Fifty Feet Down

For Mom and Dad,

Vermont will always be home, because that’s where you are

Chapter One

I HAVE NO CHOICE but to actually leave the apartment today, because the peeling green wallpaper I’ve been staring at isn’t hiding the secrets I need to discover about this new town. Today is a day for exploring, for digging. Not that there’s an overwhelming amount of exploring to do, but, well, it’s better than unpacking for the third day in a row.

It’s easy to forget in the mid-morning haze that I no longer live alone, and my toes snag on the cramped kitchen table as I maneuver around the space. Of all the recent changes in my life, the one that breaks me might just be this half-broken espresso machine. I’m trying to figure out which button to press, desperate to fill my empty coffee mug.

I slide the cup away from me, leaning forward until my forehead presses against the cool counter, exhaling in frustration. Everything seems to be a million times harder lately, taking more effort and energy than I have left in my reserves. My eyes blink up, gazing at the rustic red mug I’d brought with me when I moved. It has a black outline of the Brooklyn bridge, and I reach a delicate finger out, tracing it. Even with the pad of my finger pressed right up against the ceramic, everything feels too far away to handle.

As I stand up again to wrestle with the grinder, the door on the other side of the living room creaks open. Reyna steps out, rubbing her eyes, the long black hair that nears her belly button a complete mess. I can’t see past her fingers, but I think she might be glaring at me.

Still waging war against the coffee maker? she grumbles, pulling a green mug from the cupboard.

I deliberately don’t look away from the coffee grounds I’ve spilt over the slab of marble beneath me. Yep. Still losing, too.

"Your ability to turn every inch of this apartment into your own personal enemy is baffling to me. I finally woke up after you rammed into the couch for the third time."

It’s eleven in the morning on a Tuesday, I refuse to feel bad about that. Besides, I needed you out here so you could make my coffee for me out of pity.

You better learn quick. She pushes past me, and I step out of the way, knowing she’ll make her cappuccino well before I figure out which button to press. Here in Vermont, we actually have to make our own coffee. There’s not a Starbucks on every corner.

I resist the urge to point out that there’s not a Starbucks on any corner. Or anywhere, for that matter. Who says I go to Starbucks?

She looks over her shoulder, a flicker of humor in her brow. We don’t have a Dunkin Donuts, either.

Glancing at the ceiling, I push further away, resigning myself to one of the granola bars I have tucked under my bed. I open my mouth to ask something else, to try to break the ice of a new living situation, but my phone blares out from where I tossed it on the couch. Taking the out, I rush over to it, smiling tightly as I retreat back into my room. I glance at the screen, only remembering that I haven’t put on my glasses when the name flashing at me is blurry and illegible. I don’t bother looking for my glasses just yet, because there’s only one person that ever calls me, so I press the green accept button anyway.

Alex! a bright voice chimes through the speaker, confirming my suspicions. Elise, my sort of boss but mostly friend, has probably been at our office for hours, waiting until an appropriate time to call. I’d warned her that if I had to actually work on this expedition, or whatever she wants to call it, I would at least get to sleep in on some days. She decided that was a fair tradeoff.

I pull aside the curtains I managed to get up yesterday after several failed attempts, peering out the window. The street below is mostly deserted, since it’s mid-morning on a workday in a town with a population of less than two thousand residents. I bet if I looked outside at the busiest part of the day, though, I’d still see nobody.

Good morning, I mumble, collapsing back onto my bed. At least I’d been able to find a decent mattress for my shitty apartment.

"Is it good?" she asks hopefully.

It’s decent, I cave in, because I hate the guilt seeping into her voice. It wasn’t her fault that I’d already used up too much time off this year, that I couldn’t afford my own personal investigation.

Elise and I work together for a small, but not tiny, online newspaper in New York City. She’s not my boss boss, but she’s technically my higher up, and she somehow convinced my actual boss, Tom (the one good thing about this is getting away from that asshole), to let her be the one to check up on me and take reports.

