You Will Remember Me

In my experience, people always had a couple of ghosts in their past, skeletons in closets best nailed shut

The most direct route to Jack’s place took me past Patti’s, and I stopped the car outside regardless, craning my neck. All the tables were taken, and while the line of weather-braving, hungry brunchers huddled under the ruby awning was only two rows deep, there was no sign of Jack, or the truck, anywhere.

I set off again, turned left on Marina Road to his apartment. Fat raindrops splattered against my windshield, making me go slower despite my impulses ordering me to put my foot down. Judging by the empty streets, most of the town’s few thousand souls had decided to wait out the storm in the comfort of their homes. That was Brookmount; sensible and quiet. Even at the height of summer, most tourists wouldn’t venture down this way, preferring the fun-filled attractions Ocean City had to offer. The mentality suited Jack and me fine. We’d found our separate ways here because we’d needed a change and had tacitly agreed not to push each other for too many details. In my experience, people always had a couple of ghosts in their past, skeletons in closets best nailed shut.

I focused on the road, slowed down some more when I passed what had now officially become Jack’s prior workplace. Maybe he hadn’t been able to finish the job last night after all and had returned this morning, but my theory didn’t add up. First, he’d have called me, or picked up their phone. Second, his truck wasn’t parked in the front or at the back. Third, all the lights were off, and — although I didn’t need a fourth — the red-and-white Open sign had been turned to Closed.

The fearful, panicking voice in my head, the one I’d attempted yet failed to silence, whispered he’d gone to the beach last night. For a swim. I pushed the thought away, trying to shut it up, but it ignored my efforts, bounding around my mind like a bunny on speed. “He’s fine,” I said out loud, startling myself. The words did nothing to placate my trembling fingers, or stop the hairs on the back of my neck from standing sentry and send freezing shivers down my spine.

A few minutes later I arrived at Jack’s place, the last house on Bay Court, where he rented the apartment above a double garage. Sam owned the house on the other side of the large driveway and was a veteran pharmaceuticals sales rep, often gone weeks at a time. The testament to his successful career — a bright yellow Porsche — was the only vehicle parked outside. I got out of my pathetic excuse for a car, held my jacket over my head in a pointless attempt to avoid the steady downpour, and sprinted up the wooden steps to Jack’s front door where I rattled the handle. Locked. I banged on the glass.

“Jack? Are you home?”

I knocked another few times, waited a while for a reply in case he was in the shower. I so desperately wanted to hear him in the hallway, imagined him with sopping wet hair, a towel wrapped around his trim waist, and muttering something like, “All right, all right, mate, keep your hair on.” He’d open the door and I’d fling my arms around him, then take a step back, put my hands on my hips and ask if he had any idea how worried I’d been. The imminent feeling of relief made me hold my breath, but when there was still no answer, I had to let it go.

Forced to concede Jack being in his apartment when the truck wasn’t there made no sense, I nonetheless invented stories. Maybe Sam had borrowed it. Unlikely, considering Jack had both sets of keys. Perhaps the Ford had broken down and Jack had gotten a ride home, or he’d parked the truck down the street for some reason, and I’d missed it when I’d driven by. Whatever the case, in all these scenarios Jack was inside either taking a shower, or fast asleep. I knocked again, cupping my hands against the frosted glass, peering inside, and calling out Jack’s name, but the place remained dark and silent.

I thundered down the stairs and ran to Sam’s oversize front door where I pressed my finger on the buzzer. I didn’t let go until Sam stood in front of me dressed in red-and-blue striped pajamas, his thick white hair sticking up like fuzzy antlers above his temples.

“Hey, Lily,” he said as he rubbed his eyes, his yawn turning into a smile. Sam was always happy to see me. He’d once told me I reminded him of his daughter who’d moved to Los Angeles a few years ago. When I’d mentioned my parents lived there now, too, he’d declared it a sign and given me a bear hug. His fatherly affection was welcome, and more than I’d received from my mom and dad in years, ever since they’d banished me out of their lives and onto their pretentious look-at-our-perfect-family-just-don’t-ask-about-Lily Christmas card list.

Sam ushered me inside. I wasn’t sure how he did it, but although his house was large enough to fit an entire family, complete with kids, pets, and a few sets of football gear, it was always cozy and inviting. Somehow the air smelled of freshly baked muffins despite Sam’s self-described inability to boil an egg. He grabbed a towel from the powder room and draped it over my shoulders, making me notice for the first time how cold and shaky I felt.

“Did I wake you?” I said, my teeth clattering an indecipherable symphony as I clutched the towel, bringing it closer to my chin.

Sam waved a hand and grunted. “Freaking storm kept me up half the night, so I slept in. I had no idea how late it was and…” He looked at me, rubbed the stubble on his fleshy cheeks with an equally meaty hand, as a puzzled expression crossed his face. “What’s going on?”

“Have you seen Jack?”

“I assumed he was at your place.”

“No, and he’s not answering his phone.”

The look on Sam’s face changed from half-asleep to fully alert in a split second. “That’s not like him. That’s not like him at all.”

His confirmation made the panic billow and mushroom inside me. Fear traveled up my throat, thick as molasses, threatening to suffocate me in the hallway, turning my next words into a strained whisper. “I can’t get ahold of him. We haven’t spoken since last night when — ”

“I’m sure he’s fine — ”

“He went swimming, Sam. At the beach.”

“We’ll take my car.”

I didn’t argue, didn’t think I’d be able to get my hands and legs to cooperate well enough to drive. Sam grabbed his sneakers, threw on a jacket, and we were on our way to Gondola Point, the secluded beach where Jack preferred to swim any day the weather would allow. It was a ten-minute drive. Sam made it in seven.

“There!” I yelled as we turned the last corner, pointing to the truck at the far end, but the relief was swiftly replaced by more rising anxiety when we got closer and I saw the vehicle was empty. Before Sam came to a full stop I jumped out, ran over, and tried the handle, but the truck was locked. Undeterred, I searched underneath the front bumper, found the set of keys which Jack often hid there, something I made fun of him for because it was the most obvious place a thief would look. Except now I didn’t think it was funny. It wasn’t funny at all. I unlocked the truck, reached under the driver’s seat, and, when my fingers closed over Jack’s wallet and phone, let out a whimper. Sam stood next to me now, and when I turned around and he saw me clasping Jack’s things, the fear I knew he’d worked hard to hide was splashed all across his face.

“Where’s Jack?” I shouted, my voice carried away by the wind. “Where is he?”

Sam put his hands on my shoulders. One look and I knew what he was going to say. I wanted to press both of my hands over his mouth, forcing his words to stay inside. Once he said them, they’d be out there. They’d make this nightmare real.

“No,” I said, trying to back away so I wouldn’t hear, but Sam held firm.

“Lily, honey,” he said, his voice gentle. “We have to call the cops.”

Excerpted from You Will Remember Me by Hannah Mary McKinnon, out 25 May, 2021.

Copyright © 2021 by Hannah McKinnon.

Published by MIRA Books