Dragonfly Summer

J.H. Moncrieff

Dragonfly Summer

FLAME TREE PRESS

London & New York

*

For Darbi, always

*

On the day she died, the woman wrote a letter to a friend she hadn’t seen in over twenty years. She didn’t realize it was the last day of her life, but she could feel her death coming, hovering over her as if the Grim Reaper himself were breathing down her neck. If she’d known it was her last day on earth, she would have spent it with her husband. They would have eaten all her favorite things – spaghetti and sushi and chocolate cake – and come up with a suitable name for the baby at last, laughing until they cried at the ridiculous suggestions in the Name That Baby! book. They would have visited the petting zoo one last time, where she’d bury her face in the pony’s mane and hear its soft snort of greeting.

But since she didn’t know, she wrote a letter.

She’d thought a lot about what she should say to her friend, a friend who had become a stranger over the years. No matter what she said, no matter how nicely she worded it, the letter would still be a burden, an albatross of the past crushing the recipient to the ground. She understood this, and dreaded it, this thing she was about to do, but there was no alternative. It had to be done. Her friend had to know, had to understand all that had happened since that terrible night. In this case, ignorance wasn’t bliss – it was fatal.

The child in her womb kicked, demanding attention. Over the last few weeks, the flutters that had once made her smile had turned into a full-out assault that took her breath away. Her stomach growled in sympathy.

Hold on, baby. I’ll feed us in a minute. Mama’s got something she needs to do first.

She couldn’t keep her eyes on the paper, the multitude of blank lines waiting to be filled causing anxiety and guilt. Giving in to one last procrastination, she picked up a photo, intending to gaze at it for just a moment. Her teenage self grinned back at her, her arms wrapped around her two best friends, looking like she didn’t have a care in the world. Which should be the way of childhood, but sadly so seldom is.

One of the three girls challenged the camera, her chin tilted upward, eyes narrowed. It was this girl, now grown, that the woman addressed her letter to. This friend who had always been the serious one, the smartest of the three. She would figure out what to do. The woman regretted not getting a hold of her sooner, but steeled herself to do the right thing now.

Better late than not at all, she thought, wishing she believed it.

As she bent over the paper, her phone rang, startling her so the first mark she made was an ugly scrawl. She closed her eyes.

Take it easy. You don’t know who it is. It could just be—

She risked a peek.

UNKNOWN NUMBER.

The scariest words in the world, but on that day, she was tired of being scared, tired of being a victim.

She answered, hearing her caller’s hateful breathing. It was like a spider crawling inside her ear, but she refused to be intimidated any longer. Before they could speak, she screamed into the phone.

"You’d better leave me alone! I know who you are, do you understand? I KNOW WHO YOU ARE!"

Pressing the power button, she threw the phone across the room, where it landed with a muffled thud on the carpet. She buried her face in her arms and sobbed, startling the child inside her into stillness.

The tears didn’t last long. She had an opportunity to set things right, to do what she should have done years ago. After glancing once more at the girl in the old photo, the woman wrote her letter, hoping the recipient wouldn’t be too critical of her grammar or spelling. It was the message that was important, after all, not the delivery.

When she was finished, her hands were shaking so badly it took several tries to slip the letter inside an envelope. She put on her wool coat, unaware that the remaining minutes of her life were trickling away like water droplets down a drain.

She hadn’t left the house in days. It was much safer to stay inside, behind barred and bolted doors. But she was going to deliver that letter if it was the last thing she ever did.

And, as it turned out, it was.

Chapter One

Whoever said, You can’t go home again, had it wrong, Jo thought. You could, but you shouldn’t.

Not that Clear Springs had ever felt like home, not really. It had been a relief to escape to Manhattan right after graduation. Hell, her stint at the Associated Press, covering bloody battles overseas, had been peaceful compared to the war zone of her childhood.

And yet, all her resolve, all the vows and promises she’d made to stay away, to leave Clear Springs and never look back, had been shattered to pieces by the article burning a hole in her pocket.

Girl’s Disappearance Remains a Mystery

After two decades, parents refuse to give up hope

An evening vigil will be held tonight for Samantha Kennedy, who vanished twenty-seven years ago today. While Kennedy’s family believes their daughter will be found, police admit they still have no suspects.

