The Silent Places Read online

  I avoid those eyes—in this case, a single other patron in the General Mart who I recognize but can’t name. Some older white man in a heavy camo jacket staked out in the tiny frozen section. Guess I’m not grabbing those mixed veggies on sale.

  Instead I move swiftly down the cramped aisles for the last few items. Nadia loves grocery shopping—pointing out what she wants, now using full sentences to natter on about lunch and snacks for the week, sitting carefully in the cart. But there’s no room for a cart in the General Mart, and it means shopping takes twice as long if she’s trailing me, so I’m glad it’s just me. I move swiftly, wishing I’d written down a proper list, but I never do—I make a mental list at home and then promptly forget half of it the moment I step in the store. I’ll kick myself for what I missed when I get home later.

  Nick always had a list. I don’t think it was for him, either, since I was often the one doing the shopping—he wrote them for me because he knew I forgot. You read a lot about the emotional labour of keeping a house together falling on women, but it had been pretty evenly distributed with us. We saw each other’s blindspots.

  I miss him.

  Dally Carleton is working the General Mart’s single cash register. She’s co-owner and has worked here probably longer than I’ve been alive. She’s got a pinched wrinkled white face like one of those dehydrated apple dolls, and I generally manage to get my groceries with a smile and a few words but no actual eye contact.

  I would like to meet her gaze with a steady glare of my own, but even though Nick isn’t here anymore, there’s always a follow-up to my first dark instinct that reminds me to “be nice”. Keep the peace for Nick. Be pleasant for Nick. Nick never asked me to, but he didn’t need to. I knew what Red Fox Lake, and its residents, meant to him.

  I pass the rack of The Whitehorse Star to the left of the cash counter—come winter, our copies would be delayed a lot of the time, but Red Fox Lake doesn’t have a paper of its own. With spotty WiFi, it’s often the only news we get. I grab a copy automatically even though I likely won’t read it and slide it on the counter ahead of my groceries.

  “Hey Immy,” Dally says pleasantly.

  I do my usual non-eye-contact smile. “Dally. How’s George?”

  “Threw his back out again, can you believe it?”

  I’m pretty sure I do not believe it, and strongly suspect a painkiller addiction, but it’s one of those things everyone thinks but don’t say aloud out here. “And Riley?”

  Her teen granddaughter lives with them. Nick knew all the family history there but damned if I can recall any of it—he wasn’t one to gossip, and I was usually only idly curious, asking once and then promptly forgetting because I didn’t actually care.

  “Think she might make the honour roll this year. Where’s that pretty little girl of yours today?” Dally starts ringing my groceries through as I busy myself with getting my wallet from my purse. Her joints creak with the movement, popping loudly in the otherwise silent store.

  “Play date with my friend’s kids in the city.”

  “Ah, that must be nice for her. Must be so quiet in that house all the time.”

  It’s not gentle concern, it’s a passive aggressive dig. Because the woman who killed her husband is in the house he built all alone, in the Yukon, with a four-year-old. I am irresponsible and have made a litany of bad choices and I shouldn’t be made to forget it.

  Maybe the town would have accepted me more if I’d stayed here, on one of the handful of tiny streets that made up Red Fox Lake. If I welcomed the community to help me raise Nadia and acted like I belong here.

  It’s a nice fantasy but not true, of course. No one here is prepared to accept me, no matter the hoops I could jump through.

  So I don’t comment on the remark but focus on getting the cash from my wallet. One of the few teens in town, Sydney Bolton, comes around from the back where she’d been facing up stock to start bagging my groceries in a large brown paper bag. The need to get out of here is practically vibrating off her and I envision Nadia a dozen years from now just the same, eager to get out of this place, to go to Whitehorse or beyond where there are more options for her. Maybe by then we won’t still be here; I put the thought away and accept my change from Dally.

  The grocery bag is awkward—I should’ve brought reusable ones with handles, but that was another of Nick’s reminders that I always forgot. Eventually I’ll have to start watching my own blindspots, but that day is not today. Clearly.

