Courtney
We search all day through the woods. I don’t know how many miles we cover, but it’s not enough. Because we have to be so diligent in our search, we don’t cover as much ground as I’d have expected, as I’d have hoped. The forest is dense and covered with things like branches and leaves that we have to sift through to make sure we don’t miss anything, that something isn’t buried beneath.
As time goes on, what little hope I had of finding Reese wanes, and I resign myself to going back to the cottage with nothing—with no news, good or bad—when I hear a voice carry from fifty or a hundred feet away.
“There’s something over there.”
My back arches. I stand upright, turning to look, tenting my eyes with my hand to block out the lowering sun. I follow the direction of a man’s hand as he points to something in the distance, seeing the wispy strands lift up from the grass in the breeze.
Without thinking, I start to run, a clumsy, desperate run, my feet kicking up dirt. I call out, my heart racing, my vocal cords tightening so that it comes out shaky and strained, “What is it? Is it her? Is it Reese?”
On the way, I step by accident into a shallow pit in the earth, my ankle turning. I fall and land on the ground on a hip,grunting; someone reaches out to take me by the elbow and help me to my feet, and I keep running, past trees and over fallen logs.
A group of volunteers forms a circle around it and from the looks on their faces, I know.
“Is it Reese?” I ask again, already starting to cry.
It’s her. It’s Reese. She’s dead.
I stop just short, stumbling, taking in the vacant, glass-like eyes, the dried blood smeared on the dirt and across what’s left of the flesh, though it’s been sloughed off and torn away, flaps of skin lying beside the body in the grass.
The head has been detached from the body.
The bushy tail resembles human hair.
Whatever it is has been dead for days, its body hollowed out by maggots.
It’s an animal, a fox or a coyote, though it’s hard to tell, because parts of its body are missing, carried away by scavengers.
All I know for sure is that it’s not human.
It’s not Reese.
My legs give and I fall to my knees in relief.
But it’s temporary, because we still don’t know where she is.
I make my way out of the woods, feeling frustrated and berating myself because we didn’t find anything and wondering if there was somethingImissed.
“We wanted to see how you’re doing,” Joanna says, coming to me. She and Sam hang back as everyone else starts to leave, while, around us, the people in charge, the incident command team, pack up supplies, like first aid kits, water, maps.
I feel demoralized. Beaten down. Any hope I had of finding Reese before the search began has been reduced, and I imagine how, in the next few minutes, I’ll have to walk into the cottage and tell Elliott and the kids that Reese is still gone.
“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging. “Not great.”
Sam and Joanna exchange a look. It isn’t pity, but more like empathy because they’ve been where I am; they’ve been in my shoes. I don’t have to tell them how I’m doing because they know. Joanna looks back, the expression on her face mirroring mine. “I can’t think of anything worse than what you’re going through right now,” she says, and I feel thankful that she doesn’t try to fill me with empty promises or false hope, but that she instead asks for my phone, plugging her own number into my contacts, in case I need anything, in case I ever want to talk.
“We live on Found Lake Road,” Sam, beside her, says, his own voice gentle, subdued, and my eyes leave Joanna’s to go to him as he offers a small, sad smile, his own eyes reddening as I imagine, in his mind, that all day as he searched for Reese, he spent reliving the day Kylie disappeared. “It’s the only home you can see from the street, with a brown picket fence. Can’t miss it. You’re welcome anytime.”
Tears prick my eyes. “That’s kind of you, but I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“You wouldn’t be,” he says, gazing softly at Joanna, who stares back, reaching for his hand, giving him the same sad smile he just gave me. “When we were going through this, we didn’t have anyone. Lots of people were sympathetic, but no one really knows how it feels to lose a child until, God forbid, it happens. The least we can do,” he says, bringing his eyes back to mine, his moist so that I feel overwhelmed with gratitude for them, but also sad for their own grief, “is lend an ear.”
Detective Evans walks me to my car when we’re through. I don’t know what time it is or how long we’ve been out here, but long enough that above us, there are signs of darkening, sapphire and eggplant purple overtaking the once-azure sky.
“You were right,” I say to him as we walk.
“About what?”
