pushed off, sailing down the moonlit street, finally on her way.
The wind howled in her ears, like it knew as well. It all ended tonight.