Unfortunately, we have to suspect foul play, a police source said. From all accounts, Sam wasn’t the type of girl who would run away.

Kennedy, an honors student who had been accepted to Yale, went missing the night before her senior prom. If alive, she will celebrate her 45th birthday this year.

Although Doug Flaherty, her boyfriend at the time of her disappearance, was initially questioned, no charges were laid against him, and no other suspects have been named.

The article flanked a grainy photograph, a portrait taken in celebration of the impending graduation – the bouquet of red roses in the girl’s arms a dead giveaway. Blonde and stunning, she’d been the kind of pretty that would have inspired strong feelings in everyone she met: lust, envy, perhaps even obsession. Had she caught the attention of the wrong person? It had happened to those far less genetically gifted.

Though the name of the newspaper had been removed, Jo could tell from the poor quality of both the paper and the photo reproduction that it was the work of a rural press. No one-horse town would have been prepared to handle a girl like Kennedy. If she’d been born in New York or L.A., cities accustomed to exceptional beauty, she might have been okay, but some backwater burg? Not a chance. Poor thing hadn’t had a hope in hell.

After studying the teenager’s picture for a moment, Jo felt stirrings of remorse. Why was it always the most promising who died young? For she was sure this Samantha Kennedy was dead. What else would cause a girl with unlimited potential to disappear on the night before her prom? There was no other explanation.

No great mystery, then. What Jo didn’t understand was why the clipping had been left on her desk at the museum.

Her fellow reporters had teased her endlessly about crossing over to the ‘dark side’ of public relations. Was this clipping a ruse to lure her back to the world of investigative journalism? Or was there some link to the museum she was missing?

Examining the envelope, Jo searched for an accompanying letter, some scribbled note of explanation. Thinking there might be a message attached to the other side of the article, she flipped it over. Her breath caught in her throat.

Just two little words in red ink, but they were more than enough to make her remember who Sam Kennedy was:

Find Me

How could she have forgotten? Sure, it had been twenty-seven years, but how could she have ever forgotten Sam? It was something that should have been seared in her memory for all time – the day her best friend vanished.

Memories of Sam, of Jo’s own troubled past and the life she thought she’d left far behind, threatened to overwhelm her. With trembling hands, she fumbled for the Xanax she kept in her desk drawer. Damn it. Why did this have to happen now, when she was finally feeling somewhat stable? Her job at the museum was far from thrilling, but she’d been grateful for a bit of boredom. At least no one was shooting at her.

She remembered Syria clearly, could still hear the echoes of the screaming, smell the burnt flesh and singed hair, see the children who’d reached for her, begging for her to protect them. She’d tried to explain she was only a reporter who could barely save herself, let alone them, but they never understood. They just kept crying. Most nights, these children haunted her, and she woke up with tears dampening her pillow.

* * *

For the first time since she’d taken the job at the museum, Jo had resisted her workaholic tendencies and left the office on time, saying little to her coworkers. Once home, instead of heading straight to her kitchen, where she’d heat some soup and make a sandwich before settling on the couch for a relaxing night of Netflix, she forced herself to brave the dim, dusty realms of her apartment building’s storage unit.

She hadn’t ventured there since she’d moved in almost a decade before, and had often considered paying someone to clean it out. There wasn’t much – just a line of cobweb-covered boxes and an old bike, its tires sagging in despair – but the place gave her the creeps, with its one bare bulb swinging from a wire, casting strange shadows over the cinderblock walls. Her belongings were kept in a cage, like death-row prisoners.

Even though it had been years since she’d braved the unit, she knew exactly where the box was. Lurking in the far corner, it was scrawled with the word Home. Handling it gingerly, as if it might contain explosives, Jo carried the entire thing upstairs, away from the creepy basement. Whoever had sent her the clipping must have something to do with the Three Musketeers of Clear Springs High – Amanda, Jo…and Sam.

Jo hadn’t thought about Amanda Hutchingson since high school. Later that evening, when she googled her, she was relieved to find Amanda’s parents were still listed.