  I step outside, purse bumping my hip and grocery bag in my arms. The SUV’s just around the corner in the General Mart’s three-car lot.

  “Mrs. Sparrow!” someone calls behind me and initially it doesn’t click because no one calls me that. Even here, in town, no one makes that mistake because although I married, I hadn’t taken Nick’s name. The only Mrs. Sparrow was his mother.

  Steps slap the pavement behind me and a chill walks my spine, but I don’t whirl around because the damn groceries are in my arms and I need to get them in the vehicle. I round the corner and see my dark SUV; as I near it, a face takes shape behind me in the vehicle’s windows and it’s clearly someone following me.

  “Mrs. Sparrow!” she continues as I unlock the door and set the groceries in the passenger seat.

  The door thumps closed behind me and I turn, keys biting into my hand as I squeeze them. That prick of pain helps me focus and evaluate the approaching figure. I’m braced because I don’t recognize her—white with bright rosy cheeks veering toward raw from the wind, and her boots are new. She’s not from here—as in not from the Yukon. Her royal blue coat is new, too, nylon and poofy in a way that suggests it’s not down-filled either.

  Nothing good can come from a southerner here calling for me.

  There’s a moment of hoping it’s some news about Nick, even though I know that would come from the RCMP and she’s clearly not a cop. I tamp down on that hope before it can flourish and hurt me even more.

  “Sharp,” I say.

  She stops. She’s got on thin gloves like she’d been expecting autumn from down south rather than Yukon autumn, a phone in one hand and tablet in the other. She glances at the tablet then back at my face and I know she’s got a picture of me, or at least a description.

  Probably a description. I don’t allow photos of me other than on my license. My hair is cut in a wavy bob, longer in the front, bleached blonde, and given Red Fox Lake’s small, mostly elderly population I’m likely the only thirtysomething woman here with that description. I also wear glasses, thick tortoiseshell frames like a feminized version of what Buddy Holly wore. I look like a completely different person wearing them, a trick I picked up when I saw a photo of Zooey Deschanel out of her New Girl bangs, glasses, and falsies and didn’t recognize her.

  So I’m distinct enough that a description and a location would probably tell her I was Nick’s wife. She looks too green to be a local private investigator and out of place, so I’m guessing some kind of journalist.

  A bitter wind kicks up and tosses her curly red hair over her face, which she can’t brush back properly with her hands occupied. “Sorry about that. Mrs. Sharp.”

  I wait, arms crossed, leaning against the SUV’s passenger side.

  “I’m writing an article about...well, about your husband, and others, who disappeared without a trace. It won’t come out until December, but with the one-year anniversary coming up...”

  I have no idea how she’s planning to finish that sentence, like there’s some kind of disconnect. And I don’t plan to ask. “If there’s anything new about the case, the police haven’t shared it with me.”

  “I was hoping you’d agree to talk to me a bit about the day he went missing, in your own words, and we can include a plea for any information.”

  I have done enough research myself to know that no amount of pleading from me in southern papers is going to find my missing husband up here. If his wallet was gone and if he’d taken the car—maybe. Maybe he’d just left me and disappeared somewhere by choice, maybe he’d driven somewhere and been seen before something happened to him, maybe he’d even been carjacked. But there was no one for miles around our house, no one who could’ve seen him and would now be holding onto that information.

  I don’t say that, because even though the moment he didn’t come back that afternoon my brain went to the worst-case scenario and has stayed there ever since, I know that’s not what’s expected of me. A normal woman missing her husband would be eager to talk, eager for hope.

  “My daughter will be home soon,” I say without looking at the time. “I do need to get back.”

  She pounces. “You’re living in the house he went missing from? Would I be able to see—”

  “No.” My voice is harsher than I intend, and I ease back a little when I continue. “I try to keep things private because of my daughter so I don’t want any strangers around the house, any photos of it. I don’t need more people knowing about a single mother in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Of course, of course,” she says quickly. “Um, can we arrange to meet somewhere, or...?”

