On this day: I go to the quarry and cry.
It's been seven years, yet this place never changes. Same old general store, thrift shop, and weed shacks. And based on that political sign proudly stabbed into a front yard, still racist. Go figure.
Move to the city with me
I don't wanna be alone
Don't wanna be alone
I glance down at my truck's radio, feeling the pit grow in my stomach. My focus shifts to a familiar stretch of dirt road, leading up to my childhood home. In a weak attempt, I try to revive the innocent memories. A small smile crosses my face.
Yeah, that's the rock I hit with my bike and up-ended over. My leg throbs at the memory. The body never forgets.
~*~
After my usual greetings with my mom and a nod towards my dad, I head out on foot. Memories flash through my head as I go.
Thirteen year old me rushing through the creek and catty nine tails, an odd feeling real enough to touch.
I shake my head and continue up the nostalgic path. My vision echoes the movements of that day, every step resonating with memories. The colors are brighter with every beat. With a slow breath I pick up my pace.
The ground pounds under my feet, a feeling stronger than I've felt in a long time. Spicy ferns release their now disturbed perfumes as they crush under me. Water rushes up my legs, droplets splattering against my face.
Once I break from the forest, a clearing comes into plain view. The quarry looks as serene as I left it. Danger, beauty, and mystique flow through the air.
I begin the arduous process of climbing the trail leading up to the top. After huffing and sweating, I finally reach it. My body grows heavier once I approach the ledge. With a massive humph I sit my ass down and cross my legs.
"Hey Jordan, how are you doing?" I speak aloud, breaking both my and the forest's silence.
I lean back, placing my arms behind me and bathing in the sun. It feels like I'm being hugged by a warm, living person. Tears slip through my closed eyes, trailing down my face quietly.
"Hey, didya know I just turned twenty? A full shitting two oh." My breathing evens with every word. It feels strange, going from a younger tag-along to being four years older.
I've grown older, yet never moved forward. I might as well be the one dead. The visual of my body floating on the water makes me back up in horror.
For how long I sat there, I honestly have no idea.
~*~
The other side of town, Ryan Laurent.
In a fashion typical of the force, I was called in at an hour too early for my liking. It was expected when I was a beat cop, but an unwelcome detail sprung on me when I was assigned to glorified desk duty. Whatever tip came in this morning better be worth forgoing coffee in my rush.
"Detective Laurent." A man I don't recognize curtly nods his head as I enter the building. He looks like a man weathered beyond his years.
"What can I do for you?" I try to keep my words as simple as his, assuming that b.s. was not tolerated by the man.
"He's retired detective Kurt from Dursten county." My partner appears behind him suddenly, quick to answer my question, "And he got a tip on the Jordan Grant suicide."
"As your partner was saying, this morning I got a phone call from a local regarding suspicion that it wasn't a suicide. An old cabinet broke down and spilled out some reports. The janitor who attempting to gather them all found some interesting details that were overlooked." Detective Kurt's expression was both grim and deeply characterized by a frown.
I rub my jaw at the information, attempting to comprehend what was suddenly so important as to bang on our doors immediately. Detective Kurt handed over the report, which I firmly grab and glance over. Nothing seems anomalous, it easily read as a depressed 16 year old boy ending it at a local quarry, meeting his demise with blunt force trauma to the head. Some water in the lungs and… I flip back to the report and diagram of the body, immediately seeing it too. The damage came from the back of his head. Based on the height, I doubt he spun around midair. This Jordan Grant did not commit suicide.
My eyes meet with both my partner and the retired detective, instantly understanding their concern.
"Now I've had my fair share of odd suicides, but I've never seen someone flipping off any height backwards to put an end to it." The older man stares both of us down, and I instantly understand that this is a priority.
I nod my head, looking down, then back up. There were no suspects or witnesses listed. It was an open and shut case at the time without a single post it to signal an investigation. Since this occurred only 7 years ago, I have a fighting chance of digging up new information. At the very least we have an identified body. I'd make my therapist proud with this amount of optimism.
"Okay, so what do you have?" I meet detective Kurt's piercing eyes.
"Possibly a witness. Traumatized 13 year old." He waits for my reaction.
"Jackshit. I can work with that."
~*~
Charlotte, day after arrival.
Mom stares at me out of the corner of her eyes, observing my reaction as I chew on my chicken sandwich. It's a waiting game I know she'll lose, patience was not one of her strongest traits. One, two…
"So Charlie girl, where are you going after this?" Her eyebrow raises perfectly.
"Downtown, I'll probably get some new loafer's at Pleasant's shoppe." I'm able to look her in the eye, since it wasn't a total lie. Where I go after is my own business.