There’s a small creak from her side of the line, and I can imagine her leaning back in her old desk chair, propping a foot up on our shared trash can. How are you getting settled?

I look around my tiny space, feeling like I’m in a dorm room for the first time in nearly five years. I hadn’t expected much more than a dingy, shared apartment, but it’s still sort of a letdown to realize I won’t get to sleep in my actual bed for at least a few more weeks. Or months.

Oh, God, what if it’s months? There’s too much to do, too much to find out, too much-

It could be worse, I finally say.

She sighs, the sound crackling through the speaker. I know. This is always the problem with out of state projects, we have to find the cheapest lodging possible. You’re lucky you’re not in a hotel.

A hotel would be nicer, probably.

The unspoken words echo between us. You’re lucky you found a way for us to pay for it. But she can’t say that out loud, not in the office. Instead, she says, There are no hotels in the actual confines of West Rutland. I’m pretty sure you have to live there to put on a convincing investigation.

"Oh, God, please don’t call it an investigation. I’m not a freaking cop, what if someone hears you?"

Visualizing Elise’s grin through her voice, she says, Sorry, I just had to get you smiling. You’ve been pouting ever since you found out you had to actually move.

It’s not moving, I point out. "I’m being temporarily dislodged." What had initially been a plan to go on vacation, to look for my own answers, had been converted into so much more for the sole sake of money, and not losing my job.

Is the town at least nice? What is it... she trails off, rustling as she looks through her notes, West Rutland? That’s totally a town where a bad director would set a shitty movie, don’t you think?

"I feel like I’m in a shitty movie, I mumble. And I don’t know, I’ve barely left my place other than to go to the Walmart in the city next to us. Did you know that the Walmart in Rutland- not to be confused with West Rutland, I guess they’re two completely different places- is the lowest performing Walmart in the country? Someone sitting half passed out on the ground outside the store told me that."

Elise laughs incredulously. "Wait, so they just named an entirely separate town, outside of Rutland, West Rutland?"

There’s also a Rutland Town, if you’re interested. I guess people in Vermont aren’t super creative.

Guess not, she hums. I sense the mood shift before she speaks. Hey, um, what did you tell Rachel?

I freeze in my tracks, fingers and breath going still. I didn’t tell Rachel jack shit.

Elise clears her throat, recognizing her misstep at the same time as she realizes she can’t go backward. Oh. Well, I just figured-

Well, stop it. And if she asks, you can tell her to fuck right off.

A sigh. Alex-

I hold up a finger, even though she can’t see me. "Or, better yet, if she stops by the office, tell her I ran off to Vermont of my very own volition, just to get away from her. I pause. No, actually, don’t. She doesn’t need the ego boost."

I don’t think she’s feeling at all egotistical at the moment-

Good, I spit, even as I sink further into my bed, memories plaguing me from only months ago. Questions and no answers. If she tries to call you, don’t answer.

After a moment, Elise sighs and obediently changes the subject. Okay, well, what about... him?

Him. That’s almost worse. I’m working up to it.

You’ve been working up to it for several months.

And I think that’s understandable, given the circumstances.

Elise doesn’t press the subject. She remembers quite well when I showed up at the door of her apartment, my father’s will in hand, tears streaming down my cheeks. Are you going out today?

Yeah, I say, pulling on my shoes and nearly dropping my phone in the process. "I was just about to go find someplace to get lunch, see if I can’t talk to a few of the locals. There’s not that many bars, though, which sort of puts a wrench in my plan of ‘sit next to random people while they drink and get them to talk.’"

I’m sure you’ll figure something out, Elise teases, and I roll my eyes at the sheer unhelpfulness of it all. In the meantime, while you go prancing around a small town in the suburbs-

I don’t think Vermont has suburbs.

-I have my own work to do. Call me with an update sometime soon, work related or otherwise. The word otherwise has too much meaning behind it, and I flinch.

Don’t expect much, I choke out, but she’s already hung up.

