PREVIEW: THE BLUE HOLE

I hope you enjoy the first 3 Chapters of, THE BLUE HOLE.  If you would like to read the rest of the book, just follow this link:  THE BLUE HOLE on Amazon

 NOTE:  Please excuse the formatting in this post.  I simply copied and pasted the text to this post, so it will not appear formatted here as it does in the actual book.  Buy the book, and it will be displayed properly.  

There is a hair-pin bend in the Indian Creek that runs through southern Indiana.  In this bend is a swirling pool of water.  The water there is cold and dark, and blue.  The pool is told to be hundreds of feet deep and opens into the many massive underground water filled caverns of the Hoosier state.  A few people have dived it, but the strange underwater currents always confuse and frighten the divers, forcing them to return to the surface.  Teenagers set up camps and have parties on the banks of the pool—they swim, but never swim too deep for fear of being pulled under.

 

The water is hundreds of feet deep—

 

It’s Blue, It’s Dark, It’s Cold---

 

They call it the Blue Hole.

  

CHAPTER ONE

 

Pete went to work on the lock.  He slid the end of the modified flat tip screwdriver into the doorjamb.  The adjustments to his tool might have appeared wasteful to a mechanic—Pete had flattened the top two inches of the stem and then heated and curled the last half inch.  The tool was more of a hook now, and Pete alone understood the tool’s new purpose. 

He worked the lock like a pro.  The trick was to slide it past the jamb without causing any damage.  Once inside the door frame, you simply slide the tool up to catch the latch bolt, then pull.  Luckily, this was an older home, and it hadn’t been updated with tamper proof jambs.  If that were the case, Pete would need to resort to much more tedious efforts.   

Bingo.  The latch bolt depressed, and then the door was unlatched.

“That’s so cool,” Sam whispered.  She had been looking over Pete’s shoulder the whole time.  Sam was never bored with watching her beau at work.  She tossed a gleaming smile at Pete when he turned to her.

“You’re supposed to be look out,” Pete said with a grin.

“Look out’s boring.”

“So is sitting in a jail cell.”

“We’re good, baby,” Sam said.

Pete checked behind him first.  The street was dark.  It was three in the morning—all the neighbors were sure to be fast asleep—even the ones who stayed up binging their favorite television show were most likely passed out with their screens displaying the “are you still watching” prompt.

Pete and Sam were in the clear.  He looked at Sam again.  She was grinning ear to ear with anticipation of getting inside the house.  Pete loved the way these small break-ins could excite his girl.  He put his hand behind her neck and pulled her in for a kiss.  As their lips touched, he still couldn’t believe his luck to have found someone like her.

“You ready?” he said as soon as his lips pulled away from hers.

Sam nodded.

Pete watched the door closely as he slowly pushed it open.  No resistance—no noisy creaking.  He waited for any clicking or sound of a trigger.  This wasn’t his first rodeo.  He knew the signs to look for if the homeowner had installed some do-it-yourself style door alarms.  These alarms didn’t auto dial the police or anything, but they made a lot of noise—noise that Pete would rather avoid.  If there were a device present, he knew the appropriate steps to take to disarm it.  What with his expertise and knowledge, there weren’t many homes that could keep Pete out.  With a little effort, he felt he could infiltrate nearly anything—but he didn’t want to be bothered with any obstacles at the moment.  He wanted an easy in and out job. 

The door was clear.  Pete smiled at Sam and then tossed his head to welcome her in.  Sam gave a suggestive glare in Sam’s direction as she stepped past him into the house.

Pete marveled at the girl.  He couldn’t believe how much he really did love her.  Sam was perfect in his eyes in every way.  She was exciting and easy going—they both enjoyed all the same things; most of it was mischief, but that was part of the draw.  Sam visibly lit up with excitement over the things Pete did—she seemed to get off on the adrenaline rush of opening doors that didn’t belong to them and sifting through the possessions of others.  Pete knew that on a psychological level, it must have been a sick and twisted trait, sure—but Pete loved it, and he wanted to hold on to that for as long as he could.  Sam made him feel complete—she made him feel like he could do no wrong.  And on top of the crème de le crème of positive emotions Pete gained from the relations, Sam was a pure knock out.  She was tall—about the same height as Pete—and she was slender like a dancer, but had curves right where Pete liked them.  And her face; there were times Pete just couldn’t look away from that face.  Sam was beautiful.  She had had long brunette hair that went halfway down her back, but that was only until this morning.  Sam said she just got tired of all the upkeep, so she hacked it off.  Pete wasn’t sure about this new boy-cut look, but it was growing on him.  He wouldn’t complain even if it didn’t.  He knew how lucky he was to be with a girl like Sam—When it came to looks, Pete was about as average as they came.  Average build, maybe on the taller side—he was six foot even.  Pete didn’t have chiseled abs—he wasn’t out of shape by any means—he didn’t have thick vibrant hair either.  In fact, even at nineteen, Pete was sure he’d be bald by thirty—he was aware of the thinning circle on the back of his ginger furred head.  As far as physical features go, there was nothing extraordinary about Pete.  The only thing he had going for him in the way of attracting a mate was his easy-going attitude, and his ability to show off his lock picking skills.  Pete found that girls seemed to like it for some reason.    

Opening locks came easy for Pete.  His uncle Sinclair—Pete called him Uncle Sin—had always told him he had a gift, but really, Pete just understood the basics of the tumblers in a lock and how they worked.  It was a simple machine in his mind, which he used to his advantage as much as he could. 

Picking a lock was his “in” with Sam during their senior year of high school.  Pete had just switched schools—his previous school didn’t work out—he didn’t like it there, anyway.  It was during his first month of attending the new school.  Sam had misplaced the key to the padlock for her locker that day.  Pete was passing by, and he noticed she was struggling.  He wasn’t shy.  He may have been new at the school, but he was marching the halls like he owned the place, and he wasn’t afraid to approach anyone.  Like his uncle Sin, Pete was an ace at extruding his confidence. 

Admittedly, he didn’t approach her to be a good Samaritan, Pete was instantly drawn to Sam’s beauty that day.  He had noticed her a few days before, but for some reason on that day, she stood out so vibrantly to him.  Pete slid into sly mode and whipped out a paperclip from his pocket and unwound it.  He gave it a lick, just to be playful, and then jammed it into the lock.  In three seconds, Pete had the locker door open.  Sam was in awe of his skill.  He didn’t say much more than, “There you go,” to which Sam responded, “You’re really cute.”  You would think he would strike up more conversation, but he didn’t.  Instead, Pete just headed off down the hall.  That was all part of his semi-suave plan.  The next day, he offered her a ride home from school.  The rest was history.

He couldn’t take his eyes off Sam as she walked across the old hardwood floors of their latest heist.  Like most of the houses in the old part of town, that house was built in the late nineteenth century.  In his experience, these homes yielded the most reward.  Older houses meant older residents, which meant older valuables.  This wasn’t always the case, and probably wouldn’t be in a lot of towns across the globe, but for the town of Crandon, it was the norm. 