She groans and gives up, finishing her roast beef sandwich and gesturing for my plate. I hand it over carefully, understanding that mom is giving her inquiry a rest. If not, she'd insist that I help with dishes and force me to talk. I smile at her gratefully and take off to the back door. My drawstring bag is already prepared and waiting next to my old sneakers.
After awhile I arrive at downtown by foot, not willing to waste gas on the small distance. Not to mention that children like to dart across the road when no one is looking, but I'd rather not dwell on that. Not that I have to try hard, considering the vehicle parked in front of the Poker Luncheon Sub deli.
I can't help but snort at the super clean Crown Vic, parked perfectly within the space. It's mostly dirt roads here, so obviously the unsuspecting owner is going to have a helluva time maintaining that sheen. The elderly always park haphazardly, their fading eyesight quite obvious. Perhaps a young outsider? No one owns Crown Vic's for no reason, and I immediately feel paranoid at the probable undercover police vehicle. It makes even more sense if he hit up the Deli, because most of the gossip flows through there. The hairdresser is much more fluent in the local rumors, so perhaps it's a man.
There I go jumping to conclusions. All I need is to hyperventilate in the middle of town. I allow the vehicle one last glance before hurrying off to Pleasant's woman and child wear shop. As a close high school friend of my mom, she's practically my aunt. She's the perfect alibi if mom doubts where I went, plus I miss the sweet woman.
The little bell rings as I enter. I can't help but laugh when I see her kneeling over her lucky Chinese cat, which obviously gave up on waving again. Pleasant turns around suddenly, a big smile bringing her rosy cheeks to life.
"Charlie, when did you get here?" She laughs while hugging me tightly. I know she's been lonely since Henry died, she has tighter now and looks more wistful every day.
"Last night. Sorry I didn't ring, it was a long drive." I smile down at her. She beams back, leaning forward to pat my head.
"Oh hush you silly goose. Now what can I find you today?" Pleasant regains her composure and straightens her back.
"A pair of rose red loafers, size seven and a half. Hopefully with cushy insoles." She knows that I'm referring to my usual order. My grandma wore those same ones, and after she passed, I wore them through.
"Of course. Size fairy feet." She winks at me and heads to the back, sorting through shoe boxes carefully.
After paying for my shoes and wrapping the box in a grocery bag, I pop it into my drawstring bag. I wave back at her, suddenly bringing her lucky cat to life. I laugh as Pleasant scowls at the temperamental thing.
It reassures me a little when I see the Vic is no longer in sight. Good. I continue down the Main Street, onto the dirt roads. After a good while of navigating, I eventually find the old quarry. With a deep sigh, I remove my sneakers and walk into the water's edge. I take a few steps forward, feeling the water rush past my shins and lap at my knees. With a deep breath, I sprint out, kicking water at the rocks, watching them turn from brown to oranges and reds. If I close my eyes, I'm 13 and everyone is here. For a second I can hear everyone shouting. Karl, Devon, Jamie, and Jordan. Tears mix with water droplets.
The pain envelops me, causing my legs to give out in the water. I lurch onto my hands, panting and crying. My eyes are shut tight, so why can't I stop seeing everything? Every damn detail. The arguing figures, rushing towards them, and hearing the scream before I can take another step. Then the final splash. I've become a ghost, attached to the last resting place of my soul. Every year I come back to haunt the old quarry.
After a few calming breaths, I crawl out of the water and lay on a big rock. The exhaustion hits me as I lounge in the sun, half soaked and half water speckled. A few hiccups escape, exactly how they did when I was child after crying. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.
Once I shut my eyes, everything becomes dark.
My eyes open a second later to the third ding from my phone went off. How can someone text that fast? Horror hits when I check the time on my phone, clearly displaying that I managed to pass out for two hours. Messages from my mom explode across the screen when I unlock it, clearly expressing her anger then concern. I can already tell that I'm catching hell for this.
In fear of the verbal beating I'll get when I enter the door, I quickly gather my things while my heart jackhammers. Curse words escalate from mental chanting to a loud freak out. As I begin running up the path the sound of sirens fill the air, making this situation that much better. Once I burst from the underbrush a familiar Crown Vic appears before me. A door opens and closes as a man steps out from behind the driver's side. Of course it has to be a cop.
"Hello ma'am, would you happen to be Charlotte Conell?" His polite question manages to rub me the wrong way. Maybe it's the judging look obviously plastered across his face. I rub my hands up and down my own face.
"Yes, that would be me. What crime did I manage to commit?" I barely manage to sound less than hostile.
"According to your mom, being late to supper. I offered to look around before she filed a missing person's report." I stare at him, completely mortified by my mom's actions.
