Finding Our Reality (The Reality Duet #2)

Chapter 2

ELLA

It still looks the way it did when she disappeared.

Clothes still scattered on the floor. Crocs still laying underneath the desk chair.

This coming summer will be thirteen years. Thirteen years since I’ve heard my sister laugh. Thirteen years since she walked around this house, driving me crazy with her horrible singing voice. Thirteen years since we cuddled under a blanket and watched a movie together.

I sit on her bed. Drained. Exhausted. Depressed.

The past two days have been filled with meetings. The lawyers, the estate planner, the financial advisor. For now, I’m done with the immediate tasks. Probate will be filed next week. I have to wait until I get the paperwork showing me as the executor of the estate before I can proceed with anything else. I emailed all my business contacts and told them that I was settled in and ready to pick back up with work tomorrow. That’s the good thing about being self-employed, though. I can make my own hours, as long as the work gets done.

But today? Today, I focus on cleaning out Carrie’s room.

Holt moves in on Saturday. He’s using all of Carrie’s furniture, so I just need to box and store her personal items. And wash the bedding. Despite how much he loved Carrie, I don’t want him sleeping on thirteen-year-old sheets with his cousin’s DNA all over them. Especially considering, that cousin is most likely dead.

Dead.

Like everyone and everything else in my life.

My parents.

Harlan.

The woman I called Grandma for a few years.

My heart, my soul, my passion, my fervor.

My Reality.

And then there’s him . He’s not dead, but he might as well be.

I hate him. That commandment in his letter was easy to follow. The hate flows from me naturally. Like a freshwater spring, never stopping, never slowing down. He left me. Broken and shattered. And it only got worse. Exponentially worse. And I hate him more every single day. Why? Because I still think about him. And that makes me furious.

I tap my foot against the hard floor, hoping the repetition calms me, but it doesn’t. The longer I sit, the angrier I get, the more pissed off, until tears are streaming down my face, and my lips contort into a grimace. Unable to fight the need for destruction any longer, I stand up and scream. Louder than I’ve ever screamed in my entire life. I scream bloody murder. Reaching out, I sweep my hand across the top of Carrie’s dresser, sending everything shattering to the floor. Picture frames, a vase, her jewelry box, a stack of textbooks.

It’s loud. And messy.

I stand there, gulping air in and out of my lungs, trying to calm myself. Eventually, my tears dry in sticky streaks to my face and my breathing returns to normal. The destruction scattered across the floor makes me laugh. So, I stand there, amidst the shards of glass and crumpled necklaces, laughing like a damn lunatic.

Then, something catches my eye.

Her large jewelry box is turned upside down, and it looks like an envelope is attached to the bottom of it. It’s peeking out from underneath a broken piece of particle board. The wood is a different color, like this bottom to the jewelry box was added as an afterthought, with no one even taking the time to stain it the same cherry wood color as the rest of the box. Carefully navigating the landmine I created, I bend down and grab the box, holding it upside down. I give it a few hard shakes and more earrings and bracelets and necklaces tumble out. One of the drawers even pinches my finger. Sitting back on the bed, I snag my hand under the torn section and give it a quick pull. The paper-thin pressed wood falls apart easily, sending little pieces of sawdust everywhere. I run my fingers across the large envelope taped to the bottom—the actual bottom—of the jewelry box. Quickly, I pull my fingers away. Something in the back of my brain tells me this is important. That this isn’t just a note that was put here when Carrie was a little girl and this was her top-secret location for hiding the combination to her school locker or something.

Luckily, I know how to handle important things. It’s a business hazard.

Taking the jewelry box into the kitchen, I set it on the kitchen counter. I race around to the sink and knock over five-thousand bottles of cleaning supplies before I find the box of clear plastic gloves. Gloving up like I’m about to give a prostate exam, I carefully peel the tape away from the white envelope. I open a plastic baggie and shake the tape from my fingers.

Bile rises from my stomach, coating my throat and mouth. My lips are so dry they crack. What’s so important about this envelope that my sister felt the need to hide it away from the world? Hide it away from me, her best friend.

Secretly, I pray that it’s nothing more than a bad report card. Or a credit card bill for a maxed-out account that she didn’t want me to know about it.

But I also secretly hope that it’s more.

A question. An answer. A smoking gun. A clue. A remnant telling me what happened. Telling me where my sister went.