Despite their graceful efforts, the old floors still creaked under their feet as Pete and Sam stepped into the foyer.  Pete quietly closed the front door behind them.  The old late century lock on the front door made an echoing click as it latched.  If anyone had been home, the familiar noise would most certainly have been heard. 

“Shh,” Sam giggled and put her finger to her lips as she spun and faced Pete.  She lowered her hand and smiled at him.  It was a most playful smile that stirred a feeling in Pete that he felt all the way down to his toes.

Neither of them was really worried about waking the residents of the house.  In fact, the homeowner had recently passed, which was the reason the house came up on Pete’s radar.  He’d cased the house over the past few days.  He took notice of the arrangements for the funeral and memorial services, the locations of the next of kin.  He even knew when the departed’s last will and testament would be read. 

The elderly woman who had lived in the home had been a resident for the past seventy years.  Not surprisingly, she was a well-known citizen of the town.  She was wealthy and traveled the world frequently.  Her name was Viera Summers.  Viera was a regular journalist for the local Crandon paper as well as a freelancer for many travel journals.  Though she gained most of her notoriety from the latter, the people in Crandon cherished her local editorial’s the most.  Viera’s editorials told stories of her travels to Egypt, and Spain—China, and Australia—the woman had been to every corner of the world and brought back almost as many relics as she did stories—at least, that was what Pete was counting on.  He had heard that Viera Summers was an avid collector of arts and cultural artifacts.  Pete hoped he could find something in the house to be worth a lot of money.  But if not, he would fall back on Plan B:  the medicine cabinet.

Viera’s passing meant that Pete would need to act quickly, but not too quickly—he needed to be in the house before the end of the week.  He witnessed many people—he assumed they were family and friends—coming and going at the house for gatherings and the-like since the day of the funeral.  It took some digging, but Pete was able to find out through one of his uncle’s sources that the house would eventually be locked up from all family and friend traffic until the reading of the will.  At first, Pete thought about making his move during those days, but he decided it was too risky.  During his casing of the job, he noticed some of the family members driving by the house at random hours, no doubt checking up to make sure none of their greedy family members were sneaking in.  No—the night to act was the night he knew no one would be coming by—the night before the morning of the reading of the will.  Tonight was that night.  The house was vacant.

“Check out this swanky table,” Sam whispered. 

The moonlight was all that lit the inside of the house for them, but Pete could see exactly what she was referring to.  The table was sitting just inside the front door—it was the size of a coffee table with a round wooden top, only about two feet across.  It was held up by what appeared to be two person figures carved from wood—their legs and arms were wrapped around one another, making a hypnotic weave. 

“That’s cool,” Pete said.  “Too big though.”

Sam led the way into the darkness.  She pulled out her cell phone and unlocked the screen.  The light from the screen was just enough to guide them through the home without drawing any attention from anyone outside. 

Pete followed behind Sam as she headed down the hallway to the back of the home.  The hall was narrow and lined on both sides with an ornate chair rail.  There was a door at the end of the hall. 

“Bathroom up ahead,” Sam said.

The bathroom was lined floor to ceiling with hexagonal shaped white ceramic tile.  His and her sinks stretched along one wall with a mirror that reached the whole length of it.  The mirror was broken up into thirds, and it protruded from the wall a few inches.

“Pay dirt,” said Pete.  He pressed on the mirror, and the magnetic spring release latch opened.  A medicine cabinet was revealed behind the looking glass—four shelves filled with everything from prescription drugs to hemorrhoid cream.  Pete and Sam weren’t there for the hemorrhoid cream. 

“What’ve we got?” Sam whispered as Pete began pulling a few of the bottles from the shelves.

“Nothing great yet—some stool softener, some prescription strength ibuprofen—Ah, here we go.”

Pete spun around and showed the bottle to Sam.

“Percocet.  Nice,” Sam smiled.  

Pete went back into the cabinet.  “She’s got some pseudo in here too—” Pete said.  “We can sell that.”

“Alright.”

“That’s about it, though.”

“There might be another bathroom upstairs.”

“Not likely we’ll find anything up there, though,” Pete said.  “She was an older lady—she probably didn’t make it up there very often—at least not lately.  Let’s just do a quick skim for little treasures and then get out of here.”

Sam nodded, and the couple made their way back down the hall.  Pete was in the lead.  As Sam passed an open door in the hall, something grabbed the attention of her eyes.

“Pete.”

He turned around and met her at the door.  They peered in, and Sam shined the dim light from her phone.  There, in the corner of the room, was a safe. 

“Nice,” Pete said.

The giant iron safe was tall enough that Pete would be able to stand up inside of it—it must have weighed a thousand pounds.  It was old—signs of surface rust on the door told that story—and the dial on the combination lock was large and heavy and made of brass.  Pete put his hand on the dial and gave it a spin.  It moved freely, like it was used on a regular basis.  All good signs to someone like Pete.

“Can you crack it?”

Pete looked at Sam as to say, “I got this,” and he went to work on the dial. 

Pete put his ear to the safe and pulled up on the latch with just the right amount of pressure.  He turned the dial slowly and listened for the clicks.  Combination locks were like toys to him when he was a child—it was oddly one of his favorite things to do.  Some kids liked the Rubik’s cube puzzle, Pete just liked to crack locks. 

When he was very young, Pete wanted to understand how something so small and so simple could work so well.  He figured the best way to understand them was to see the insides of the lock and how they worked.  He was successful in opening a few locks with a hammer, but the less than elegant process he used left the inner workings in such a mess, Pete wasn’t sure how they fit together.  As he grew up, Pete eventually became clever enough to look for the answers in a library.  He found a set of encyclopedias.  Upon finding an illustration of the inner workings of the lock, Pete was a tad bit disappointed.  He expected it to be more complex than it really was.  After seeing the inner workings in place as they were supposed to be, he found opening combination locks child’s play.  He would have the door to Vivian Summers’ safe open in under a minute.

Sam let Pete do his thing.  She shone the light from her phone around the room.  It was an office.  Photos of different world landscapes were framed and hanging on the walls—too many to count.  She assumed each of the photos had been taken by Vivian Summers on one of her trips.  There was just something about the angles and the lighting that screamed a personal point of view.  They weren’t just photos that were mass produced and sold in furniture stores.  They were special moments that someone had experienced. 

Sam imagined all the things that this woman had seen in her lifetime.  Some of the locations in the photos were familiar to Sam—the Taj Mahal, The London Eye—even The Great Wall of China.  All of them were beautiful.  The idea of traveling to see such spectacular sights was a personal dream of Sam’s—she would even settle for locations that weren’t so exotic.  She just wanted to see more of the world than the same old rural hills and woods of Crandon.  But alas, she realized the dream of traveling may never be reached if she continued to run around breaking into houses with Pete May.  She couldn’t help it, though.  She loved Pete.  Besides, she had time to make changes—she wasn’t ready yet.

“Got the first number,” Pete whispered. 

Sam smiled.  Sure, Pete wasn’t exactly the type of guy the everyday father would approve of, but he was fun and polite.  His morals may have been skewed, but he had his priorities in order.  Luckily for Sam, she was one of those priorities.