"Christ. I'm sorry about that. I'll give her a call and head back." I offered him a weak smile before dialing my mom's number.
As expected, I'm in for it the moment I get home. If you're at home, not attending supper is absolute sacrilege. I begin to estimate how long it'll take to walk home until the officer clears his throat.
"If you want, I can drive you home. It's getting a little dark to be walking home alone." His helpful offer unsettles me somehow, but I manage to agree, informing my mom.
Out of concern that I'll run or common curtesy, the man opens the door for me and shuts it once I get myself settled. I cringe a little when my clothes dampen his car's seat. Best not to mention that. As we pull out I glance behind me, a sense of fear seeped in. I begin to feel like a caged animal.
~*~
Detective Ryan Laurent
The women beside me actively fidgets in the passenger seat, resembling an arrested criminal more than a momentarily missing person. I'm used to this kind of behavior from my days as a beat officer, not a cold case detective. This is a great chance to start questioning the possible sole witness to the murder of Jordan. At the same time, I don't want to scare her off so quickly.
"So, you new here?" Charlotte nervously asks, opening a line of communication that I hope to take advantage of.
"Something like that. I'm passing through for a case." I glance at her, hoping to get some kind of tell to appear.
"That sounds… exciting? I hope you got the information you're looking for." She fixes her eyes out the window.
"I found some promising leads, although nothing concrete at this very moment." She stops talking immediately, humming a small acknowledgement to my statement.
Damn. I might have baited her too much already. In a small town there are gossipers and people with very tight lips. It'll take a lot to work her for any information, assuming that any of it will be accurate. False memories hamper cases greatly, and some interviews lead straight to nowhere or around the barn. My best chance is a journal.
"Well then, we're here. Thanks for the ride." Charlotte swings the door open, then slams it on her leg. She smiles sheepishly, closing the door closed properly and hobbling inside her mom bursts out, yells loudly, then hugs her daughter. She points at my car, then raises her eyebrow at Charlotte.
I hop out of my now dirty Vic to see what's going on. Mrs. Conell smiles at me, then looks at her daughter expectantly.
"Would you like to stay over to eat? After driving around looking for me."Charlotte sighs with every sentence. Her mom swats her arm.
"I'm alright ma'am, better get back to my dog before he eats my sneakers again." It's only a mild lie, the basset hound is more likely to drool on the carpet than attack anything, moving or not.
"Oh well, that's too bad. If you're ever passing by, there's a meal waiting for you." I nod my head at her and return to my car. As I pull out, another car rushes past me, obviously in a hurry to the Patel's home. A tall man with sandy blonde hair climbs out, helping a women holding a baby from her side of the vehicle. I'll have to make a note about that.
The report about Charlotte consisted of a single page at the time. A mostly blank one at that. At this point I might have better luck looking directly into his family. During the first public appeal Mrs. Grant pleaded that that her son wasn't suicidal, but nearly every parent says that. Eventually everyone accepted that he killed himself after the coroner's report said as much. Something about that bothers me, though. Either the report's conclusion is marked by incredible incompetence, or no one who saw it wanted to face that a homicide likely occurred.
Aggravatingly enough, a quick perusal of the records found that coroner's name in an obituary dated two years ago. The dead end proved to be the beginning of many roadblocks, particularly the tight lipped manner the townspeople had about the entire event. Weren't small towns supposed to be comprised of gossip?
The closer I come to the motel I set up shop in, the more I feel the case caving in. Tomorrow's agenda is to dredge up old memories from an older couple about the true nature of their son's death. Opening that kind of conversation is draining at best and heartbreaking more often. Just imagining that conversation summons a throb of pain in the back of my head.
I quickly find my migraine medication in my glove compartment, downing it with this morning's coffee. The head injury that took me off the streets and into the misfit box of the cold case unit shits with my brain any time I get stressed. I wouldn't take back anything I did that day, but man would I rather it never happened. Just thinking about it brings a wave of crushing pain.
With half open eyes, I dig through the glove compartment against for my blind-man sunglasses. They're a lifeline when even a single ray of light becomes crippling. Memorizing the motel's parking lot was my best move last night. Cars and street signs are hard to discern through the milky black haze these glasses lend me.
Once I manage to scratch the old blue metal door enough times to fit the key in the hole and turn it, I fall in, slamming the door behind me and collapsing on the lumpy bed.
~*~
Charlotte Connell
While mom greats Mark and Talia, I slip past to grab baby Riley. Talia laughs as I pretend that the seven month old is a crate of wine.