  I consider suggesting a spot in Whitehorse. I would need Janelle to take Nadia again, though, and I don’t know what her plans are tomorrow. And put on the spot here, I don’t really want to ask. But offering to take this woman’s number will give her more access to my contact info if I call her, and I would rather get this done with.

  Now I check my phone. “I can give you twenty minutes.”

  She lights up at that and I’m already dreading it.

  *

  There’s no coffee shop in Red Fox Lake. Or a proper restaurant. There is, of course, a bar, and one can get some coffee there and a few basic meals. It’s the most neutral ground I can think of to talk to th
is woman.

  Her name is Jenni Montgomery. I’ll look her up later. She mentions a publication I haven’t heard of—I’ll look that up too—but it sounds based in British Columbia. We sit across from one another in one of two booths the bar offers.

  The bar doesn’t have an actual name, just a hand-carved sign that says BAR over the door. She’s looking around a little cautiously, still in her bright blue coat with her hands wrapped around a large white mug of coffee.

  Under the yellow glow over our booth and harsh shadows of the bar, I see she’s older than I’d thought outside—late thirties, maybe, a little older than me. Bright-eyed and bubbly, it makes her seem younger. That might be an act, though.

  I have a cup of coffee as well, my phone sitting next to me so I can easily check the time. She’s got hers too, ready to record, and she starts taking me through everything that happened that day.

  I try to engage, but I’m probably a little monotone. I’ve said it all a million times. I’ve thought it even more times, been over the day from every angle. He literally vanished and there is no new perspective, no sudden epiphany. Nick is gone and I still know nothing.

  In addition to recording it on her phone, she’s typing notes onto her tablet. I hope she’s saving it on the machine itself, because the odds of reaching a cloud service is very slim out here.

  I’m nearly done my coffee. It’s only been ten minutes, but I can’t imagine continuing this conversation when there is nothing new I can tell her.

  Then she says, “What about his depression—was he still on medication for that?”

  I still, holding the coffee cup to my lips. My entire body ices over and my thoughts stutter in my head for a moment. It takes a moment for them to restart—for my body to restart, for me to finish my sip of coffee, for me to regain my guards.

  “Excuse me?” I say carefully.

  She doesn’t miss a beat, which tells me a lot of this has been an act. She wanted me bored, wanted me lulled into thinking she’s an idiot. “His depressive episodes. Was he in one when he went missing?”

  If I say my husband didn’t have depression, and it turns out there’s a record I don’t know about, I look clueless. If I say no he wasn’t in an episode, I confirm he had depression and lend credence to her theory. If I tell her to fuck off and leave, I make everything worse.

  Instead I don’t reply to that. My eyes narrow as I stare at her. “What are you implying, Ms. Montgomery?” Let her come out and say it.

  “I’m just trying to get into his frame of mind. He left behind his car, his ID.”

  I stare evenly at her. If it makes her nervous, she doesn’t show it.

  “Weren’t you aware of his history of depression?”

  Very carefully I set my coffee cup down with a decisive click. “What I’m aware of is that someone implying my husband is missing because he killed himself can’t possibly be writing an article including a plea for his safe return and is here under false pretenses.”

  “Mrs. Sparrow—”

  “Sharp,” I correct. “And you can use that as a direct quote.” I slide from the booth and reach for my canvas utility jacket and scarf on the hook beside it.

  “I certainly didn’t mean to imply—”

  “I certainly think you did. Enjoy your day, Ms. Montgomery.” I rapidly cross the bar, slipping my phone in my pocket as I go and then zipping my coat up.

  As I near the door, I catch the eye of a man in the booth across the room—he’s been watching the exchange, face shadowed by the visor of his beat-up baseball cap. I look away and march out the door into the bitter air.

  When I reach the SUV, I send a quick text to Janelle asking her not to stop in town on the way home with Nadia and that I’ll explain when she gets here.