Nothing changed in Clear Springs. A young woman might vanish, but life carried on, same as before.

She punched in the number before she could change her mind.

Amanda’s mother answered the phone, her voice bringing more memories flooding back. Gail had been an English teacher, the English teacher, possibly the best teacher who’d ever lived. It was Mrs. Hutchingson who’d encouraged Jo’s love affair with books. Gail even sounded like an English teacher, her enunciation lending crispness to every syllable. She didn’t say Heh or What? when she answered the phone, like so many in Clear Springs. Instead she said, Hutchingson residence, Gail speaking, in a manner that made you feel like you were speaking to someone important.

Hello, Mrs. Hutchingson. This is Jo…Jo Carter. She was surprised to hear the quaver in her voice. The article had gotten to her more than she’d thought.

Josephine? My goodness, it has been a long time. How have you been?

Fine, thank you.

Are you still in the Big Apple?

Yes, still here.

Writing, I hope?

Yes, I’m a journalist. She wasn’t sure why she’d lied, but for some reason she wasn’t ready to admit she’d left the newspaper world behind for public relations. She was afraid Gail wouldn’t understand, or that, worst of all, she wouldn’t approve. Maybe it was silly, but Jo wanted to make her old teacher proud.

Wonderful. I’m thrilled to hear you’ve kept up with your writing. You always did have an aptitude for it.

Thanks. Sorry to bother you out of the blue, but I need to talk to Amanda. Is she still living in town?

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. For a moment Jo thought the connection had been broken, but then Gail spoke.

You haven’t heard.

She had an urge to hang up, to not hear the woman’s next words.

I’m sorry to be the one to break the bad news, but Amanda’s dead. She was killed two weeks ago, in a car accident. She…she was seven months pregnant.

Jo felt like she’d been punched in the gut. Knees buckling, she sank onto her couch. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.

Gail’s voice cracked and Jo winced in sympathy. I guess that explains why we didn’t hear from you. I assumed your father would have told you, since he was at the funeral.

That monster? At Amanda’s funeral? What on earth would have possessed him?

We don’t exactly keep in touch. It took every bit of energy she had to keep her tone neutral. Not keeping in touch was the understatement of the year. If she ever saw her father again, it would be in hell.

Well, now you know. It’s too bad you didn’t call earlier. Amanda would have been tickled to hear from you. She always spoke fondly of you.

Amanda had talked about her? She was overwhelmed with guilt. Jo hadn’t thought of her old friend in years, and now she was dead. Poor Gail had lost both her daughter and her grandchild in one terrible tragedy.

She struggled to picture what Amanda had looked like – really looked like – not in a photograph, but in real life. Tried to remember the sound of her laugh. The best she could come up with was a vague impression of a pretty girl with vivid green eyes.

What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I remember?

I’m so sorry. The apology was as much to Amanda as her mother. Her friend deserved to be remembered, at the very least.

As much as we’re struggling, Doug is worse. He’s devastated. I’m afraid he’ll never get over this. It’s one thing to lose your wife, but to lose your child at the same time….

Doug. As soon as Jo heard his name, images inundated her brain.

Doug, broad-shouldered and intimidating in his football uniform. He’d lifted Sam in the air as if she’d weighed no more than a penny, spinning her around while they kissed. Amanda had married Doug? Sam’s old boyfriend and, according to the newspaper clipping, the main suspect in her disappearance?

Jo leaned back against her couch, fighting to control her breathing. Her pulse was pounding so hard she could barely think, as if her heart would burst from her chest.

Doug had been romantically linked to two of her friends, and both had come to an unfortunate end. Of course, Sam had disappeared twenty-seven years ago. Doug could be forgiven for moving on with his life…maybe.

Hello? Josephine, are you still there?

She was startled back to the present. Gail didn’t sound like she blamed her son-in-law for what had happened to Amanda, and how could he be blamed for a car accident? Sorry, I guess I’m just surprised. I didn’t know they got married.

Oh, I’m sure you remember they always had feelings for each other. During that awful time after Samantha disappeared, they leaned on each other quite a bit. It was only natural they’d fall in love.