Sam continued to explore the room.  There, on another wall of the room, was what looked like a large wooden cabinet door built into the wall.  It protruded out from the wall a few inches, much like a medicine cabinet.  There was a wooden office chair to the right of the door.  Sam reached the latch at the top of the cabinet door.  The door hinged downward until it rested its weight at a ninety-degree angle on two small support chains.  The backside of the door had turned into a quaint little writing desk. 

“Pete, look at this.”

“Hold on.  I just got the second number.”

Sam looked at the small desk and imagined Vivian Summers sitting there writing out her editorials.  She brushed her hand across the smooth sanded wood desktop.  Inside the wall, behind what the fold down desktop was hiding, were a row of small cubby pockets.  The pockets were stuffed with envelopes and receipt papers—maybe also some letters.  Sam didn’t look at any of those.  She instead spotted something wooden sticking out from the pocket at the end of the row.  Sam pulled the object out and shined her cell phone light onto it.  It was a cross with several little carvings made into the face of it.  Parts of it were wrapped in a thin metal, and tiny gems with sharp edges were fastened across the arms of it.  For a small piece of wood with a few decorations, it felt dense and heavy.  It wasn’t extravagant by any means, but there was still something beautiful about it. 

Sam turned around to show the cross to Pete, “Check this out—” her words were frozen in the air when she saw Pete’s face.  He no longer had his ear pressed against the safe.  He had pulled away from it, and his eyes were aimed at the doorway to the room.  He didn’t say anything.  He put his hand up to halt Sam from moving or speaking.  Pete heard something.  Then, Sam heard it too.  A creak in the wooden floors from the front room.  And then, there was another.  The sound was coming closer.  There was someone else in the house.

  

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

Seven Years Later…

 

Out from my apartment window, I could see the regular morning flow of traffic as it made its way down the two-lane little Main Street in Crandon.  That morning, like most mornings, I was awakened by the sound of a semi truck’s squalling tires and laboring engine as it made that wide turn around the block.  The sound waves would sometimes rattle the old windows in my apartment.  It may sound like a major annoyance to most, but the simple charm of those old rattling windows made me smile.

My apartment was on the second floor of the Reeres Drug Store.  I worked the cash register at the store during the day.  No, being a cashier was not my dream job, but it paid well enough for me to make the bills.  And so long as I didn’t indulge in too many wants, I made enough to put a little back into savings occasionally.  Being able to work so close to home was a huge benefit which most people wouldn’t even consider.  For me, I loved that my car barely moved from the back parking lot of the store—I saved a ton in gas money alone. 

I kept glancing at the clock like I had a nervous tic.  If someone else were in the room with me, they’d probably have suspected I was waiting on someone.  They would be right.  It was almost seven thirty.  I had about a half hour before Daniel would arrive at the store downstairs.  I wasn’t due into the store until nine, but today it would be best if I caught him before eight to clear the air.

I don’t know what was going through my mind the night before. 

What was I thinking? 

I’m not the type of girl that gets hung up on the idea that I might die lonely—so it wasn’t that.  Maybe it was just the longing of feeling wanted again, if only for a little bit.  I don’t know—maybe the situation was worse than I was trying to convince myself.   I couldn’t get past the silly thought that I would never find anyone that could live up to Brian—or at least the picture of Brian I had painted in my mind.  That path is gone now, anyway.

As I sat there in remorse over what had happened, I found it easy enough to blame even last night’s blunder on my mother.  I know, that’s not fair.  Grow up, Jill.  Right?

Mom had called me that morning—she was a champ at piling stress on my shoulders.  She had a way of asking loaded questions—the kind she knew the answers to, but just wanted to hear the words come out of my mouth.  The mind games she played with me felt like a pinched nerve in my brain.  After the phone call, I wasn’t in my right mind for the rest of the day.    

“Jill, have you heard from your father today?”  

Those were the first words I heard from my mother over the phone—I’d barely had a chance to finish saying, “hello” as I answered.

I hadn’t spoken with my father that morning—it was only seven thirty.  In fact, I hadn’t spoken with my father in more than a week.  That was unusual.

My parents had divorced the same year I moved out of the house.  It was a bizarre point in all our lives.  It kind of felt like everyone under that roof just needed a break from one another.  All it took was a family tragedy to make my parents realize they weren’t happy.  Maybe it’s not a fair statement, but that’s the official statement I use when someone has the gall to ask. 

Not that it was any of my mother’s business, but I filled my mom in on the fact that I hadn’t spoken with dad in almost two weeks.  Dad had crossed a line in his alcoholism, and I could no longer be a crutch for him to lean on.  It was time for a little bit of tough love.  Everyone else had moved on with their lives, there was no reason he shouldn’t just suck it up and move on as well. 

“Yeah Mom, the first thing I do when I crawl out of bed in the morning is dial up Dad to see if he’s okay,” I made sure to put as much sass into my comment as I could.  Mom hated that.

“Do you think that you’ll speak with him today?” Mom was quick to reply.  She didn’t even call me out on my sassiness with her scolding tone. 

“If you need to get a message to him, his number hasn’t changed, Mom.”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“You still there?”

“He’s not answering when I call.  I think he’s screening the calls.”

Screening the calls?  I shook my head.  I wanted to fuss at her for saying something so lame. 

“If I speak with him today, I’ll have him call you.”

We ended the call after that.  Divorces are ugly.  They’re especially ugly and hard on the children, no matter what age they are. 

I looked at the clock again.  Barely seven thirty now.  Time was mocking me—making me sit there and suffer the worry and regret I was feeling.  This wasn’t about my parents either—something worse.

Maybe I should just call in sick? 

The idea of going to work felt icky anyway.  All I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and curse myself over and over.  I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs about how stupid I was—how desperate and cheap I had made myself look.  

What good would any of that do?  It wouldn’t change the past—it wouldn’t change the choices I had made to get where I was.  If only I could go back in time about ten hours and change things.  Would it even make a difference?  Would I have made any different decisions?  It’s hard to say for sure, but the only way I could see myself making different choices would be to go back in time much further than just last night.    

I had not intended for things to go the way that they did last night.  In all honesty, the mere idea of what happened had not even crossed my mind until it happened. 

Why did I even let Daniel get so close to me in the first place?  Did Daniel have intentions? 

I didn’t want to ask.  That would open a whole can of worms I really wasn’t ready to process or deal with.  There wasn’t any doubt in my mind, Daniel wouldn’t want that kind of stress either.

Daniel, or more appropriately, Mr. Reeres—yes, that Daniel Reeres—was my boss.  He was a pharmacist and he owned Reeres Drugs, including the building where the business was located, which, of course, included the apartment where I lived.  Daniel’s father was a pharmacist, and his grandfather was a pharmacist.  The Reeres Drugs store had been around for nearly one hundred years, and Daniel had hopes to continue that legacy for at least the next generation. 

I sat there and thought more about turning back time—how things had come to be as they were.  I wanted to be honest with myself:  Did I apply for that job just because of an attraction to Daniel?  No—that wasn’t it.  I remembered the situation well enough.    

