The Reappearance of Rachel Price

The doorbell rang, a scream that split the house in two, riding along the fault lines, daring them to fail.

“I’ll get it!” Bel thundered down the stairs, claiming that side as hers. Rachel might move quieter, but she could move faster.

She pulled open the front door, Dave Winter on the threshold, in his dark uniform.

“Annabel!” A reporter screamed from the street. “Why do you think your dad has gone missing?”

The same one Bel told to fuck off earlier, directly into his outheld microphone.

The white vans came back yesterday, when news broke about Charlie Price disappearing just one week after his wife came back from the dead. One parent in, one parent out, a revolving-door family. Quite the story, seeing as there were now seven vans on the curb, the BBC too. A source close to the family was the one who told the press. It was probably Grandma Susan; she had previously, and she was a fucking horsefucker.

“Off the property, sir. Don’t make me come down there!” Dave shouted, hands flailing as he conducted the horde of yapping journalists.

“Hi,” Bel said to the back of his twisted neck, flushed red.

He untwisted it, mouth in a grim line. “Annabel. Good, you’re here. Is your mom home? I have an update.”

Her heart jumped, bracing against the base of her throat. Was an update a good thing? Or the worst thing imaginable?

“Come in.” She beckoned him through, wishing he would move faster, the knot spiraling in her gut, chewing off a piece of her each time.

“Hello, Rachel,” Dave said, mouth turning up at the corners in an almost smile. Would he smile if he was here to tell them they’d found Dad dead? You wouldn’t smile if he was dead, right? Fuck.

Bel searched his face for other signs, searched Rachel’s too. Did she already know what Dave was here to tell them? If Rachel had killed him, Bel would kill her; that was another promise.

“Do you want a coffee or … ?” Rachel offered.

“What is it?” Bel couldn’t wait any longer. Dad had been missing almost four days now, straight to voicemail every time: “You’ve reached—Charlie Price,” even though he was unreachable.

“Couple things.” Dave slid his hands into his pockets. “We put in a subpoena for your dad’s cell phone records. Still waiting on those, these things don’t happen overnight.” Dave removed one hand, dropped it by his side. “But we have managed to access Charlie’s bank account.”

“And?” Bel said, blocking him in, making him tell her, not Rachel.

“There’s been activity over the last four days. He’s withdrawn money and made some purchases … in Vermont.”

“Vermont?” Rachel said, voice climbing at the end.

Dave turned to her. “We’re working with the State Police now, using the hits to try track him down. But this is good news.” He looked at Bel for that last part, the grim line of his mouth less grim now. “This means your dad is OK, that he’s in Vermont to blow off steam, get some space. Like we thought. He’ll probably come home when he’s ready.”

Bel stalled, mind whirring over what he just said. Dad was in Vermont? That was good news, wasn’t it, like Dave said? Much better than the worst news possible. So why was there a sinking feeling in her gut, feeding on that flash of hope? Because Bel knew him best. Dad wouldn’t leave her, wouldn’t go to Vermont without telling her, wouldn’t have his phone off and let her worry this much, he just wouldn’t do that. And maybe none of this was as simple as blowing off steam or getting space. Disappeared without a trace, except now there was a trace … in Vermont.

“That is good news,” Rachel said, quietly.

“But you’ll keep looking for him?” Bel said, not quietly.

“Like I said, we’re working with the Vermont State Police to track him down when he next uses his card. And we’re waiting on those phone records. A person’s phone can tell you a lot about them.”

Bel’s eyes followed her mind, alighting on the black rectangle on the coffee table.

Not Dad’s phone, but Rachel’s.

Dave was still talking to her. “I’ll keep looking for your dad, but you don’t need to worry, can stop putting missing posters up all over town. Though I appreciate the help. You should probably go back to school, get back to normal.”

“I went today,” Bel replied. For one reason only: not to be normal, but to corner Mr. Tripp, force answers out of him. He wasn’t there. Off sick, apparently, had been all week. How long could he keep that going, to avoid her?

“I’ll be in touch, when we know anything more.” Dave dipped his head like he was bowing to Rachel. “You let me know if those reporters outside are giving you any trouble.”

“Thank you, Dave,” Rachel said with an empty smile. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

The quiet murmur of their voices, moving away into the hall. Bel didn’t follow, listening to her gut and listening to her head, because sometimes they weren’t on the same side. If it was a possibility that Dad had chosen to leave, that he’d gone to Vermont, then he’d done it because of Rachel, to get away from her. And maybe he wouldn’t come back until Rachel was exposed as a liar and removed from the house. Maybe he was afraid of what happened last time, all those fingers pointing at him, and he’d rather run than face that again. So either way you looked at it—head or gut—the way forward was the same: prove Rachel was lying, find out how and why she really disappeared and reappeared sixteen years later. Rachel was the way back to Dad.

And if Bel couldn’t get the answers from Mr. Tripp, then she’d have to get them from Rachel herself.