"Oof baby boy, how big you plan on getting?" I smack my lips against the bubbly baby's cheek. I squeal at his giggles. His flushed face is too tempting to squish. Riley scrunches his nose when I pat his diaper covered bum.
Mark shuffles my hair as I grin up at the tall dude. "I love this child. He's nothing like you." Talia chuckles at my jab directed towards her husband. I place Riley in Mark's arms to hug Talia.
"And how are you baby mama? The two boys giving you grief?" She laughs at my greeting lightly. I swear my sister in law is an angel. Definitely too good for that dork. I make faces at him over Talia's shoulder.
"C'mon Char, let them get past the front room." My mom states, face stern and obviously melting at the sight of Riley.
I tail behind the newlyweds and mom, craning my head into the other rooms in hopes of spotting dad. The nice weather cripples him with how bad his asthma is. I catch my mom's eye's, and she shakes her head. He's probably up in the room resting. I glance at my phone to see if he texted me anything to indicate today's condition. When nothing new shows up, I send a quick text to let him know that Mark and Talia are here. I know he really wants to see Riley.
Mark straps the little kiddo into our old baby chair while mom pulls out the seasoned chicken and vegetables left in the oven to stay warm. I feel a pang of guilt for not helping her with supper, but I'll make it up to her tomorrow. Maybe breakfast in bed, if I can dig the old tray outta the attic. I shiver at the thought of all those… little eight legged demons. Spiders have no right existing.
"Earth to Char." I look up at mom and smile sheepishly, quickly grabbing plates and silverware for the table, digging out an airplane shaped spoon for Riley. I kiss his chubby cheek again when I handed Talia the baby utensil and sectioned Pooh bear plate. Once we settle and say grace, I look up from my food and at Mark.
He seems to be doing a lot better within the past year, and I have to say that I'm proud of him, although a little jealous. Maybe one day if I could just forget everything I'll be able to have something like this. Someone to love, a child to raise with enough love to make them embarrassed when they grow up. Geez, I didn't realize that I was such a white-picket fence person.
After cleaning up and doing dishes, mom left to check on dad while I help Talia bring their luggage up to Mark's old room. I found the old cradle in the guest/storage room last time I was here and remembered to pull it out last night. Mom always wanted grandkids, so not a lot had been tossed. I'm sure the baby changing table is still around somewhere.
Coming back to my room did nothing to ease my anxiety from today's events and the surprise car interrogation, so I head up to the attic in order to find the breakfast in bed table. My grandpa carved it for grandma during her pregnancy with mom, and we still have it now. We offered it to Talia, but she was too afraid to break it. With how tiny that woman is, I'm sure the oak tray is more likely to break her.
I quietly ascend the pull-down stairs, which means I sounded like a rhino outta hell. Once I enter into dark space, I flick on the sole bare light build illuminating a small circle. I quickly spot the tray and run over, happy that I won't have to stay too long in the cursed arena of haunts and dust bunnies. Soon, I realize that finding the tray was only the beginning of the battle. It's wedged behind- you guessed it, the baby changing table. How did that thing even fit up the stairs?
After a few tugs I fall on my ass, tray on top. In the process of my valiant struggle, a box falls on its side, spilling the guts of photos and documents everywhere. Great. I swiftly grab them and jam every paper into the box with trembling fingers. I hate attics. Jordan, Mark, and them once locked me in this one and I can't get over it to this day. I'll make sure that Riley hears all about the stupid things his dad did.
As if my memory summoned him, a picture of Mark and the boys slides up the tray. I was on Mark's shoulders as we posed in front of the quarry, grinning like cats at a canary. Without thinking, I grab it and stuff the photo in the pocket of my now dry pants. I quickly rush down the stairs and put the tray in my room, circling back to haul the steps back into the ceiling. If I can help it, I'll never open that Pandora's box again.
While wiping down the intricate shapes carved into the old wood, I feel tired and void. The slow motion of the wash rag gives me something to focus on, outside of my depressing thoughts. As I lull myself into a sleepy rhythm, something moves out of the corner of my peripheral vision. I warily glance over to make eye contact with the spider calmly perched on my arm. I take one calming breath, the demon spawn twitches, and I let out a blood curdling scream.
I try sweeping it off urgently while Mark runs in with a baseball bat, staring at me spazzing out. I wordlessly point at my arm, causing him to laugh and smash it… on my arm. I clean off the bug guts with the cleaning rag while grumbling multiple curses at him.
"Geez, I missed ya sis." He smiles and pulls me in for a hug while I'm fuming. I can't help but roll my eyes.
"Yeah, yeah. I missed you too, you big lug." I smile at him, meaning every word of what I just said. Because both of us haven't felt this happy here in many years. I miss our home.