My parents didn’t have the money to put me through college, and suffice to say, my grades weren’t exactly the greatest to warrant a scholarship.  I didn’t even know for certain what I wanted to do with my life.  All my childhood dreams about becoming a doctor, or surgeon of some sort completely went out the window about seven years ago.  I was so lost—I didn’t know exactly where my life was heading anymore.  A giant wrench had been thrown into the gears that ran my life, and by the time I removed that wrench, I was so disoriented, I couldn’t decide which way was up. 

As luck found it, I managed to grab an entry level position on the assembly line at the Iconic Metals assembly plant.  The Crandon plant built metal truck frames for two of the big auto makers.  When the plant came to Crandon about ten years ago, it may very well have saved the town from disappearing from the maps. 

I liked my job at the plant.  I oversaw a robot that welded truck frames together.  It was an easy job, and besides the noise and all the boys I had to work with—yes, they were boys, some right out of high school, some still in high school, and some were in their thirties and forties but still acted like they were in high school—the job was satisfying.  It wasn’t a dream job, but I had found the contentment I didn’t know I would ever feel again.  Not only that, but Iconic Metals paid well enough, and I was able to move out of my parent’s house and into a house of my own.  Well, it was a rental, but I could call it my own.

Moving out of the bedroom I had grown up in—the one I had shared with my sister since birth—it was a huge, somewhat frightening step, but it was a necessary one.  I needed to get out of that room and disperse all the memories—to cleanse my palette.  I felt liberated and new.  I had a good job, my own home, and some newfound independence.  I had this feeling that, even though things had gone bad as they did in the past, everything was going to turn out simply fine.  Maybe not how I had imagined it as a child, but it would be a good long term sustainable life.

Well, just when you think you have your life figured out, fate throws you another curveball.  I was laid off from the plant due to “cutbacks”, whatever that actually means.  I wasn’t part of a union or plan or anything, so I was put in a tough spot quite quickly.  My superiors told me there was a chance I could be recalled to work in six to eight months.  This was promising news, but it wasn’t comforting.  How was I going to keep paying my rent in the meantime?  The fourteen hundred square foot home I’d been living in for the past year was more than a single woman like myself needed, but I loved it, and I didn’t want to lose it.  The extra space and the options that came with that extra space—a spare bedroom could one day be just that, and the next week turn into an art studio, or maybe a study—it was going to be hard to let that freedom go.  I’d lived a life in a confined space before, and I didn’t much like the idea of going back to anything remotely similar. 

I remembered my life seven years ago.  I remembered my epiphany of discovering my true self, and how I liked change—I found a way to thrive in the unexpected.  Staying the same, day in and day out—maybe it was comforting to think you know you have it all figured out, but usually in hindsight, it appeared far too boring.  Change kept things interesting.  I wanted to live an exciting life which transformed all the time and offered new opportunities every day.  It may have taken a tragedy and a lot of heartbreak for me to realize this about myself, but I was finally picking up on why my sister had chosen the free-and-easy lifestyle.

How could I ever forget something like that?  How could I ever forget someone like my sister, Samantha?  Samantha was always untroubled and carefree.  Consequences weren’t something she was ever afraid of.  She took chances for the thrill and the stimulation of just taking the chance.  Back then, when Samantha was still with us, those kinds of words scared me.  But now, I had decided to embrace them. 

My lease on my rental home was coming up to be renewed in a month, anyway.  I figured it was time to shut the door on that life and move on to the next chapter.  I accepted the losses and was ready to see what else I would be dealt. 

I was in town that fateful day to apply for unemployment.  The application was several pages long, so I left the unemployment office and filled it out at the Java shop on Main Street downtown.  I hadn’t been in that little shop in years—it used to be an old haunt for me and my then boyfriend.  He used to drive me home from high school, and we’d stop for a cold brew.  Life was so simple back then. 

I finished the application and tossed my empty cup into the waste basket.  When I stepped back onto the sidewalk, I spotted Reeres Drugs directly across the street.  There was a “Help Wanted” sign in the door.  I wasn’t sure if the universe was speaking to me right then and there, or it was because I had just spent the last half hour filling out an application, thinking about old ghosts and sitting in chairs from past lives.  Either way, for some reason, I didn’t see any harm in checking it out.  I crossed the street and went inside.

I had known who Daniel Reeres was since junior high school.  Daniel was about four years older, though.  Samantha and I would swoon over the older senior boys—Daniel was in the crowd.  He was a basketball player.  He was tall and fit—back then he had some wavey dusty blonde hair.  Samantha and I would stay up late and go on about how gorgeous Daniel was—sometimes those talks led to simple arguments over which one of us would one day marry him.  We would eventually get over it and realize we were both only dreaming, but for a good part of junior high, I was hung up on that boy. 

Daniel Reeres graduated high school before Samantha and I were even freshmen.  He married his high school sweetheart, Anne Banks, only two years later, about the same time he took over his father’s business.  I had outgrown my crush on Daniel by then—it was just one of those silly teen girl dreams—but there were days I had happened past the Reeres Drug store, and I would peek in to see if I could spot that handsome face.  Daniel was a rare sighting though—he mostly worked in the back of the store filling the prescriptions—but when he showed his face, admittedly, I felt a small pang in my heart.  It wasn’t a longing desire of love or anything like that, but more of a longing nostalgia feeling.    

Daniel had trimmed his dusty blondes to a shorter style, exposing the roots—his hair appeared darker now.  He was still tall and thin, and the white lab coat he wore while he worked made him appear all that more striking and sophisticated.   

Daniel was behind the counter when I entered the store that day.  Thinking back, I wonder if I hadn’t spotted him through the window, would I have even entered the store?  Another unknown, I suppose. 

I introduced myself and mentioned the sign in the window.  I felt like a schoolgirl again when Daniel revealed he remembered me from school.  Maybe there was something there? 

Daniel interviewed me for the job right then and there.  It wasn’t the job I wanted; in fact, it was only going to pay about as much as I was going to get from the unemployment office.  For some reason, though, I accepted the job. 

This new job wasn’t going to be enough to pay my rent. 

Another change.  Embrace it. 

I flipped through the classifieds for a smaller house or apartment, but as it normally did in my life, fate stepped in again. 

It was my first week of work, Daniel had overheard me speaking to a customer about my house hunting woes.  After the customer left, Daniel approached me.

“Why didn’t you say you were looking to move?” Daniel asked.

His question caught me off guard—I didn’t know what to say to him for several seconds.  After all, it wasn’t like we had had a million conversations since I started working there.

“I didn’t feel like it was work related, I guess,” I shrugged.

“Listen, there’s a small one-bedroom apartment above the store,” Daniel explained.  “It’s been sitting empty for almost a month because I’m very particular about who I allow to live above the store, you know.  Would you like to see it?”

Of course, I did. 

He showed me the apartment.  It was small and quaint—barely half the size of the house that I had been living in for the past year—but I figured maybe this was just what I needed.  A smaller home meant a simpler life.  Plus, the monthly rent was half what I had been paying at my current home.  On top of that, the water and sewer bills were taken care of by the store, as the systems were all attached.