Maybe avoiding her had been the wrong thing to do, keeping out of the house, barricading herself in her bedroom. Maybe it was time to shift focus. Study Rachel. Show interest, spend time with her. Wait for her to show her hand and slip up. You know what it is they say, about enemies and friends.

The noise of the reporters swelled as the front door opened, Dave calling back his goodbyes. Bel looked at Rachel’s phone again, unguarded. A person’s phone can tell you a lot about them.

Her fingers itched at her side, splaying and stretching, testing the air. Rachel had Mr. Tripp’s number, they must have talked. So maybe the answers were right there, behind that glass screen.

She took one step toward the phone, reached for it, then stopped, sensing a change. Rachel had appeared in the room, soundless and watching.

“That’s good news, isn’t it?” Rachel said. “About the bank account. I know you’ve been worried. Been a bit quiet, distant.”

Bel nodded. She was about to be the opposite of distant. Closing in instead of running away. She needed to get Rachel away from her phone long enough to go through it. And she had to unlock it to do that. Lucky for her, both problems led to the same person.

“Hey, Rachel,” she said brightly, switching on a smile. “I was thinking I’d ask Carter to come around tonight. Distract us,” she said, when she meant just distract you. “We could bake cookies or something. Spend some time together, the three of us.”

Rachel’s eyes glittered, chin pulling her mouth down into a grin.

“That’s a great idea, A … B-Bel. I’d love to.”

* * *

“What?” Carter hissed as Bel dragged her inside.

“I told you to come now, not in ten minutes.” Bel let her cousin go, turning the corner into the living room. Heart kicking against the cage of her ribs, echoing in her ears. Could Carter hear it too?

“I was in the shower.” Carter gazed at her, reading her nerves as something else. “You didn’t say it was an emergency. Is there news about U-Uncle Charlie?”

“No. Well, y-yes, I’ll explain later.” They didn’t have to be quiet, but they had to be quick. “Rachel’s at the store, she could be back any second.”

Bel had insisted they make peanut butter cookies, because she knew they were out of peanut butter, and she knew Rachel would offer to go get some, for the olive branch Bel was dangling in front of her.

“You helped Rachel set up her new phone, right?”

“Yeah,” Carter answered, narrowing her eyes. “Because you were avoiding her.”

“Do you know what her passcode is?”

Carter narrowed her eyes farther, two suspicious slivers of whipped-up blue. “Why?”

But judging by the tight set of her mouth, she already knew why.

“I need you to tell me the passcode.”

Carter sighed, stretching her neck, eyes up to the ceiling. “Bel, why?”

“I need to look through her phone.”

“Why do you need to look through her phone?” Hovering somewhere close to annoyed.

“Because,” Bel lowered her voice, even though Rachel wasn’t in the house. It didn’t feel like something that could be said loud, it belonged to whispers. “I still think Rachel is lying about her disappearance, and I’m pretty sure she’s the reason my dad is now missing.”

“Bel, that’s—”

“Sometimes you have to trust your gut, Carter. I know that’s what happened, I just need to prove it, and the answers might be on her phone. I need your help, for my dad.”

Carter hesitated, eyes circling Bel’s.

“You’ve known him a lot longer than you’ve known Rachel,” Bel continued, trying to be gentle, trying to push but not push her away. “Please. For me?”

“Bel, I should tell y—”

Bel shushed her, ears pricking to a new sound. The rasp of wheels against the gravel in the driveway, the reporters stirring, reanimating. Her alarm, her warning siren.

“Rachel’s home,” Bel hissed. “Quick, Carter.” She grabbed her arms. “Tell me the passcode.”

A car door slammed, voices shrieked like circling birds.

Carter broke with another sigh, a low warning in her voice. “It’s five six seven eight. Like when you count in music.”

“Five six seven eight,” Bel muttered, committing it to memory. “Thanks. Love you.”

Carter grumbled.

“One more thing,” Bel spoke quickly, racing the click of Rachel’s shoes to the front door. “We’re baking cookies. I just need you to distract her, while I take her phone and look through.”

“Bel,” Carter hissed.

“Just keep her busy, you’re good at that.”

Carter opened her mouth to protest, but it was too late. The sound of the front door swinging open, the rustling of grocery bags.

“I’m back!” Rachel’s voice floated through.

“Great,” Bel replied. “Carter’s here and she’s insisting on being head baker.” She winked at Carter, just as Rachel came around the corner.

Flushed cheeks and a smile that reached into her eyes. “Hi, Carter,” she said. “That’s fine by me, totally happy for you to boss me around.”

“No bossing,” Carter said, “we will work as a teeeam.” Baring her teeth with that last word, showing them to Bel. Attagirl.

Carter went to help Rachel with the bags.

“I found a recipe online. We can use my phone,” Bel said, pulling it out, unlocking it with her face.