  *

  My WiFi signal is terrible and I have to use my cell phone to search, but I find Jenni Montgomery all over the internet.

  On her own website, a simple but slick landing page with her social media links and publication history, I find out she’s written for both online and print publications all around Vancouver, and is a frequent guest on true crime podcasts. But it’s her current work that catches my attention: she’s part of a relatively new missing persons not-for-profit, Lost Ones Advocacy Network, abbreviated to L.O.A.Net. I’ve heard of them, at least peripherally, because of my own research since Nick went missing. Their online presence in such a short period of time has been enormous—smart social media usage, plenty of viral posts. A lot of press about six months ago when they helped solve a cold case in Manitoba from a few years back. From what I can tell, Montgomery wasn’t a part of that, but it gives me a sense of what to expect from her.

  I don’t like it.

  I’ll be happy if someone finds Nick, don’t get me wrong, but not the way the Lost Ones go about it. There’s an entire section on controversies and criticisms on their Wikipedia entry—identifying information about children posted without consent, property trespassing, hacking. Complaints from both authorities and families, investigations into their methods. They had success cases, absolutely, but drew a lot of negative attention.

  Perhaps most disturbingly, a few months ago they were responsible for a missing kid post going viral—the kid had fled an abusive home and was nearly killed by her father two days after they “helped” reunite them.

  This is very bad.

  Outside the house, I hear a car door shut and Janelle’s sunny voice.

  I start and look up, realizing I hadn’t turned the light on when I came in—hadn’t done anything. The grocery bag is still on the counter, a puddle of water gathers on the floor beneath my feet where I haven’t taken my boots off. The failing October sun is hidden by the trees of the woods, throwing my house into bluish darkness.

  I blink, set my phone face-down on the kitchen island, and adjust for a moment to the darkness before rising. I hadn’t even taken my coat off, and now my skin beneath is slick with sweat. With the insulation and heaters, the house is warm despite expending minimal energy right now. Nick planned it well.

  I get my boots tucked away by the door and coat set aside—there’s nowhere to hang it, not yet, as I haven’t even thought about painting let alone decided on hooks or something else for storage here—and open the door to Janelle carrying Nadia in her purple snowsuit on her hip. Just as they near the door, I hit the light, and if Janelle notices it was off, she doesn’t say.

  I reach for my daughter when Janelle steps inside. Nadia’s dark brown eyes are alight—she’s had a good day, clearly. I pull off her boots and drop them next to mine; they’re dry, there’s only been about an inch of snowfall and it would’ve been shoveled at Janelle’s in Whitehorse, and Nadia was carried the few steps to the house.

  “She had a nap with the boys and woke up just before we came home.” Janelle pulls off her boots but leaves her coat, and closes the door behind her.

  “Thank you for taking her today, I got a lot done.”

  She waves me off. “You took the twins how many times—it’s no problem.”

  That was before I moved into this house to finish it, however; now my time is more limited, and while I know I’ll resume swapping the role of playdate host more frequently when things are finished and safer for small kids, at the moment I struggle with the fear I’ve been taking advantage of her generosity.

  With the house open-concept downstairs, it’s just a few steps from the kitchen area to the left of the door into the large unfinished living room that takes up the back of the house. Only half the floors are done because we’ve been hanging the last of the drywall this week. Kitchen and bathroom have slate tile and are done. Downstairs will be hardwood everywhere else, coming next week. Expensive as hell and if Nick hadn’t already made the deposit, I would’ve gone for something cheaper. For now, we’re surviving on subfloor and some cheap area rugs anywhere my daughter walks.

  I set Nadia on the couch and get her outwear off as she natters on about everything she did that day. She loves Janelle’s boys—Sam and Simon are twins, three months younger than she is, and we see them often enough that it’s almost been like growing up with siblings.

  Static clings to her shoulder-length dark hair and leaves it sticking up all over when I pull her wool toque off. She swipes her mittened hands over it, but those are covered in wool too and just makes it worse. I get a shock but only chuckle as I divest her of the snowsuit.