He reaches out, runs a hand the length of my hair, and I feel my whole body stiffen. “I don’t want to fight with you,” he says. “We’re both under a lot of stress. Can we call a truce?” he asks, and I wish it was that simple, that easy. Still, I nod, telling him what he wants to hear. In the other bed, one of the girls makes a sound and we hold still, holding one another’s eye, waiting for her to go back to sleep again because it’s too early for anyone but us to be awake, to come face-to-face with reality.
“You must be exhausted if you didn’t sleep,” Elliott says. He breathes in, noticing the scent of something pungent in the air. “Do you smell that?” he asks, pulling a face because of it.
I nod, whispering, “It’s urine.”
“Urine?”
“Wyatt was sleepwalking again. He mistook the corner of the room for the bathroom.”
His forehead furrows, his eyebrows coming together. “What do you mean? That he peed in the room?”
I nod again, imagine the dry urine on the wall, seeping into the carpeting. Elliott sighs, dragging his hands through his hair. “It’s too early for this. I’m going to take a quick shower and see if I can’t find us some coffee.”
I nod. The mattress sinks when he moves into a sitting position, gravity pulling me to its center. He gets out of bed. He stretches and then moves quietly across the room, stepping over Wyatt. I hear the bathroom door partially close, not latching because of the way the door doesn’t properly latch. For a moment, it’s quiet as I imagine Elliott stepping out of his clothes before the water turns on, the sound of it changing as Elliott pulls that little pin that diverts the water from the bath to the showerhead.
I reach over to the nightstand for my phone, which is dead. I went to bed without charging it. I feel Elliott’s side of the bed for his phone, though it isn’t here. He must have taken it into the bathroom with him. I run my eyes across the room, seeing Elliott’s iPad poking out from a large pocket on the side of his bag, which lies just beside Wyatt’s feet.
It takes effort to push the sheet off myself, to stand. To get to the iPad, I’ll have to step over Wyatt, because the bag lies just on the other side of him and there’s not enough space in the small motel room for me to go around.
I creep slowly forward, praying the floor doesn’t squeak and that he can’t feel my presence.
Standing beside his makeshift bed, I watch Wyatt. He lies on his back now with his eyes closed, and I wonder if he’s asleep or if he’s just pretending to be. As I lift a foot up from the floor and go to step over him, all I can think about are Wyatt’s eyes flying open, him reaching out and grabbing me by the ankle, pulling me onto the ground with him.
But Wyatt doesn’t move. He continues to sleep as I step over him, setting my foot down on the other side, and reaching for the iPad, pulling it into my grasp.
I get back in bed, under the thin sheet. I start to search forpeople who kill, needing—desperate—to see some sort of studies or theories on why people kill and the types of people who do to reassure myself that no one in this room would do such a thing, but as I start to type,p-e, a list of previous search results come up, includingPearl Lake depth, which gives me pause.
My shoulders tighten, my hands all of a sudden clammy.
Pearl Lake is the name of the lake that the resort sits on.
Why would Elliott ever need to know its depth?
I go to the page Elliott searched. I skim. Pearl Lake is over 1,500 square acres in size with a maximum depth of forty-three feet, though the average is only nineteen. It goes on to say that there are steep drop-offs along the shore, making parts of it unsafe to swim. The clarity of the water, according to this article, is low, which means you wouldn’t easily be able to see things floating beneath the surface.
I throw a glance toward the bathroom door, which I can’t quite see from where I am.
I listen for the sound of the shower to go off.
I pull up the entirety of Elliott’s browsing history. It’s sorted by date and, at first glance, is not unusual, things like his email inbox, YouTube videos, Facebook and frequent checks of the weather. I look closer, examining them one at a time, seeing that just a couple days ago Elliott accessed aHelp Find Kylie Matthewspage on Facebook. He must have been curious. He must have wanted to know more about her and her case, other than what I told him the other day. I become curious too, scrolling through the most recent posts.
Four posts from the top is a post from none other than Elliott Gray. My heart stops. Because not only has Elliott been going onto theHelp Find Kylie Matthewspage, but he’s been posting on it. And not just any post, but a picture of Reese’s face.
My throat tightens. Time slows down. I feel dizzy, refusing to believe what I’m seeing.
His post reads:Is this her? It looks like the age progresed picture.
He’s spelled progressed wrong. But that’s not all. He’s suggesting that Reese is the missing Kylie Matthews. He’s also given the address of where to find her, of where she is—of where shewas—at the resort, in cottage number eight.
There are some similarities in their appearance, sure, but Reese isnotKylie Matthews, which Elliott knows. It’s ridiculousto think. Until recently, Reese had never stepped foot in this part of Wisconsin. Five years ago, when Kylie went missing, Reese was going into eighth grade. Cass and Mae were five at the time—about to start kindergarten—and, because of Emily’s frequent work travel, the four of us spent a lot of time together while Wyatt was off at various baseball camps. I remember it well. I teach preschool; I had the summer off. I took the three girls to the zoo, to the aquarium, shopping. Reese was sweeter then than she is now. She had a soft side, a way with Cass and Mae. They looked up to her. I remember Mae riding on Reese’s back for what felt like hours at the zoo that summer until my own back hurt from watching. She never complained. I have pictures of it.
Reese is not Kylie Matthews. It’s not even a question.
Why would Elliott suggest that she is?
The comments are practically decisive.
I definitely see the resemblance.