A text popped up on-screen, from Ash: I’m here. Bel had messaged him the same time as Carter: Come to my house now, bring the camera. Wait in the garage—side door is open. Make sure reporters don’t see you.

To which Ash had replied: Are you going to murder me? On my way.

“Got it?” Rachel asked.

Bel glanced up. “Yeah: flour, butter, peanut butter, eggs …” She reeled off the rest of the ingredients, following Rachel and Carter into the kitchen.

She kept one eye on Rachel as she dumped a bag on the counter, her keys beside it. But where was her phone?

“Got some new flour,” Rachel said. “Wasn’t sure how long your dad had kept the old one.”

Rachel patted the pockets of her trench jacket. She dipped her hand inside and pulled out her phone. Bel stopped moving, only her eyes. Rachel took one quick look at the screen, then placed the phone facedown on the kitchen table.

“I’ll just hang my jacket up.” Rachel pulled it off, draping it over one arm. “A-B-Bel, can you find the mixing bowl? No idea where your dad moved it to.”

“Sure.” Bel headed toward the cupboard, using it as an excuse to move closer to the table, to study the phone’s position. It was halfway between Bel’s usual place and Dad’s, at a jaunty angle a few inches from the edge. She blinked to look at it with fresh eyes, remembering the exact spot.

Carter was watching her while Rachel was out of the kitchen.

Bel pressed a finger to her lips before Carter could say anything.

“Alexa!” Rachel called, back in the room, making Bel flinch. She’d only just grasped the concept, that you had to pause after the name. Or she was faking all of it. “Play happy, chill music.”

“Here’s a playlist for happy, chill music.”

Bel handed her the mixing bowl.

“Thank you, sweetie. This was a nice idea.”

Bel nodded, surprised that Rachel had fallen for nice.

“How much butter?” Carter asked, heading for the refrigerator.

“One cup. I’ll leave the recipe here on my phone.” Bel placed it on the counter. See, Bel would leave her own phone here with Rachel. A trade, of sorts. Her eyes flicked to the other one. She couldn’t just take it; Rachel was standing right there, looking at her.

“If there’s any left over, girls, should I take some to your grandpa?” Rachel handed a new pack of sugar to Carter.

“He’d like that,” Carter said, wrapping her hand around the sugar, not wincing when her fingers brushed against Rachel’s.

“Just wondering,” Rachel continued, “while your dad’s away, Annabel, whether I should see if Yordan needs any help with Pat. Anything I can do, clean the house or something? Does Yordan take him out every day, for a walk or something?”

“Grandpa can’t walk,” Bel said, forgetting she was playing nice, adding an awkward smile to soften it. “Don’t worry, Yordan’s got it. And Uncle Jeff can do more.”

But this detour into Grandpa had given Bel an idea.

“But it’s a good idea, to take cookies around. Grandpa’s probably confused about where Dad is. I’ll get a Tupperware; you won’t know where they live.”

Bel opened the cupboard, Tupperware lids already slipping and sliding from their unsteady piles. She grabbed two containers, one clear, one dark blue, and their matching lids.

“Here.” She carried them over to the kitchen table, placed them down in front of the phone, obscuring Rachel’s line of sight to it.

And just like she had hundreds of times before, with small insignificant things to feed that knot in her gut, she reached for the phone. Her fingers around its cold edges. She bracketed her hand to slide it up her sleeve, all the way in until it was gone. Hand to her chest to hold it there.

Got it.

Rachel wasn’t the only expert in disappearing.

Carter gave Bel a knowing look, a half roll of her eyes.

“Gotta pee.” Bel slipped out into the hallway. Out of sight, she transferred the phone into the back pocket of her jeans.

She waited, trying to think of something, anything, that could keep her away longer than gotta pee. Bel looked around for inspiration. Could she say she felt sick? No, that wouldn’t work, Rachel would want to stay close, pretend to mother her.

Come on, something, something. Pile of her shoes by the door. Hum of reporters outside. A letter on the sideboard, addressed to Charlie Price, because the missing still got mail.

Wait, an idea.

Bel grabbed the letter, making sure the address faced her, not out.

She headed toward the kitchen, rearranging her face to someone without a plan.

“Hey,” she said from the doorway. “A letter’s been delivered here for Ms. Nelson. Looks important, could be something medical, insurance.” She pretended to study the front. “I’ll go drop it over now. Back in a minute,” she said, turning away before anyone could protest.

“Should we preheat the oven?” Carter’s voice rang out, bringing Rachel’s attention back to her.

“What temperature?” Rachel asked.

Everyone playing their role perfectly. Bel dropped the letter back where she found it and opened the front door.

Reporters tumbled out of their vans, cameras and microphones and hopeful looks in their eyes.

“Annabel this.”

And:

“Annabel that.”

Bel ignored them all, down the steps and toward the garage, pulling Rachel’s phone out of her back pocket, capturing her own face in its dark, unlit screen.