Huffing, I gather everything I might need to explore for at least a couple hours. Slinging my bag across my shoulder, I double and triple check that it has my notebook, wallet, and at least three pens in case I lose one, or it runs out of ink. After a moment, I open my wallet to make sure I have cash. Will most places here be cash only because they’re small businesses? I don’t really know how it works. I’ve gotten way too used to using Apple Pay.

I grew up in New York City, in the Bronx before moving to Brooklyn, and remained there even in the recent loss of my parents. It felt wrong to leave, even though I was never particularly close to either of them. That’s the trouble with growing up in the city; it moves so fast paced, so... merciless. Jobs take up every ounce of your time because everything is so competitive. I’ve never minded, given that I’m single and I work with my best friend, but if you have a family... I don’t know, it’s easy to get distracted.

And in no time, you continue to get distracted, every day, until time runs out.

Even so, the city was all I ever knew. No vacations, no business trips, no field trips. Crossing the state line between upstate New York and Vermont was officially the first time I left the state. But when I crossed it, I felt... absolutely nothing. Maybe because the one person who meant most to me is now dead to me, and the other two are actually dead.

I glance warily out the window once more, where I can see my neighbor two houses down come outside to check the mail. Who would have thought I’d be nervous to go out and meet a bunch of strangers from redneck Vermont?

Despite the fact that it’s mid-June, I grab a flannel in case I stay out into the evening. I wrap it tightly around my waist, covering the inch of skin exposed between my short sleeve button down and black shorts. I hesitate at the door to my bedroom, fingers lingering over the rusty doorknob.

Moving into a new apartment is always so weird, especially since Reyna has already lived here for several years. I know she’s always had a roommate, and I’m just replacing someone else, but I still feel like I’m intruding on her home.

This place certainly doesn’t feel like mine.

Mentally smacking myself, I wrench open the door to find Reyna sitting at the tiny table squeezed into the kitchen. Her bedroom is across the way from mine, and in between is a single room that functions as both kitchen and living room. The stove and fridge are pushed against the back window, the TV stand so close to my door that I can’t open it all the way. The first couple days, I tripped over the leg when bolting from my room, but today I cautiously veer past it.

I’m heading out, I say as I pass Reyna.

She only grunts, hunched over her laptop and clearly immersed in work as she eats a bowl of cereal.

After a moment’s delay, I plunge forward. I’m going to grab an early lunch. Any recommendations? I don’t bother asking her to join me because one, she’s eating literally right now, and two, I don’t really have the desire to spend any more time with her than necessary.

When she doesn’t respond immediately, I move to leave, but then she mutters over the bowl, You should go to Suzie's.

I turn back, seeing that she still hasn’t bothered to look up. Suzie's?

She nods, swallowing a spoonful of oats. Suzie's Place, it’s just down the road. Not a bad diner to go for some decent hash browns.

I don’t mention that basically everything in this town is just down the road, considering it’s made up of one road, and instead murmur a simple, Thanks, before swinging the door open.

We live on the second floor of an apartment complex just off the main street in town, and the metal stairs clang and creak as I descend them carefully. The building looks so old, I don’t really trust them to hold my weight yet, and I breathe a sigh of relief when my sneakers make contact with the sidewalk below. I look around to gain my bearings. The whole place smells of pine and maple, smoke drifting over the trees from one of the nearby factories. There are a few places that look like stores or restaurants, and I march forward, hoping I’m heading in the direction of Suzie's Place.

Wrapping the top part of my short, auburn hair into a tight knot, I take in the quiet of the neighborhood, the closed front doors and windows. There’s nothing protecting me from standing out, no big crowd to hide in, no tall buildings to duck into. I walk on, fiddling with the bottom button of my shirt, searching for something to do with my hands in this foreign place. They fall to my side when I see the large, wooden sign reading Suzie's Place in large, blue block letters. It’s weather worn, the paint peeling so much that the letter S in Suzie is nearly illegible.