Okay, I could reason that my move to simplify my life may have stemmed from the fact that Daniel revealed to me he had noticed me way back in school.  If I’m honest, yes—maybe I did have some inkling of hope that there was a fairytale love story in the making—you know, the one where the rich pharmacist would fall completely in love with his cashier, and they would marry and live happily ever after?  But that was before my first day of work at the store.  That was the day I met Daniel’s wife, Anne.

I really wanted Daniel’s wife to be the president and general manager of the battle-axe worst wives club, but there was no denying it; Anne Reeres was a wonderful person.  She was overjoyed Daniel had finally hired someone to take over the cashier duties—and happy he had hired a woman, too.  Anne had admitted to me that even though she knew it could be construed as feminist or sexist, she felt as if the store needed more of a friendly female face for the customers.  Anne spoke her mind to me, and she did so with the sincerest of smiles.  She really was a delight to work with.  Anne handled most of the orders and stocking invoices for the business.  She would be on the floor checking shelves and helping customers three days a week.  I surprisingly looked forward to going into work those three days, just to chat with Anne about girl stuff.  Anne and I weren’t like best buds or anything, but she was about the only female acquaintance I saw and spoke with on a regular basis.  Yes, I did consider Anne to be my friend.  Either way, the friendship that she and I had created only made everything from the night before all that much worse.

Daniel had asked me if I could stay late at the store the night before.  He said he needed to leave early to meet with someone about a radio commercial for the store.  I agreed to stock, sweep, and lock up.  Why not?  I could use the extra hours, and it wasn’t like I had anything else to do. 

I locked the front door to the store at nine o’clock that evening.  I was still inside at nine forty-five.  I was nearly finished sweeping the aisles when I heard the front doors of the store chime as they opened.  I was in the back of the store when I heard it.  Terror instantly coursed through my veins.  I suddenly was questioning myself if I had locked up correctly?  Did I leave the key out there?  Did I not shake the door to make sure it was completely shut?

I peeked over the top of the aisle shelf, and I spotted Daniel laying some papers on the cashier counter.

“Hey,” I said from the back of the store.

“You’re still here,” Daniel looked toward me as I stepped around the end of the aisle.

“Just about finished.”

“Awesome,” he smiled.  “I really appreciate you staying and doing this tonight.  I thought my meeting would have taken longer than it did.”

“Hope it went well.”

“Ehh,” Daniel shrugged.  “I didn’t realize how expensive sound bites had become.” 

From there, I’m not sure what happened, but I will promise till my last breath that it only started with a simple and honest conversation.  That’s all it was.  Trouble is, that was the first time Daniel and I had ever had a real conversation in the whole year I had been working there.  Daniel was the pharmacist—he worked in the back of the store most of the time, and I worked in the front.  Sure, our paths crossed several times a day with work related questions and the like, but the conversation we started last night was different—it was personal.  It was the type of conversation he should have been having with his wife.  As I thought about it more, that was the first time Daniel and I had been left alone together—wholly and completely alone.   

My mind did wander to Anne, but not in the way it should have.  I wondered, where was Anne?  Anne hadn’t been in to work for days.  My mind went to a dark place which most of us never want to admit—a place where we almost hope there was some trouble going on at home I didn’t know about.  Maybe Daniel and Anne’s marriage wasn’t as solid as it appeared to be on the outside?

I wasn’t trying to excuse my actions that night—or maybe I was—but one thing led to another, and before I knew it, my lips were locked with Daniel’s.  It wasn’t planned.  We were just talking when our eyes suddenly met.  I knew it was wrong as soon as our lips made contact, but the living in the moment mentality I had decided to adopt was beckoning me to take the plunge.  So, I did. 

The lust took over.  It was like neither of us were in control of our actions.  Daniel’s hand gripped my waist.  His hand moved up my side and then he moved to kissing my neck.  Caught up in the moment, my mind even traveled to the idea of how jealous Samantha might be to know what I was doing.  It was stupid really—the way I had convinced myself that I had won a silly competition which began when my twin sister and I were in the seventh grade.  For a second, I know I relished in the idea of her possible jealousy.

I opened my eyes for only a moment.  There was a sunglasses rack at the end of the aisle where we were making out.  It was odd I was even able to see what I saw, but I saw it, and I could never take that image out of my head.  I saw my reflection in the small five-inch by five-inch mirror on the rack—I saw what I looked like wrapped up in passion with Daniel Reeres—a married man.  The care-free lifestyle suddenly felt dirty and scary—I suddenly wasn’t feeling as spry about it as I had before.

Daniel continued to go to town, putting his lips on my neck and then on my shoulder.  His hand was moving up under my shirt.  I was feeling his every move, but I couldn’t take my eyes off that mirror.  The more I stared at it, which was only for a few seconds, the more clarity came into my mind.  Everything came into focus.  A wave of morality rushed over my body, and I decided the woman I saw in the mirror wasn’t me.  I quickly pushed Daniel away from me.

“Stop!” I said sternly.

Daniel immediately pulled away from me.  He looked at me.  It was clear he could see the regret in my eyes. 

“I—I’m sorry,” Daniel said, brushing his hand over his head.

I only nodded.  I couldn’t even look him in the eye.  I took a step back from Daniel, and then straightened my clothes.  What do you say to someone after something like that? 

“Jill?”

I turned away from him.  I was embarrassed.  I wanted to live my life more carefree—be more dangerous—but not like that.  Not in the way that would harm someone else, like Anne Reeres.  Maybe the damage had already been done?  Maybe Daniel’s marriage had already been damaged before that night?  But I didn’t know that for sure, and it really didn’t matter.  I knew my actions were wrong. 

I walked straight to the back of the store.  I didn’t even look back, but I assume Daniel just stood there and watched me.  I grabbed my purse and my jacket from my locker.  When I returned to the front of the store, Daniel was gone.  Maybe he had left, or maybe he went into his office—either way, I didn’t bother to look for him. 

I left the store and locked the door behind me, just in case Daniel had left.  I ran around the corner of the building and climbed the steel stairway up to my apartment.  I locked the door behind me and fell onto the couch to sob.

The night went by too slowly and without much sleep.  When the sun decided to finally rise, time suddenly began to speed up again, and the inevitable moment of coming face to face again with Daniel was quickly approaching. 

The coffee was still warm.  I looked out the window and waited for the unavoidable conversation I would need to have with Daniel.  I was about to take another sip from my coffee mug when I heard a sound.  It was footsteps on the stairs outside—someone was climbing the side steps to the building. 

I looked out the window.  Had I somehow missed Daniel coming up the sidewalk?  He normally parked on the street just outside the store, but his car wasn’t there.  I couldn’t recall seeing anyone on the sidewalk below my window who may have gone around the corner to the stairs, either.  That could only mean that whoever was on the stairs came from the narrow alley behind them—the narrow alley that led to the back parking lot which the store shared with a tattoo parlor.

The gentle footsteps were just outside my front door to the apartment.  I waited for a knock, but there was none.  Seconds passed.  Suddenly, an envelope was slipped under the door.  Then, whoever was outside the door quickly descending back down the stairs, much quicker and noisier than what they had climbed them.

