On one of her shelves there were several overturned picture frames, probably knocked over during the search, the usual carelessness from Loxahatchee’s finest. I turned them the right way around. One was a photo of Hazel and her friends at the beach. Another was an older image of Hazel and Tommy. Hazel was probably four years old, which would have made Tommy sixteen. They wore matching orange shirts emboldened with the McCullough Farm logo. Tommy was always the one who went with her to the stables. Will and I would do drop-offs, but Tommy actually liked to spend time with the horses too.
I felt the tears come again before I could stop them. I curled up on Hazel’s green rug, wrapping my arms around my knees as I sobbed. The little girl in that picture, the one who ate the middle of her cinnamon roll first, was missing. She was gone, and yet again, I was unable to help.
My phone rang loudly then, making me jump. Flannery’s picture filled the screen, showcasing her perfectly glossed lips and adorable mass of tight curls. I felt instant relief as I answered the call.
“You picked up. ThankGOD.” Flannery’s frantic voice rang out over the line.
“Hi, Flannery,” I said guiltily. I’d already missed one of her calls since I’d been here.
“I thought the Loxahatchee townspeople had stoned you to death,” she said, her panic decreasing. “I’ve been driving Marta insane with how much I’ve been calling. I think she might’ve finally blocked me.”
I stifled a laugh, relieved to hear her voice and her familiar sense of humor. “Sorry, Flan. It’s been crazy here. I haven’t had any time to myself. But no, there have been no public stonings so far.”
“What about tarring and featherings?”
“Not yet. But give it time; I’ve only been here for a few hours. A few very long hours.”
“So, no updates on Hazel?” Flannery pressed.
I sighed deeply. “No.”
There was silence on the other end of the line as she gathered her thoughts. “You’ll find her,” she said, desperation mingling with hopefulness.
“Yeah. I hope so,” I said, feeling defeated. It had been several hours since I’d left Manhattan, and so far we didn’t know anything more than when I’d left.
“Do you want me to come down there and help?” Flannery added. “You know I hate Florida, but I’d do it. For you.”
I shook my head, even though I knew she couldn’t see. “I appreciate it, but there’s no point. I’m not even sure thatmybeing here is helpful.”
Flannery sighed. “Is your family being a bunch of cunts?”
She knew how strained my relationship with my family was. She was also one of the few people who believed me implicitly about Will, even having never met him.
“It’s complicated,” I said, meaning it. “I just feel like the shittiest sister on earth.” I fought back the angry tears that were forming in the corners of my eye. “I don’t even know enough about Hazel to know where to look for her.”
“You are not a shitty sister, Rose. Look at what you’ve done for Will. You’ve devoted your entire life to proving his innocence.”
“Yeah, I’m a great sisterto Will.But to Hazel? I’m a deadbeat. I’m completely fucking useless.”
“Then learn more about her,” Flannery said firmly. “It’s not too late. Go through her room. Talk to her friends. Figure out who she is and what she was doing before she disappeared. You wrote an entire book piecing together what happened with Alex and Will. You can do the same here.”
I considered her words for a second, letting them slip over me. She was right. I did know how to investigate. I had spent years reflecting and digging up every lead I could on what had happened in 2010. Why couldn’t I do that now for Hazel?
“Will you call me back if there is anything I can do?” Flannery asked, puncturing my silence.
“Yeah, I will. Thanks, Flan.”
“No problem. Take care of yourself.”
I heard her hang up, but her words echoed through me.Figure out who she is and what she was doing.
I unlocked my phone and went straight to Instagram, ignoring the waiting DMs—my interview withTMHhad already amassed tons of notifications I did not care to read. Instead, I opened the search bar and typed in Hazel’s name.
Nothing came up.
Fuck.
Tommy or Dad wouldn’t have taken her page down, would they? Or the police? Could they do that? It didn’t ring a bell from any of the true crime shows I’d used for researching the book. Instagram hadn’t even been a thing the last time I had dealt with the police; we’d been in the Facebook era.