I take a deep breath and tug it open. I peek inside, making sure there isn’t anything that could hurt me. It looks like papers and an ink pen or marker. Carefully reaching down, I grab some papers and pull them out.

Correction: Pictures. Not papers.

The first picture slices through my heart with a chainsaw. And it only gets worse from there.

There’s a total of six pictures, and unfortunately, the background in these pictures is familiar to me. Why? Because I’ve seen it before. In the picture tucked snuggly away in my case file on Carrie.

It’s Trey’s mobile home.

Same couch. Same coffee table. Same tilted framed poster of a stoner movie on the wall.

There’s my sister, with her beautiful blonde hair, her beautiful blue eyes, and her timeless grace. She’s not high in this picture. She’s sober. She’s sitting on the couch by herself, perched on the edge, watching someone in the distance, not looking at the camera. It’s a candid. There’s no smile on her face. No joy in her eyes. She looks serious and impatient.

She looks like she’s jonesing for a fix.

The next two pictures show she got what she wanted.

She’s high as a damn kite. Her face is contorted in ecstasy and her fingers twitch in front of her, palms wide, knuckles bent at odd angles. She looks lazy and lopsided, like her body is a wet noodle. Trash is sitting by her in one of the pictures. His hand is on her thigh. I have to swallow back my vomit. I haven’t seen that repugnant shit’s face in so long, I was nearly lucky enough to forget what it looked like. The other picture shows her spread out across the couch, laughing. It also shows half of Trash’s body and half of someone else’s body, but I can’t make out the face.

Pictures four and five have me seriously concerned.

Seriously.

Carrie is passed out cold in both of them. In picture four, she’s sitting up on the couch pressed between a guy and a girl I don’t know. They are acting like bookends, keeping Carrie’s body upright. Her head lobs to the side, and her mouth is slightly ajar. The guy is holding Carrie’s hair back so you can see her face. The girl is smiling, like she’s posing for a school picture. Next to the girl is Trash. Picture five is the exact same set up, except a new guy has joined the picture. They’ve laid Carrie’s head straight back and, in that position, her mouth has opened wide in automatic reflex. The new guy is standing over her, behind the couch, making an obscene gesture with his hands. His hands are folded in front of his crotch, like he’s holding his penis, making it look like Carrie is giving him a blowjob. He looks somewhat familiar. Maybe I’ve seen him someplace before. In the far corner, you can see Trey, watching and laughing.

Picture six is what kills me.

Kills me.

Makes my heart stop beating.

In fact, I rub my palm against my breastbone, checking for a pain reflex the way paramedics do, praying the panic stays deep down in my body. I would be sobbing uncontrollably if I weren’t in such dire shock.

Picture six shows my unconscious sister being raped.

Her unconscious body is folded over the arm of the couch with her bare ass in the air, panties and shorts gathered around her ankles. Her face is smushed against the couch cushion and her hair is tangled across her eyes. One arm lies above her head, and the other arm dangles limply off the couch. A man is standing behind her, gripping her hips, pumping into her. This guy is different. Not one of the guys from the party.

How do I know? The clothes.

Well, what I can see of his clothes, that is.

He doesn’t have a shirt on. Because of the angle of the couch’s arm, he’s having to squat a little bit and bend forward across her back. All I see is skin. He either took his shirt off or lifted it up to his chest, out of the view of the camera. But he did keep clothes on his bottom half. Brown leather belt, khaki pants, black boxer briefs, and brown leather loafers.

This is a guy who doesn’t belong in Trey’s trailer. Dude is dressed like an investment banker. Like a school principal. Like an accountant. Like a lawyer. Like a store manager. He’s dressed like every single man I pass on the street every single day of my life.

And he’s raping my sister.

I pull the picture closer to my face, inspecting the man for details. There’s something on his upper left leg, on the side of his thigh. A scar? A birthmark? Whatever it is, it looks like the letter J.

I flip through all six pictures again, fingers trembling uncontrollably. They’re familiar in one other way too. The bottom corner shows the date and a series of letters. The exact same letters that are on the picture Ry gave me all those years ago. I mentally count out the weeks. That date is about six weeks before Carrie disappeared.

Carefully stacking the pictures to the side, I reach back into the envelope to grab the marker. Except it’s not a marker. It’s a pregnancy test.

I’m staring at a pregnancy test.

And the two dark pink lines tell me that whoever took this test was pregnant.

My missing sister—my dead sister—was pregnant.