As if her words were magic, Jo did remember, but it was memories of Doug and Sam that filled her mind. Doug and Sam walking together, their bodies so close not a single strand of sunlight squeezed between them, their hands in each other’s back pockets. The way Doug had idolized Sam, as if she’d been a goddess instead of a mere mortal like the rest of them. How he’d disrupted the search for her by falling to his knees and screaming….

The rawness of Doug’s pain made her hands tremble.

It had always been Doug and Sam, never Doug and Amanda. Gail had to have been mistaken. Maybe Amanda had had some puppy love crush on him – hell, probably most of the girls had – but that didn’t mean her feelings had been returned.

I guess so. She couldn’t imagine falling for Doug, no matter how much they ‘leaned on’ each other. The guy was tainted by suspicion, and always would be.

You should give him a call. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you too.

I’ll think about it, Jo said, knowing she’d do nothing of the kind. I apologize, but I should go. I’m really sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry to have bothered you.

It was no bother at all. I hope to see you here soon. I can take you to the grave so you could pay your respects.

Jo couldn’t think of anything she wanted to do less.

Chapter Two

It was evening by the time Jo arrived at the hotel. Her contact lenses felt like they were filled with sand, her eyes as bloodshot as a drunk’s on a three-day bender. Her legs turned to molasses when she climbed out of the rental car, both knees popping like gunshots in the eerily quiet night. When she’d stretched enough to feel human again, she trudged toward the front door of the Clear Springs Hotel.

The reception desk was empty except for one of those ring-for-service bells. She hated those things, dreaded the way they made people glare at her accusingly, as if she were too self-important to wait until the clerk returned from lunch, or from wherever the hell clerks went when they weren’t at the counter.

For a brief moment, she was tempted to leave. Run back to her car, and fly to New York, never thinking of any of this again. But she’d already come too far.

Sam. Someone had to find out what had happened to her.

Jo rang the bell, cringing at the sharp peal that echoed through the lobby. There were some shuffling sounds from the back room, and within a minute or two a heavyset woman made an appearance.

Sorry ’bout that, the woman muttered. I didn’t hear you come in. I was in back, watching a show. She looked offended by Jo’s presence, as if a customer were nothing but an inconvenience.

No worries. I’d like a single, please.

Sure, no problem. We have lots of vacancies, the clerk said. How long are you staying?

That was a difficult question, but Jo had already decided how to answer. The flight over had given her plenty of time to think. I’ll play that by ear. Please book it for a week for now.

Name?

Josephine Carter.

The woman jumped as if she’d burned her fingertips on the keyboard. Jo?

Jo rubbed her forehead in an attempt to discourage what was promising to be a brutal headache. Yes?

We already have a room for you. It’s been reserved for weeks. Your travel agent paid in advance. She snatched the key from where it hung on the wall. The Clear Springs Hotel had to be one of the last places on earth that used real keys instead of pass cards. This is pretty weird for us. We’ve never had someone pay for a room they weren’t using before.

Startled, Jo started to say she didn’t have a travel agent, but decided against it. Word would get around fast enough that she was back in town. No reason to make it spread any quicker. My schedule’s unpredictable. She felt a growing unease about the reserved room. What if someone were already there, waiting for her? What if they’d left something for her? Jo forced the unsettling thought from her mind. Is there anything special about the room?

Special?

It’s just…if you haven’t gone to too much trouble to make that one up, I’d prefer another.

It’s like any other in the hotel. We’ve kept it available, that’s all. The woman frowned, her brow furrowing. She was likely anticipating how her friends would react to the story of the demanding customer.

Then I’d prefer another room.

But—

Is there another room free?

Yes, but—

Then I’d like that one, Jo said in her no-nonsense journalist’s voice. It worked. The woman scowled, but she retrieved another set of keys from a hook. And I’d appreciate it if you kept my stay here confidential. If anyone calls for me, I’d prefer it if you say no one by that name is staying here.

The clerk’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. Are you in some kind of trouble?

Jo was taken aback by the personal question. After enjoying years of relative anonymity in New York, she’d forgotten how comfortable people were about prying into your business in Clear Springs. No, I’m here to relax, so I’d prefer not to be bothered. It sounded unbearably