I pulled away just enough to look at him. “Depending on how private their information is, it might be hard to find, or not possible without the help of someone like a private investigator. But I’ll try for you.”
He nodded. “I understand. If anyone’s still alive, it’s probably my sister. Maybe.” He swallowed. “Frances Randolph is her full name. My parents are Charles Sr. and Carey.”
“Do you want to look with me, or would you rather I tell you what I find?”
He fingered the collar of my shirt. “I think I need to go and rest for a bit. I’ll try to be back this evening for dinner. Could you look while I’m away, and tell me what you find?”
“Of course, baby,” I said, dropping a kiss into his hair. “Go. I’ll be here when you get back.”
Ifound his dad’s obituary first.
Charles Randolph Sr. passed away peacefully on February 12th, 2013, in St. Luke’s Memorial Hospital. He was preceded in death by his loving wife, Carey. He leaves behind his beloved son and daughter, Charles Jr., and Frances. In lieu of flowers, please make your donations tothe National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.
With tears streaming down my face, I opened a new tab and began the search for Frankie.
By the time Charlie reappeared in the cabin, I’d prepared dinner—ground beef burritos with a not-so-fresh tomato pico and a spicy lime crema—because I didn’t know what else to do while I waited for him to return, and I wanted him to have something to eat if it’d make him feel better.
He took one look at my face and put a hand over his mouth to stifle a sob. Wrapping him up tight in my arms, I guided him to where I had my laptop open and ready.
“Who?” he asked through his tears. “Just tell me who, first.”
“Both of your parents have passed away. Your mom went first, twenty years ago, and your dad passed twelve years ago. I’m so sorry, Charlie.”
He shook his head. “It’s stupid to be s-so upset over it, isn’t it? It was twenty years ago,” he sobbed.
I held him close, gently rocking. “It’s not stupid. For you, they didn’t die until today. You need to let yourself mourn that.”
He cried for a long time, leaning heavily into me. “Frankie?” he asked eventually. “What about Frankie?”
I grimaced. “I couldn’t find anything about her, other than she was still alive at the time of your dad’s passing. She and your parents gave a handful of interviews back when you first went missing, but none of them spoke to the press after that.”
He wouldn’t look me in the eye. “So they think I did it, then,” he said gruffly, trying to pull away.
I took his hand to stop him. “I think you should read your dad’s obituary for yourself.”
Charlie only hesitated a second before he agreed; the trust that I wouldn’t make him look at something that would hurt him was heady.
He cried all over again after he read it. “Beloved son…” A sob cut off his words.
“I looked up their interviews, Charlie. They did not believe you were the killer. They were treated pretty badly by the press after their last few interviews; I think that’s why they stopped. But I don’t read this as the obituary of a man who lost hope his son would come home.”
Grief poured out of him. We spent the rest of the night huddled in bed, where he picked at dinner and then curled up, falling into whatever version of sleep he was capable of while I held him.
Days passed that way. Eventually, Charlie asked to read the interviews his family had given, which upset him almost more than the obituary.
“It’s not because it’s bad,” he whispered into the scant space between us, late one night. “It’s not that I would’ve preferred they believe something awful about me. It’s that they were hurting, too. All that time, some part of them hoped I’d come home.”
He said he wasn’t ready to try contacting Frankie. “She clearly doesn’t want anyone to talk to her about when I went missing. What if she’s moved on? I’m sure she’s married, probably has a family. It would be cruel to insert myself back into the peace she may have found.”
“I understand,” I replied. “I won’t try to find her if you don’t want me to. But if you do, I will. I can’t promise it would go well, but I think she’d want to hear from you. I think she’d want those answers, maybe the chance to talk to you again. Even if it’s only once.”
He tucked himself farther beneath the blankets, scooting as close to me as possible before pressing a chaste kiss to my lips. “I’ll think about it.”
My next resupply trip quickly approached.
Sitting at my desk with weeks of observation logs scattered in front of me, begging to be organized, I dropped my head into my hands and rubbed my temples. “Do you remember if we have any onions left?”
I’d never been a very creative meal planner, and my skills were already stretched beyond their limits. Coming up with dinner ideas felt like more and more of a chore as the days went on.