What the hell? 

I didn’t know what to think.  Maybe it was Daniel outside the door—maybe he had written me a letter?  Was he really too shy to face me?

I peered out the window to see if anyone came out from the alley to the front, but no one ever did.  They must have escaped to the back parking lot just as they came in.  I stepped over to the door and picked up the envelope.  It was letter sized, and it was addressed with handwriting like it was to be put in the mail, but there was no stamp, and no return address.  But most curiously, the envelope was addressed to, Pete May C/O Jill Turner, and it had my address on it. 

I threw open the front door to the apartment and looked out onto the stairs.  No one was there. 

Pete May.  I hadn’t seen him in years.  Pete was an old friend and my sister Samantha’s boyfriend a long time ago.  Why would anyone send a letter to Pete through me? 

I ripped open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper from inside.  It was a very short letter—more of a note—but the few words on the page brought emotions I had pressed away years ago.

My heart began to speed up.  The note sparked memories of many fun times we had hanging out as a group—Pete, Samantha, Huck, Kurt, and me—the reminiscences were surely piling up in my mind, but it was the handwriting on the page that made my hands begin to tremble.  It was unmistakable.  I knew who had written the note.  I had no doubt—the handwriting was done by my twin sister, Samantha—my sister that no one had seen or heard from in seven years.  Samantha, my sister, who I had cried myself to sleep over night after night for the past seven years.

  

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

I needed answers.  There was no mistaking it—the handwriting—the way the S’s were curled, and the T’s—I knew this was Samantha’s unique handwriting.  But how?  Samantha was gone.  She’d been gone for seven years!

For most everyone that knew my sister, the consensus was the same.   Samantha Turner had simply run away from home.  She was wild spirited and full of adventure—it didn’t take much imagination to believe that scenario.

One of my friends commented to me once before, “It was only a matter of time, if you ask me.”  She went on, “You know Samantha really didn’t like it here in this po-dunk town—she probably set off to an exotic location.”

After my friend’s comment, I found it impossible to escape the thought that I may not have known my sister at all.  Sure, Samantha wanted to see the world someday, but I just didn’t believe it was in her character to just leave without saying anything to anyone.   

Seven years have passed—me, my mom, and just about everyone else has given up on the idea that Samantha was ever coming back.  If she was, she would have sent us a sign or something—something just to tell us that she was okay.  That was something I was very unsure about—was my sister okay? 

My dad, on the other hand, never gave up hope that Samantha would return.  He had this dream his other daughter would one day walk through the front door of his home safe and sound, with one hell of a story to tell about everywhere she had been, and all the things that she had seen and done.  I just didn’t share that same confidence.  There was a gnawing in my gut that something terrible had happened to Samantha.  I had no evidence to prove it, but I just felt it.    

Maybe it was a twin thing?   

That gut wrenching feeling came upon me the day after my parents had reported Samantha missing.  I, of course, wasn’t about to say anything to anyone about my gut feeling—the last thing I wanted to do was douse the hopes that others might be clinging to—but that feeling wouldn’t subside.  I was sure my sister was gone for good, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t evacuate the terrible thought from my mind.

Not a single shred of evidence ever emerged to suggest foul play in Samantha’s disappearance.  No one had seen her.  Not one person came forward with a tip or an idea.  It took two weeks before the police had found something that pretty much sealed the case.  Samantha’s jacket, an old leather bomber jacket that she had bought from a thrift shop years ago, was found under a bus terminal bench in the next town over.  The police determined the jacket had been there in the weather for several days, maybe even the past two weeks—there was no way to know for sure.  Unfortunately, no cameras were directed at the bench, and none of the surveillance video caught Samantha entering the bus terminal, nor boarding a bus.  But the police made it clear that all implications pointed to the “run-away” theory.  They were ready to close the investigation.

My father protested and grasped at every straw he could. 

“Maybe there are ticket records.” 

There weren’t.  The police argued she may have bought a ticket with a fake ID.

“Where would my daughter get a fake ID?”

Samantha and I had had a fake ID since we were seventeen.  I should’ve said something.

“What if she wore a disguise?  That’s why we don’t see her in the video surveillance.”

Another dead end—even if Samantha was wearing a disguise, picking her out from some grainy black and white footage would be impossible.

The police did eventually agree to keep the investigation open, but not based on the begging from my dad.  Upon inspecting Samantha’s jacket, dried blood was discovered on one of the sleeves.  A DNA analysis determined the blood was a perfect match to Samantha’s—not enough to consider foul play, but the blood was enough to stir some concern within the police department. 

That wasn’t enough for my dad.  Sure, the case would remain open, but with no witnesses coming forward with new evidence, the open case felt like more of a courtesy to my family than anything else.

Time heals everything, though, right?  After the first birthday passes without her—after the first heartbreak where I couldn’t lean on her—after the first crisis between our parents—somehow, I was able to move on with my life without Samantha present.  I was able to accept the fact that I would never know what really happened to her, or where she really was.  I had found a way to be content with her absence in my life.  Now, the letter under my door has upended that contentment completely. 

I read the words over and over from the page:

 

Pete, I need to see you about what we took.

 

Samantha had been known to do things for kicks—I was probably privier to some of her escapades than too many others—but I had never pegged my sister as a thief.  All her adventures had to do with thrill seeking, or simple mischievous acts like egging houses or maybe tagging the side of a train car with spray paint. 

I had always thought Samantha and I were more than just twin sisters; she had been my best friend.  We shared everything—our room, our toys, clothes, and of course we shared the womb.  She told me everything she did.  But maybe that’s just what Samantha wanted me to think. 

Samantha and I were identical in every way, but somehow, when it came to popularity, Samantha had a huge advantage over me.  She was a social butterfly.  I wasn’t as shy as I’m making it sound, but I wasn’t as quick with my words like Samantha was.  She could meet a friend anywhere.  This bubbly fun attitude that she wore so well in her smile favored her the attention of everyone.  I know Samantha took notice of how she stood out over me.  Being the wonderful sister she was, she made certain I was never left behind.  We were a bundled package.  Where she went, I went.  At least, that’s how it was before she started seeing Pete.  It was too awkward for me to tag along on their dates, but Samantha shared every detail with me when she came home.  It wasn’t impossible for Samantha to have held back certain details of her nights out.

Those first few weeks, or months, or whatever it was of her and Pete dating, Samantha and I did fall further apart.  I missed her, but in a way, I didn’t mind.  We were growing up.  It was inevitable she and I would eventually need to part ways to live in different homes, maybe start families of our own.  Looking back, it’s shocking how far we’d drifted apart in so little time. 

The week that Samantha disappeared, she had cut her hair.  It was a few days before maybe—it couldn’t have been any more than three days before.  I often thought about that—how she cut her hair so suddenly, and so short.  I had come home from work that day and went up to our shared bedroom in our parents’ house.  Our bedroom had a small bathroom attached to it.  When I stepped into the bathroom to undress for a shower, I saw the remnants of her hair on the floor.  It looked like she had tried to clean up, but there were strands she had missed.  In the trashcan beside the toilet, I found the rest of Samantha’s long locks. 

