The Lies That Bind

26: White Picket Fence

Shivering, Calla ripped open the plastic and clenched the flashdrive in her fist.

Another of the detective's loose ends. And now it was hers.

And what of my own loose ends? Calla thought, kneeling over the hole she'd made. Tracy. Michaels.

Astrid.

"I'm working on it," she said to the oak tree.

Unsurprisingly, it remained silent. Because it was a fucking tree.

Frowning, Calla stood, pushing away from the ice and the bitter earth. It did not take long to cover her tracks. Fill the hole, she recited to herself. Clean the trowel. Put it back where you found it. Take off those filthy jeans. Run the laundry. And for God's sake, Calla... 

Wash your hands.

She'd just started the washer when she retreated to her bedroom, flashdrive tucked in her pocket, right by the little seashell Stephanie had left behind as a token. The sound of the spin cycle filled the corners of her mother's house, driving away the silence as she closed the door and lingered there, staring at her empty bedroom.

Natalie would be back from lunch soon. 

That thought drove her over to the bed. She would have to make this quick. Just one quick peek, she told herself, grabbing her computer from the open sleeve of her backpack.

"Here goes nothing," she muttered, plugging the flashdrive into the computer's USB port. Almost immediately, a digital folder popped up on her screen. And in that folder, a single clip. Thirty-one seconds.

Calla opened the clip. A grainy black-and-white image materialized. Frame by frame, Calla watched the next thirty-one seconds unfold.

And she smiled.

# # #

Calla very nearly called Cooper right then and there to tell him what she'd discovered. But there were things that needed doing first. Farewells that needed to be said.

And so, some two hours later, Calla found herself hugging her mother goodbye. "You don't have to wait to come around for the holidays," Rosalind chided, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. "Promise me you'll come home more."

"I will," Calla promised, knowing she wouldn't. She memorized her mother's face. Committed it to memory. "Love you, Mom."

Rosalind tucked a stray hair behind Calla's ear. "Be safe."

Neither woman had ever been one for tears; her mother's eyes were dry as she waved to her daughter from the doorway. Calla wondered if, perhaps, Rosalind was as empty as she was.

Does it get easier? she wanted to ask, knowing she could not. Will I ever know what it feels like to be someone I'm not?

But Rosalind had only ever seemed like anyone else. Like everyone else. Perhaps it was Calla's father, then, whose brain had been broken. Like hers.

She only wished she had the time to go looking for those answers.

A ridiculous thought. Calla had other worries. Bigger problems. And so she dragged her suitcase down the road, crossing the short distance that separated her childhood home from Cooper's.

Amelia was already waiting for her at the front door. "Oh, I can't believe you two are already leaving," she complained, wrapping Calla in a surprisingly forceful hug.

"Mom." Cooper's voice floated in from the living room. "Please don't crush my girlfriend to death."

Amelia just rolled her eyes, elbowing Calla conspiratorially. "Girlfriend is his new favorite word," she whispered.