I can’t even swallow. I feel like I’m going to collapse. Fighting that urge, I place the pictures and the pregnancy test back in the envelope and store them in a separate plastic baggie.

Then, I race back into Carrie’s room and rip everything apart, looking for more.

***

I open the door to the sheriff’s department and stalk across to the small reception window. They’ve remodeled since the last time I was here. Heck, they’ve probably remodeled a couple of times since I was last here. Don’t get me wrong, Marcum and I talk frequently, and I saw him every time I briefly came into town, but we stopped meeting at the station a long time ago. He’s… family. Not just for me, but for everyone—Uncle Ray, Aunt Teresa, Holt, Raylee, even Ridge, Cullen, and their parents. I don’t need to hide my love for him under the guise that he’s only an investigator working on my sister’s case. He’s so much more than that—him, Nancy, and even Nate, who’s not a toothless baby anymore.

A petite brunette greets me. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I need to speak with Detective Marcum, please. Tell him it’s Ella.”

She taps away on the computer. “I’m sorry. He’s out of the building right now. Is there something I can help you with?”

I knew I should’ve called. “That’s okay. I’ll try him on his cell.”

She smiles. “Most likely, he’ll be unable to answer. He’s conducting some interviews. Is your visit pertaining to a case?”

“Carrie Hill.” Shit. Why did I say that? I meant to keep that to myself. My nerves are just fried. I’m not thinking clearly. She’s young. She won’t even know who Carrie is.

She immediately starts typing on the computer again, and I try to politely interrupt her. “It’s okay, really. I’m friends with Detective Marcum. I’ll just leave him a voicemail to call—”

“The detective assigned to that case is in the building, though, if you would like to speak with him.”

I square my shoulders, hoisting my purse higher. “Pardon? Marcum is the detective assigned to the case. He’s primary. Detective Leary is secondary.”

She doesn’t notice the firm unease in my voice. “Looks like it was reassigned about two years ago.”

“Reassigned?”

“Yes. And that detective is available in the building. I’m showing he has an open block now, if you would like to speak with him?”

I nod, unable to formulate a verbal response.

Why? Why would Marcum not tell me this? How could he? How could he do this to me? To Carrie?

She buzzes me through the locked door, meeting me on the other side. She ushers me to the left, down the hall, and into one of the interview rooms—one of the nicer ones, not reserved for true suspects. I wish I were a suspect, because then, she would’ve taken me down the right hallway, and I would’ve passed the small office where Marcum, Leary, Colson, and Peele sit. I need to see what’s going on; I need to talk to them.

“I’ll let him know you’re here, miss. And what is your name?”

I squint my eyes, studying her and her small little body. I bet she was a gymnast in school. “I’m not ready to give that information yet.” I’m not giving any information at all until I find out what the hell is going on. I swear, if my sister’s case has been reassigned to some idiot, I’m gonna beat Marcum to a bloody pulp.

She nods and shuts the door.

I put my large purse on the table, checking it one last time for the baggies of evidence. The room has a wooden table with four chairs. There’s one small window above my head, just big enough to let in a little natural light. There’s a clock on the wall and a framed generic print of some woody landscape and waterfall. It’s meant to be calming.

It’s not doing its job.

I’m not very calm.

And every minute I have to wait for this guy gets worse. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.

Twenty-five minutes in and thousands of paces back and forth, I’m one split second away from tearing out of this room when the door opens. But it doesn’t open all the way. And I’m not greeted by a full human body. Instead, it opens just a smidge, and I’m greeted by one boot, one cargo pant leg, a file folder, and small sliver of a hand. He hangs his body out the door, talking with someone in the hallway. The voices are muffled, and I can’t make out what they’re saying.

How freakin’ rude can this guy be? I’ve made up my mind that I’m not telling him shit. And I’m not leaving this station until Marcum is back on the case. Spinning around, I refuse to face him when he walks through the door. He doesn’t have time for me? Well, fine, I don’t have time for him.

But then, everything changes.

The door opens all the way, and I hear him kick it closed with a boot. “Sorry to keep you waiting, ma’am. I’m told you’re wanting to speak with someone regarding the Caroline Hill missing person’s case?”

I don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.

True, his voice has more depth now. More tone. Aged like a fine wine. But I would still know it anywhere.

Because it’s the voice that refuses to leave my head. No matter how much I want it to. No matter how much I hate hearing it.

It’s the voice I hear when I touch myself, alone in my bed, late at night.

And I despise the fact that it still sends a chill down my spine.