Had someone cut her hair for her, or did Samantha cut her own hair?  And why would she do that? 

I planned to speak with her about it the next time I saw her, but at that time we were probably the most distant we had ever been.  We had both been working opposite hours for weeks—I had a morning shift; she had a night shift.  Even in passing in the hall, or the kitchen at breakfast, Samantha had never once mentioned anything about planning to cut her hair, or even trying a new look.  Weeks after her disappearance, the in-house therapist at the police department explained to me that cutting one’s own hair could be a tell-tale sign of someone getting ready to run away—or worse—planning to commit suicide.  Even though I knew it just wasn’t in my sister to take her own life, those words from the therapist would haunt me every time I thought of her.    

Another possibility suddenly came to mind—Why else would someone go through the trouble of changing the way they look?  Was it possible Samantha was trying to hide from someone?  Was she in some sort of trouble?  It sounded ridiculous, especially in such a small town as Crandon.  After all, most people in town knew one another or someone that the other was kin to.  Who would she be trying to fool with a haircut?  And who would be so dangerous in this small town that she would need to run from? 

Pete May.

The letter was addressed to none other than Pete May.  Dad would always say, “Pete was a useless piss-ant who will never amount to anything.”  Dad was probably right, but that’s not why he was so hard on him.  Dad knew how Pete was connected to several undesirable people.   

I know it wasn’t any of my business, but I didn’t like it when Samantha started dating Pete.  Jealousy?  Sure, maybe a little bit.  Samantha was spending so much time with Pete, there was never a moment for me to say anything.  Besides, I didn’t see their relationship as something that was going to last.  Pete seemed like the kind of guy Samantha would grow out of.

As fun and outgoing as Pete was to spend time with, he was also irresponsible, and did foolish child-like things.  I liked to have fun as much as anyone else, but there were lines I was careful not to cross.  Pete didn’t understand the concept of a line, and if he did, he knew how to blur them.  The world was his playground, and Samantha would follow him anywhere. 

The sound of a car door below my window interrupted my thoughts.  I rushed back over to the window to find Daniel’s car parked on the street in front of the store.  I looked at the clock.  He was early.  The letter in my hand would have to wait.  I needed to deal with the issue at hand first.

 

I made it into the store just a little after eight that morning.  The letter was in my hand as I stepped through the front door of the store.  I had grabbed the letter, envelope and all, on my way out the door—something I planned to dwell on throughout my workday.  For the first time in seven years, I had a real clue as to what may have happened to my sister.  Maybe I should have gone straight to the police station with it, but after my last experience there, I wasn’t eager to return.  Besides, my confidence in their investigation was a little swayed.

Reeres Drugs was best described as a darling little store that fit the charm of the small town of Crandon to a T.  The store had a country esquire feel which maintained its original wood floor, as well as the carpenter ceiling.  The building hadn’t had a full remodel since the Reeres had been in business.  Wiring and plumbing had been updated to keep up with building codes, but other than that, the interior of the building was as it would have appeared in 1902 when they opened.  Aside from the modern items on the store racks, walking into the store was like stepping back in time.

“Jill!” A voice from the far end of the store called out.

I knew that voice, and it was the last person I wanted to see.

“I didn’t know you were coming in early today,” Anne Reeres, Daniel’s wife, said as she approached me.

I wasn’t sure what to say.  My knees nearly buckled under the weight of my guilt.  There I was, standing in front of the woman whose husband I had just made-out with the night before.  Maybe the right thing was to clear the air right then and there—tell her the truth.  Those words weren’t coming anywhere near my lips.  I buried those words deep into my gut.  But I had to say something.  It nearly slipped out that I was stopping in early to speak with her husband in private, but how would that have been any better?  It would have only led to questions and, most likely, some awkward lying on my part. 

“I, um—” was all that I could stammer out.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Anne said.  She seemed anxious and in a hurry.  “Daniel had some things come up, and he won’t be able to make it in at all today.  I was afraid I’d be all alone this morning, what with early stocking, and filling in where I can with Daniel’s duties—plus, today’s order day, you know.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “Thursday, right.”

Anne looked as if she’d had her fair share of caffeine that morning.  Her high strung and worrisome composure wasn’t out of the ordinary—Anne tended to be a busy and driven person.  She could hold her own in any precarious situation, all the while keeping her patented confident smile plastered on her beautiful face, which didn’t seem to age.  Though Anne was an easy person to envy, I did consider her as a friend.  Sure, she could be a little overbearing, or nosey, but I think, in general, she just wanted to have another woman to talk to.  I mentally shook my head—she sure knew how to pick them with me.  

“Do you know where Daniel put the re-order clipboard?”

“In his desk.  Top drawer, I think.”  It felt odd to be more familiar with the contents of her husband’s desk more than her.  It just felt so wrong.  I cursed myself in my head.  I didn’t have an excuse for what had happened—I wasn’t drunk or high, or anything—and I’m pretty sure I could say the same about Daniel.  Aside from the frustrating phone call with my mother, we were both in sound mind. 

My inside cursing must have made a physical appearance on my face.  Anne was staring at me with a curious expression.  It was stupid, but I was trapped in the thought that somehow Anne knew what I had done—she could see it like the truth was written on my forehead in all bold font.

“Is something wrong, Jill?”

“No, I’m good.”

Yeah, that should do it—some of that awkward lying I’m known for.

“You look bothered.”

“Really, I’m okay.”

Anne cocked her head slightly. “How’re things going with that sweet guy, Brian?”

Good, a change of subject, but not one I was thrilled about going into.  I sighed and rolled my eyes.

“Oh no.  Did something happen?”

“Let’s just say it’s not going to work out.”  My tone laid it on thick that I didn’t want to talk about it.  Luckily, Anne took the hint.  She nodded and then her eyes wandered down and noticed the letter in my hand.  I hadn’t realized I was clenching it so tightly.  Anne’s eyes came back to meet with mine.

“Did you get some bad news in the mail?” Anne said once again nodding her eyes toward the clenched envelope. 

Normally I would flinch at Anne’s snooping for info, but the letter was just what I needed to explain my demeanor.

I held up the envelope.  “This was slipped under my front door this morning.”

Anne set her head back some. “Creepy.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you mind?” Anne held out her hand.  I was hesitant at first, but then I figured there was no harm in showing her.

“You remember Pete May, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do,” Anne said as she read the face of the envelope.  “He was a few years behind us in high school.  I see him at the grocery from time to time.”

“You do?”

“Sure.”

“He never happened to live upstairs in my apartment, did he?  Maybe for even just a little bit, and maybe it didn’t work out?”

“Oh no,” Anne said with a laugh that hardly threw a veil over the fact they would never rent to someone like Pete May.  “Besides, the envelope is addressed in your care, not as if Pete ever lived there.”

Anne was about to pull the letter out of the envelope, but instinct forced me to quickly reach out to stop her.

“I’m sorry,” I said as my hands met with Anne’s.  “The letter is actually kind of personal.”

