“Where does he go when he’s gone?”
She shrugs again. “I don’t ask and he doesn’t say.” She stops there. She frowns, clearing her throat, and I can see on her face and in her hesitation that there’s something more she wants to say.
“What is it?” I ask, searching her eyes.
She starts to tell me, but then she stops and shakes her head. “No. I shouldn’t.”
I feel a desperation mounting, a need to know. “You shouldn’t what?”
“I shouldn’t say it.”
“Say what? Please,” I beg, reaching out to touch her hand, “if you know something, tell me.”
She tilts her head to the side, says, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but your girl’s dead.”
I gasp, letting go of her hand like it’s hot lava, my hand rising to my mouth. “What?” I ask, breathless, shaking my head, pressure building in my chest. “What do you mean? How... how do you know?”
“Because this is what happens when girls go missing. They don’t come back.”
I don’t understand at first. It takes a minute for her words to sink in, for me to process what she’s saying. Ms. Dahl doesn’t actually know that something’s happened to Reese. It’s hypothetical. An overgeneralization.
“Why... why would you say something like that to me, if you don’t actually know, if you don’t have any proof that Reese is dead? She could be alive. For all you know, she could befine.”
“Because it’s best if you come to terms with that now, honey, so that you don’t end up like that other girl’s family, always looking, never done. I tried telling them that too, that their girl was dead. They didn’t want to hear it.”
I don’t know what to say, how to respond to that. Instead, I say nothing, watching as she turns to leave and then, after she’s gone, I stand on the deck, composing myself, trying to catch my breath, to convince myself that Ms. Dahl doesn’t know anything, that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, that Reese might still be fine.
I turn to go back inside. And that’s when I see the cooler on the deck beside Elliott’s rod and tackle box. It’s what Elliott would have carried his fish home in the other morning after being out on the lake. It sits there on the deck beside his shoes.
I eye the cooler from a distance. I glance at the cottage door, listening for voices, for signs of life, and then, slowly, I step closer to the cooler. I hunch down, reaching for and unfastening the cooler’s latches, wondering what a two-day-old fish cadaver looks and smells like, wondering if, after he bled the fish, Elliott cut off their heads or if I’ll open the cooler to find their glassy, lifeless eyes staring back at me.
I hold my breath. I press a hand to my nose to fight off the smell.
I lift the lid. I peer inside, inhaling a sharp breath of air.
The cooler is empty, the rigid plastic interior spotless.
The door suddenly swings open. “What are you doing out here?” Elliott asks, rising above me. I gasp in surprise.
It takes a second to respond, and I wonder if, in that second, Elliott picks up on the lie. “I... I was worried about the fish. I didn’t know how long they would stay good in the cooler. I thought about putting them in the fridge.”
I stand up. As I do, Elliott takes a look at my face and says, “That looks awful. Does it hurt?” I nod. “I still can’t believe he did that to you.” He reaches out to move my hair, to get a better look at it. “I got rid of them,” he says about the fish.
“I can see that. When?” I ask, my throat tightening, thoughts of Reese’s picture on his iPad returning to me just then, of thatday in the cottage and the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That feels like a lifetime ago.
“Yesterday when you were gone. I didn’t think anyone would eat them.”
I nod. He’s right. These days, we’re hardly eating anything at all. “What did you do with them?” Elliott gives me a quizzical look, lowering his hand to his side, and I say, “I only ask because I worry they might smell if you put them in the trash. They might attract bears.”
“There’s a Dumpster over by the lodge. I threw them in there.”
I nod, my eyes rising, searching for it.
Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t. How would I know?
Reese
Later that morning I step into the bathroom alone. I close the door, pressing the little push button to lock it, though it doesn’t stay locked, because everything about this cottage and this resort (aside from Daniel) is actually defective.
