Mary Drake was her name—that's what people speculated after word leaked out to the public, at least. The same clothes Mary Drake went missing in clung to the skeletal remains I found. All that was left was for a proper facial reconstruction to be completed. I was willing to bet she perfectly matched the description of the first girl I saw clipped to the front of Cory's folder.
Though a whole week had passed since I discovered her bones buried in the woods, I couldn't forget it. I recalled my shaken voice when I made the call, the police tape blocking off the entryway into that part of the woods, and the police crowding the area as I sat in John's car, watching them walk back and forth.
According to John, Mary Drake was one of thirteen children who disappeared at random in 2016. How could I not have recognized her? How could I not have recognized them? The missing thirteen's case was among one of many that went down in New Jersey's history. She was the one who started it all when her parents reported her missing on March 3rd, 2016. The same exact date written in Cory's journal.
This was all a fucking mess. I could only imagine how her parents felt. To have a child reappear dead after three years was one of the worst nightmares I could think of. They must've been in shambles when they found out their little girl was snatched from the playground. Losing sight of a child for less than a minute was enough for them to vanish.
I remembered when the incident hit the news.
It was before John and I even thought about starting a family. Incidents like this were one of the many reasons I often strayed from the idea. It took eighteen years to raise a child until they grew up, and even then, they were still ours. I couldn't bear to know my child could be ripped away from me at any given moment.
My hand touched a part of a child's skeletal remains; I struggled to swallow that thought. I could only paint a picture of Mary smiling—enjoying her life—before it was taken away. Once a six-year-old girl, now a pile of bones. An uncomfortable pang centered my chest.
That night, when we finally arrived home, John bombarded me with questions. I couldn't figure out if they derived from anger or worry. His first set of questions was about my obvious lie. I wasn't just walking in the neighborhood. I was in a completely different town.
What was I doing out in the middle of the woods? How did I come across her remains? The questions went on and on. I simply told him I wanted to see my parents to clear my head, and I stumbled upon the skull as I was walking. Neither of those was a lie. Neither were they the entire truth. If anything, I was sure he knew damn well that wasn't true. He didn't argue, though.
"Angie, I'm talking to you. Are you listening?" Fingers snapped in front of my face.
"Huh?" I jerked out of my daze, my eyes zoning in on John. He stared at me in concern with a frown masking his face. His eyes then dropped to the pan on the stove, littered with eggs that were probably burning.
"Shit. Oh, yeah, yeah! I'm listening, yeah. Sorry. . ." I muttered.
He sighed, nudging me to the side. "I said for you to go sit. I'll finish making breakfast. You've been exhausting yourself all week. Stress isn't good for you or Rosemary, remember?"
"Ah yes, I know. Okay." I followed John's instructions and sat at the table in the dining room. He took my place at the stove, tossing the eggs around the pan. An aroma of coffee filled the air, bitter with a tinge of sweet, just how we liked it. I gripped the coffee cup on the dining table in my hand, sliding it towards me. My caffeine consumption had been put on a limit ever since the start of my pregnancy. I needed it more than ever at this moment, though.
John's head was filled with so many heads I couldn't help but wonder what they were. We hadn't spoken much about what happened since that evening. I had pushed through the nightmares that kept me awake. Several hours through the night, my eyes would pry open, getting lost in the darkness around the room. Shadows and make-believe shapes plagued me.
"John, can I ask you something?" I fiddled with my hands, staring at the side of his face.
"Sure, what is it?" he responded.
"Well,"—I looked down at my coffee—"did you know about the missing child?"
A noise that sounded like metal clattering against iron made me jump. My head shot up to find John's eyes on me. His face remained passive, almost like a bored expression. But I knew that was his thinking face. There was always a strange arch in his eyebrows whenever he thought hard about something.
He then asked, "What do you mean?"
"A few days ago—when you told me they found out who she was—you mentioned her name as if you knew her case well," I said.
He tucked his bottom lip in between his teeth, eyes shifting to the side. The contemplation was clear. Should I have left it alone? Was there a reason he didn't want to discuss it with me? I couldn't figure it out. The last time we talked about it, I received the same response.
