Page 2 of Escaping Our Reality

I snort. Normally, I’d reply back with a smartass comment, but I agree with him. I rub my swollen eyes, then stretch my arms high above my head, trying to ease the tension from my muscles.

Softly chuckling, he mumbles more to himself than me. “Do your parents even know who you really are?”

It has to be a rhetorical question. We both already know the answer is no. I guess being the family man that he is, he can’t understand coming from parents who are so disconnected from their child.

Knowing me better than I know myself, he reaches in his bottom drawer and tosses a protein bar at me. “Eat lunch?”

“Of course not,” I say with a smile as I take it from him.

He walks to a small fridge in the corner of the room to grab me a bottle of water. “So, I wasn’t kidding when I said that we’re stuck. No new tips have come in to us, the University police, or the FBI in the past month. The lab rechecked all of the evidence from the SUV to make sure they didn’t miss anything.” He sighs heavily, sweeping his arm through the air. “And nothing.”

I gulp a large swallow of water, toss my wrapper in the trash, and then hold my hands across the desk, palms up. Marcum grunts and does the same thing he has done multiple times a week since my sister went missing. He pulls the large, copied stack of evidence photos from the same third desk drawer as always and slaps them in my hand. And for the hundredth time, I carefully study the pictures of my sister’s expensive-ass SUV, willing myself to have an ‘Aha Moment’.

I close my eyes and picture everything that I remember from the last time I rode with her—the day she drove me to Uncle Ray and Aunt Teresa’s house for the cruise. I open my eyes and slowly and methodically flip through the pictures, looking for any clues. Any small remnant that might tell us what happened to Carrie, who took her, who has her. The pictures show the same scenes, over and over. The doors are closed and locked. On the passenger’s seat is her purse and powered-off cell phone. A few receipts are stacked in the corner slit of the console. A large Styrofoam cup with watered-down Diet Coke sits in the cup holder. The sunglass clip snuggly holds her Ray-Bans, and the glove box contains no significant papers, other than her insurance card and tag registration.

“And the restaurant, where her car was found, had closed how long ago?”

I know the answer. Marcum knows I know the answer, but he still repeats the same thing he’s said to me multiple times. That’s just the kind of man he is.

“Over five years. And the owners no longer live here. They’re in Florida. Just saving the land and the building in case their kids wanna do something with it one day.”

I nod. “Right.” I sit back in the chair and look around. “Where’s Leary today?”

“Field trip with his kid.” Marcum laughs. “I remember those days.”

I bite my lip. Idon’tremember those days. My father never went on one single field trip with me. My mother did, but she never did it to spend time with me. She just did it because the other moms were going, and it afforded her an avenue to gossip and play the over-doting mother card.

I tilt my head at the picture that shows all of the receipts found in her car. As always, two particular receipts annoyingly tug at the periphery of my mind. Travis Boys Gas and CountryMart. Both receipts show where she bought gas, filling her tank. One’s dated for the day she was last seen by friends. The next day—the day after buying this gas—she was supposed to go to Dakota’s apartment for a cookout and didn’t show. That’s when they knew something was wrong. The other receipt is dated eleven days prior to that. It’s not shocking to me that Carrie saved her receipt. She typically saved all of her receipts until she could reconcile them with the monthly credit card statement or bank statement. It’s just one of the many life lessons she was teaching me.

Lessons that should come from parents.

Lessons like balancing your checkbook, doing your own laundry, properly cleaning your house, and mowing the yard.

I tap the image with my pointer finger and make a clicking sound with my tongue. “You checked how many months of our checking account statements and credit card statements?”

Ourmeaning mine and Carrie’s joint account.

“About three months before she disappeared. You still fixated on those gas station receipts?”

Tossing it on the desk, I stand and walk to the window, passing by Detective Colson. He’s distracted on the phone, so I use the opportunity to aggravate him by turning the framed picture of Sparky, his golden retriever, upside down. Colson is anal-retentive and extremely protective of his desk, so everyone within a ten-mile radius of the station makes a special effort to annoy him on a daily basis.

Detective Peele, Colson’s partner, tosses me a dirty look. He doesn’t hide the fact that he thinks Marcum and I have grown too close, that Marcum lets me know too much about the investigation.

I ignore him. And avoid him. Like a hooker running away from Sunday School.

The lights from the Christmas tree on the plaza sparkle against the midday sun. Christmas was last week, so we still have three weeks before they take down the decorations, storing them for another year. “It still doesn’t make any sense to me. Why travel to the whole other side of the county just to go to one particular gas station?” I hold up my hand before Marcum can respond. “And yes, I know they are the only station in all of Central Alabama that carries Slayton’s Southern Blackberry Tea,” I say with a completely bitchy, sarcastic attitude.

“That’s right. And apparently, your sister isn’t the only one who travels to that shit-hole area for that special drink. I told you we watched ten different tapes from ten different days when Carrie went there. I bet a dozen people buy that drink each day. Tried it myself. It was damn good. I’m not willing to drive thirty minutes for it, but it was good sweet tea. They’ve got good fried chicken too,” he says with a rub of his belly. “Plus, their gas is a good five cents cheaper per gallon than here in town.”

I raise my eyebrows, pinning him with a stare. He holds his own hands up in surrender, almost mimicking me. “I know, I know. Carrie isn’t penny pinching on her gas savings, but still.” He heaves a loud sigh and tugs on his belt.

I make my way back over to his desk and sit down. “And you saw her on camera?”

“You know I did, Ella. She always came out with that drink. Sometimes she bought gas, sometimes she didn’t. Sometimes she bought something to eat, sometimes she didn’t. But she always had that drink. Nothing unusual. I’ve heard of people driving all the way down to Gulf Shores just to eat a good seafood lunch and then turning right back around to come home.”

I shake my head. “If this $4 gourmet drink has such a hold on my sister, why not buy more than one at a time? Why not buy everything the gas station has so you don’t have to go back there, over and over? Like you said, it’s not in the best area.”

Marcum shrugs his shoulders. “Ella, she’s still a kid. Kids don’t always think of the big picture.”

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