David Bell - Never Come Back

Paul’s eyes widened. “I never saw her,” he said. “I’ve never laid eyes on this woman. That’s part of my concern. I started to feel that Leslie was hiding Beth from me. At first, it was under the guise of the two of them just needing to spend time together and get reacquainted. And I could understand that and give them their space. But I think Leslie started to see that I had doubts, and rather than introducing me to Beth and easing those doubts, she kept me away from her. I never met her. When your mom died, it was all a mystery to me.”

“But don’t you think Mom would know her own daughter? Wouldn’t she recognize her?”

“People see what they want to see,” Paul said. “And after thirty-seven years, who can say what anyone would look like? I look at old pictures of myself, and I think I’m seeing a stranger.”

“But there must be some resemblance,” I said. “Something.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I never saw her. Not even a picture.”

“And you think somehow this woman weaseled her way into Mom’s life and got into the will?” I asked. “How many people even knew Mom had a daughter who disappeared?”

“Everybody who was alive in Haxton in 1975,” Paul said. “I kind of figured it was somebody’s kid or relative, someone who had heard of the case and saw an opening.”

“Maybe it’s even someone who went to school with Beth and knew her,” I said.

“Good point.”

Other things started to click into place. It was true—Mom’s will seemed to have changed suddenly, out of the blue. And then there was the call from a woman to Mr. Allison’s office inquiring about the estate. Who would do that unless they knew they might be getting something—and didn’t want to wait very long to have it? And there was the mystery woman at the other hospital, the one who’d gone to Ronnie’s room to speak with him, leaving him in some kind of unexplained emotional turmoil.

“And Mrs. Porter,” I said.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Porter. You know, Mom’s busybody friend from the library?”

“I know her.”

“She told me Mom came in looking for a book on… I can’t remember it exactly, but it was something about dealing with an adult child who has suffered trauma. Something like that. I had no idea why Mom would be looking for that, but it might make sense if this woman gave her a long sob story about what she’d been through. Right?”

“That’s a sure sign,” Paul said. “Her answer for everything was to go read a book about it.”

“Do the police know about this woman?” I asked.

“I didn’t tell them.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t think… I don’t know who this woman is. I don’t even know if she’s real. It didn’t cross my mind.”

“Jesus, Paul. Do you know what I’m thinking?”

He didn’t say anything, but he nodded his head ever so slightly, as if the movement required a great deal of effort.

“If this woman got into the will, and then Mom ends up dead, doesn’t this make her a suspect?”

“But Ronnie?” Paul said. “What he told the police?”

“You don’t believe that, do you?” I asked. “His confession? Do you really believe that bullshit?”

“He tried to kill himself, Elizabeth. Why else are we here, in this place, except that he couldn’t live with himself for whatever he did?”

I wanted Paul to take a firm stand—and for that firm stand to be on the side I wanted him to be on. But he refused to do so.

It required an effort for me to let it go. I wasn’t going to fight with him again. I wasn’t going to turn against anyone who should be my ally. Instead, I shifted my attention to the tasks I saw ahead of me, the things I needed to take care of.

I needed to contact the police and tell them about the will.

And then I needed to find out all I could about Elizabeth Yarbrough.

In the ICU of St. Vincent’s, Paul and I were allowed to spend fifteen minutes with a still unconscious Ronnie. He looked like hell, make no mistake about it. An IV line dripped a clear liquid into his arm. His skin looked ashen, his cheeks sunken. If not for the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the slow rise and fall of his chest, I would have thought he was dead.

I leaned in next to his bed. I gripped his hand in mine. His skin felt cool and clammy, giving me a chill of my own. I remembered touching my father’s hand as he lay in his casket. His skin felt rubbery and fake. So did Ronnie’s.

But I didn’t let go.

I grasped Ronnie’s hand and squeezed, exerting just a small amount of pressure. I didn’t want to hurt him or startle him. I had no idea what effect the contact might have on him. Nothing happened, so I squeezed again. This time he returned the gesture. I felt the slightest bit of pressure returned against my hand. He was there. Ronnie was still there.

Paul walked out of the room by my side, his arm around my shoulder. No matter what, I had the two of them. A long road stretched ahead, but at least the three of us were still there.

I asked Paul if he minded staying at St. Vincent’s for a while so that I could take care of some other things. He told me he didn’t mind at all.

“What else is an old retired guy going to do on a Saturday?” he said.

He was clearly just as relieved as I was that Ronnie was alive. Maybe more so.

“You know, we need to remember…” He didn’t finish the thought, but I knew where he was going.

“He’s not out of the woods yet,” I said. “I get it.”

And we didn’t say what really hung between us about Ronnie: even if he got through this, he still faced the prospect of a murder charge.

Some things were better left unsaid.

In the hospital parking lot, I pulled out my phone. I hadn’t had any luck searching for Elizabeth Yarbrough. But now I had a different name to try.

I typed in a search for “Elizabeth Baxter” in Haxton, Ohio.

Nothing came up.

I tried again, adding the word “missing” to the search. Again nothing. I added “missing person” and then “disappear.” Still nothing.

Was it possible for someone, a fifteen-year-old girl, to disappear and for there to be no trace or record of it in the world? Did people just forget?

I sent a text to Neal Nelson. It took just seconds for him to call me. When I answered, he didn’t say hello or ask me how I was doing. He just jumped right in.

“I knew you’d need me,” he said. “What can I do for you, Teach?”

“I need you to find somebody,” I said. “And if you can, find out about somebody.”

“Teach, I love a good caper,” he said. “I imagine this has to do with your mom.”

“It does,” I said.

“Glad I can help. Just give me the name and whatever you happen to know about this person.”

“You know what?” I said. “Now that I think about it, I’m going to need you to look into two people for me.”

I remained in the car for a few minutes longer. The weather had been milder than everyone had expected, and people had emerged from their homes, blinking in the sunlight, deciding that they’d better hurry up and enjoy it because it might be the last day like that for a long, long time.

I cracked the window, letting in a little air. I called Detective Richland. It was late on Saturday afternoon, and I had no idea whether the detective would still be on duty after the events of the morning. He didn’t answer his phone, so I left a message explaining that I had new information about my mother’s case and to please call. I called and left a message for Detective Post as well, under the assumption that she would be more likely to call me back than Richland.