A little bell rings when I push the creaking door open, revealing a clearly old, half-filled restaurant. Not old as in gross, but old in style, and the whole place is shrouded in the scent of maple syrup. A woman in an apron and about four different kinds of denim, maybe in her mid-thirties, leans against the counter, chatting to an older woman who’s eating a large stack of pancakes. Glancing between the completely full booths and the counter, I slide onto a stool two seats away from them.

The server notices me, holding up a finger to the other customer and coming over to me. Well, you certainly look new. Driving through?

Hm. They probably get those a lot. West Rutland doesn’t exactly seem like the place people move to voluntarily, not unless they have some sort of link to it. Too small, too obscure. A smudge on the map nestled between Rutland and Castleton Corners that no one notices unless it’s pointed out. Um, no. Just moved here.

Her face brightens up, and to my surprise, the customer the waitress had been talking to slides her stuff over, moving so she’s sitting next to me. You hear that, Lucia? She just moved here. The waitress turns back to me. It’s not every day new folk move here. It’s always a little bit exciting.

I’m Lucia, the woman next to me says, extending her hand. She peers down at me from a pair of thin glasses, eyes blank and so skeptical that I recoil. Hesitantly I take it, looking at her clothes to see it’s covered with... is it paint? But there’s no colors, it’s all white and gray. That’s Joanna, she owns this place.

I’m Alex. I turn to Joanna. If you’re Joanna, who’s Suzie?

Joanna smiles widely. Call me Jo. Suzie was my grandmother. She and my grandpa opened this place up when they were young, and we’ve managed to keep it running.

It’s popular, Lucia says, taking another bite of her pancakes. Businesses with sentimental value tend to be that way.

Ah, Lucia, Jo teases. Are you saying I hold sentimental value to you?

I’m saying your food is the best part of this town, Lucia says, fond. And you’re pretty nice to have around, too.

Especially when you needed a babysitter.

I follow along blankly, feeling a little overwhelmed. If I went to a random restaurant in the city, absolutely no one would talk to me. The waitress would come over, take my order, and I’d eat the rest of my meal in silence.

And that’s the way I preferred it, to be honest.

Sensing my discomfort, Jo changes courses. What can I get you?

Jumping, I look frantically at the menu, and when I can’t read it because I forgot my glasses (it’s one of my main flaws, nine out of ten days I just can’t see) I say instead, What do you recommend?

Get the maple pancakes, Lucia advises before Jo can respond, and as she says it, I remember how big maple syrup is in Vermont. I promise they’ll be the best you’ve ever tried.

I’m a fan of everything maple, so I flip my menu shut. Sounds like a plan. Maple pancakes it is. Some coffee, too, please.

Grinning, Jo takes the menu. Coming right up. In a flash, she disappears through a door that must lead to the kitchen, her long blonde braid swaying between her shoulder blades, and I wonder whether there’s another cook back there. There’s no way she’s the only waitress and the only cook.

So, Lucia says, with that distinct air that makes me feel like I’m getting interviewed. Where did you move from? Nearby?

I swallow a large gulp of water. New York City.

Lucia hums. Gets more expensive there every day, doesn’t it?

I nod, and I take another sip of water. There’s no good way to start these conversations. Hey, can you tell me everything you know about the local murders? Well, are they murders? Have any of your friends been acting strange or bloodthirsty recently?

Jo comes back out of the kitchen, and I track her as she delivers a plate of scrambled eggs to an older couple. Lucia nudges forward, watching. She’s got more help on the weekends and at night. A few of the kids who just graduated get some good hours in here to save up for college. But she saves a lot of money by working the place herself during the day.

Wow. That’s a lot of work.

It’s a good thing she likes it, Lucia says, sipping on her coffee, still giving me that harsh stare. So, tell me. When’d you move here?

A few days ago, I answer honestly, the words spouting out of me as if she might reprimand me if I lied. I already feel a little on edge about the possibility of having to use my cover story. I’ve been getting settled in, haven’t really had a chance to explore.