"Why are you asking?" He proceeded to reach into the cupboard for two cups and two plates. He then laid them on the dining room table, one in front of me and the other across the table.
"I was thinking about it because you've never brought it up." I shrugged.
He turned his attention back to the frying pan and switched the stove off. "I did know about the case. But I wasn't on it. When Mary Drake went missing in 2016, Cory was put on the case. The other twelve children followed soon after. I'm surprised you didn't know that."
"I knew of the missing children. How could I forget all those missing flyers posted around West Greenbush when it happened? But I had no idea Cory was in charge of the case. He never brought it up all these years. He's only ever talked about other cases with me," I said.
"I guess he kept it to himself because this was the most important case of his career, but he never had the chance to solve it. It stressed him a lot. After all"—John paused, grabbing the frying pan off the stove—"the case was closed over a few months ago, at least until now. Chief is demanding it be reopened now that we have a major lead."
I nodded slowly. "Oh, I understand."
"Good. Now try not to stress yourself over it. Their case doesn't concern you. You've done enough by giving the family the peace they've been looking for. Just worry about trying to have a good day at work today." He walked over, planting a kiss on my cheek.
I nodded again and silently watched him prepare our plates. His attempts to make me feel better were much appreciated, but I still had questions. Lots of them.
* * *
Traffic went on for miles. And minutes turned into over an hour as I waited for it to move. My sweater obnoxiously clung to my body thanks to the heat irritating my skin. I could have turned the heater off, but freezing my ass off wasn't an option I wanted to take. October winds were harsher every year. It was a never-ending cycle I had to bear with.
"You have got to be kidding me. . ." I sighed and leaned forward over the steering wheel.
Cars were beeping their horns. Trucks were switching lanes. It was complete chaos. Something that could only be described as rush hour in New Jersey. After a few more minutes of trying to wait it out, I shook my head, deciding it wasn't worth it. Then, I separated from the madness at the next exit.
Narrow, scenic backroads replaced the large, clustered driving space. The annoyance eased some as fewer cars appeared in the distance. I hummed to myself to the tune of silence. I didn't know what it was about silence that gave me a rush of comfort, safety, and—a loud static interrupted my thoughts. I jumped slightly, my head whipping towards the radio.
"After three years, the remains of Mary Drake were found—!" a voice shouted.
"The leaves are changing colors, and it's starting to feel like autumn here—!" Another voice.
Suddenly a song was playing. I stared at the glow on the radio that turned on by itself. The station channels flipped back and forth.
"What the hell?" My eyebrows knitted together.
The radio continued to switch channels on its own. But it only bounced back and forth between three channels—the news and a song I was familiar with—"Where Butterflies Never Die" by Broken Iris. Was that even a song played on the radio? Not that I remembered. Normally, I'd laugh it off. Small malfunctions never bothered me. But the pace at which the channels switched was strange. And the specific channel choices were even creepier.
Chills danced along my skin.
My father grew up in a superstitious household, which he instilled ideas in my head from, so that didn't help my overthinking mind.
"Stupid radio. Go off!" I tapped my hand against the radio. Rather than shutting off, the channel switched again. This time, static blared through the speakers. The sound of the static noises increased, scratching against my eardrums. It was so loud, I could almost bleed.
A migraine began pounding into my head like a drill forcing its way through my skull. With all the background noise, I could barely keep my eyes on the road. Fear threatened to settle in my stomach. I hunched over, my mouth opening and closing, while puke crawled up my throat. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and swerved to the side of the road as safely as I could.
There was only my heavy breathing in the car. The static stopped. Un-fucking-believable.
Tony must've screwed something up when he was checking the engine in my car. That was the only logical explanation for why my radio started playing on its own. As much as I wanted to believe that, my engine had nothing to do with my radio. John and I had been taking our cars to Tony for years. I'd never had a problem with my radio before.
No, I wouldn't overthink this. I couldn't. One thing I knew for sure was that I didn't want to drive any more today, or step back in this car for that matter.