“Oh,” Anne said in an unoffended way.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.  I just—I haven’t shown it to Pete yet, so—” I took the envelope back from her. 

“Of course.”

“I’m just trying to figure out why someone would send this to me, and not straight to Pete.”

“Maybe whoever sent it doesn’t know where to find Pete.”

“Why would they think I know where he is?”

“Well, Pete and your sister were pretty hot and heavy together, weren’t they?”

“Yeah, they were,” I nodded.  Even though it was logical for Anne to come to that conclusion, the coincidence of Anne bringing up my sister felt suspicious. 

“Everything in the letter—it’s not something terrible, is it?” Anne now had a voice of concern.  “It’s nothing threatening or anything?”

“What?  No.” 

“Okay,” Anne’s tone suggested disbelief.  “It’s just, I remember how Pete was—and a lot of the stuff he got himself into.  You don’t need that kind of trouble.”

Anne was only a couple of years older than me—I guess that age gap somehow gave her the idea she could speak to me like she was my mom.  I ignored it.  After all, I had made out with her husband the night before.

“The thing is, I think this letter could be from Samantha.”

“Really?” Anne’s eyes widened.  “Why do you think that?”

“The handwriting,” I explained.  I held the envelope up so Anne could see.  “I’d know it anywhere.”

Anne looked at the envelope, and then gave me a look of skepticism.  I knew it was a weak connection, but it was something.  Her skeptical expression slowly melted away to one of empathy. 

“You know, someone could just have a similar style—or someone could have copied it.”

“Why would someone do something like that?”

“I—I don’t know.  I’m just throwing things out there because I don’t want you to put a lot of hope into something like that and be disappointed.”  Anne sighed as she looked at me with an apology in her eyes.  “I didn’t mean to try to tear down your idea.  I do hope it’s really from Sam.  I mean, I know how much that would mean to you and your family after all this time.  Maybe the contents of the letter, whatever they are, would make me feel a little differently, but—well, I hope you understand what I’m trying to say.  I just hope that your sister’s okay.”

“Thanks.” 

“I really felt bad for Pete when your sister disappeared,” Anne stopped.  She shook her head.  “Scratch that—I mean, I felt bad for you and your family too, it’s just— Boy, I am just doing great with conversation today, aren’t I?”

“It’s okay,” I easily excused Anne’s awkward wording.  “I know what you mean.”

“Too much coffee this morning, me thinks,” Anne said with a smile. 

“Probably not enough for me yet.”

“You know, it was the night before at that Blue Hole kegger—the night before your sister disappeared, I mean—it was that night that Pete fell and hit his head.”

“What?”  Anne’s comment jogged my memory some.  “It was?” 

I took a moment to think back at the chain of events.  Maybe I had scratched some of it from my memory with all that had happened, but Anne was right.  It was the following morning when the police arrived at our house—I was just getting up.  I was coming down the stairs when I overheard a few unfamiliar voices coming from the living room.  As I turned the corner, the sight of two police officers sitting in my parent’s living room was enough to make me want to hurl from nervousness.  Then, those words, “She never came home last night.”

Those words rang through my mind for weeks.  The worry in my mother’s voice was like a long-lasting syllable on your tongue—one that drawled on forever.  Everything slowed down after that morning.  Time itself became irrelevant.  My nausea turned to a different kind—the worry-kind.  Then, when the police mentioned they had wanted to question Pete, my nausea turned worse.  Pete was in the hospital with a head injury, and he was all but comatose.  They tossed around the idea that Pete’s injury could have something to do with Samantha’s disappearance, but that discussion was very brief—there was no evidence to link the events, and no one at the party where Pete was hurt could verify if Samantha was there as well.  Besides, I didn’t want to put those two events together—I wanted to focus on my sister and where she had gone. 

“Oh yeah, I’m sure that was the night,” Anne said.  “I wouldn’t forget it—too many things happened that night.  It was also the night Huck pushed his car over into Blue Hole.”

“I haven’t seen Huck in a while,” I said.

It’s funny how people you spend so much time with when you were younger somehow just creep out of your life and you barely seem to notice.

Huck, whose real name was Michael Simpson, was a backwoods roamer if there ever was one.  He was also one of Pete’s best friends.  Huck had been raised by his grandmother, who was a bit of a flowerchild.  She pulled Huck out of school in the sixth grade to homeschool him.  Huck was kind of a unique guy—a lot of fun to hang around with, but at the same time could render you very anxious about what kind of trouble by association you were about to get into.  He didn’t even wear real shoes.  No matter what the weather was like, Huck preferred to walk around barefoot—everywhere.  If the weather was truly inclement, the most he would ever put on were an old pair of moccasins, or some open-toed flip flops.  I’m not sure who donned him the nickname Huck, but my guess it was because his lifestyle seemed to parallel Huckleberry Finn.  My grandmother, much less my mother, would never have let me go into town barefoot, but Huck’s grandmother pretty much let him choose his own way.  She spoiled him terribly from the day she gained custody of him.  She even bought him a car when he turned sixteen.  What does he do a few years later?  He decides to push the car into the creek at Blue Hole just to get some laughs and “hoo-raws” from some party attendees. 

His grandmother must have been pissed after that—I never heard anything.  In fact, I didn’t even hear about the incident until several weeks later—what with Samantha’s disappearance, I didn’t keep up with any of those social incidents.

“You know his grandmother passed away about a year ago,” Anne said.

“I didn’t hear about that.”

“Yeah,” she went on.  “I hear he took it pretty hard.”

About a year ago was about the last time I had seen Huck.  He was walking the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street from me.  He hadn’t changed—he was barefoot, wearing khaki shorts and no shirt, long stringy hair, and he was thin like he hadn’t eaten an ounce of fat his whole life.  He looked over at me, like he could feel me looking at him.  I smiled, but oddly he looked away quickly and went on his way.  I wondered if he didn’t recognize me, or if he was snubbing me?  He was Pete’s best friend—maybe he just didn’t want to talk.   

“You know, Daniel and I were the ones that found Pete that night—” Anne’s voice broke into my reminiscing.  “He was just lying there, passed out with his head on that rock.  There was blood all over.  Daniel called 911, and the whole party fell apart after that.  Huck nearly lost his mind.  He took off running into the woods.  We didn’t see him for days after that.”

“He just ran off?”

“Well, he had to.  His car was at the bottom of Blue Hole,” Anne said with a smile and a shrug.  “Besides, with the party busting up, and the authorities showing up—you know Huck didn’t want to be around anything like that.  He’s always afraid they’re going to drag him off to jail.  Besides, as high as he was that night—seeing his best friend looking nearly dead—that could make a guy freak out.”

“How’s he doing now?  Huck, I mean.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Anne said.  “I haven’t seen him in a while.  I assume he’s still out there at his grandmother’s farm.  She left everything to him.”

I nodded and looked at the envelope in my hand.  Pete’s name on the envelope cried to me.  I wasn’t sure I was ready to face him after so many years, but in order to get to the source of the letter, I had no choice.    

“You say you see Pete around at the grocery?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Anne said.  “That’s where he works.”

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