To my relief, Lucia’s eyes brighten a bit at this, as if talking about West Rutland is her favorite pastime. Well, we may look small, but you can find a lot of good places if you’re looking.

Any recommendations? I push.

She leans against the counter, shoving aside her now empty plate with a rough elbow. Well, there’s some other restaurants, but I imagine you won’t need that after you eat, will you? There’s the marsh, the lookout, the quarry-

The word quarry sticks out from my notes, from the case, from the theories, and I stop her. Quarry? What’s that?

Her voice dies in her throat, a weird sort of confusion melting across her face. As if she’s surprised she said it. She nods, in a trancelike state, and I can’t tell whether she loves or hates the place. Maybe a mix of both. Yeah. Yeah, they’re great basins towards the edge of town where they used to mine marble. They’re filled with water now, retired, but they all connect to one another with this... cave system. The words taper off, and she stares at a spot over my shoulder.

I shiver. Cave system? Seems creepy. And dangerous.

She seems to jerk out of the stupor, shaking her head. You have no idea. But we’re a big marble town, there’s a lot of businesses that come out of it.

Like what?

She lifts an arm, suddenly looking tired as she rubs a hand across her lips. It was like she had an instinct to be excited about the quarry, but then something dark and conflicting overtook her thoughts. I squint, trying not to look too scrutinizing in the way she’d scrutinized me only moments before, even as I try and fail to read the woman’s expression. Me and my husband own the sculpture center down that way, off Marble Street.

"Seriously? It’s called Marble Street?"

Like I said, she says dryly. Marble town. You should check it out, though, some of the sculptures are rather beautiful. Tourists tend to like it.

I glance again at what I had originally thought was paint but is probably actually marble dust, or maybe paste? Are you an artist? Did you make any of the sculptures?

She smiles, and that sincerity is back, the serene glow. Yes, that’s part of why we opened it. My husband’s very much the business man, and we buy from a lot of artists all over the state. We operate as a museum during the summer, and then we sell during the winter.

I’ll definitely check it out.

She digs through her purse, pulling out a twenty and leaving it on the counter. Just head down the street, and you’ll see a gravel road off to the left with a sign. You’ll find us there. She pauses, looking me up and down before coming to some sort of decision, nodding her head. Okay. Tell Jo I said bye, will you?

I watch Lucia slip from her stool, looking even older now that she’s standing and no longer smiling. She disappears through the door, and I anxiously await my food, itching for my notebook, waiting for the moment I can head toward that quarry and actually write something down.

Chapter Two

FOUR DISAPPEARANCES IN THE past month; not enough time to presume anyone dead, but steadily getting there. That’s all the information they gave me when they shipped me off to this tiny town, because that’s all anyone knows.

In only three and a half weeks, four teenagers from West Rutland High have been dropping like flies, one by one since the start of summer. Normally, my office would never have caught wind of something so discreet, but I’d been... researching. Taking the name and address found in my dad’s will and absorbing all the information I could about the town since I couldn’t yet find the nerve to look deeper into the person. Elise and I found the articles pretty quickly. I guess big news can travel fast in a small town.

As I walk down the silent street, I scan through everything I know about the case from my lined journal for what feels like the dozenth time, picking apart where the hell to start. Four separate incidents, with no indication of cause, about a week apart from one another. West Rutland’s tiny police station is doing what they can to investigate, but they don’t really have the manpower for potential murders. It’s easier just to go with the runaway theory. Small town stations aren’t designed for stuff like this.

The weirdest part isn’t even the fact that this tiny, insignificant little town had a sudden spike of questionable occurrences. The weird part is that nobody is talking about it. Minimal news coverage, no backup in the investigation from outside cities. I suppose that’s because nobody’s survived... whatever this is. No bodies have turned up, no evidence left behind. No notes, no odd behavior. They’re just gone.

I read over these small facts from my notebook, over and over, trying to consider possibilities or explanations for something like this. Payback? Serial killer? Or could it be as simple as four boys running away during the summer after their senior year?

But, then, why wouldn’t they