Page 1 of Escaping Our Reality

Chapter 1

ELLA

I really don’t like what I hear.

Sometimes you just don’t care to hear the words that come from someone’s mouth. You want to pluck those words from the sky and stuff them back where they belong. Deep, deep down into the vacuum of the black abyss.

When I was little, I could cover my ears when I didn’t like what someone was telling me. I don’t really think that’s feasible—feasible, sure, but not necessarily mature—at seventeen.

“So, unfortunately, there’s really nothing further we can do until we get some new leads. New tips.”

I blankly stare at Detective Marcum as he looks between me, my mom, and my dad as I try to absorb every syllable of what he’s attempting to tell me, doing his best to use politically correct and placating language in front of my parents.

So, that’s it? No more looking for my sister? Nothing?

Caroline Olive Hill no longer exists?

I guess I should stop thinking inquestionsand start thinking instatements. Statement: Bogus tips and false leads stop coming in, and Carrie is gone. Done. Finished. Pushed to the back burner by the general public who have grown weary of seeing her face splattered all over the evening news.

My eyes burn and my throat constricts as I swallow and try to contain my unshed sobs. Marcum, with his kind eyes and graying temples, shifts to gently cover my trembling hand with his own. His movement stops suddenly when my mother’s shrill howl fragments the peaceful calm of the sheriff’s departmentfamily room. Marcum clears his throat and passes her a box of tissues. I immediately stiffen my spine and roll my shoulders, having a visceral reaction to her hollow antics. She can’t be serious with this Oscar-worthy performance, can she?

I glance in her direction, watching as her body shudders. Dad massages her back in large, exaggerated strokes. She fans her face, exclaiming loudly, “Oh, my heart. My heart is torn in two. I just can’t take it anymore!”

Oh, please. Dramatic much?

She shakes her tissue in the air like a pompom and dabs the sides of her eyes—her very dry eyes, very non-bloodshot eyes. You think she’d learn by now how to make herself cry. I’m sure there’s a YouTube on that very thing. I mean, someone needs to tell her that sobs without tears just look ridiculous.

Marcum tosses me a knowing look.

“Robert, this has been so hard on me. It’s devastating. Truly devastating. I just don’t think I can stay in this town right now, knowing that no one’s looking for my baby.”

Mom can play the most spectacular sympathy card with the very best of them. She’s a true Vegas card shark when it comes to that. And Dad feeds on her every word and whim, like a mangy mutt eating shit from the trash can. He doesn’t care where it’s from, as long as the results are the same.

“Darling, I completely understand. Susan, let me take you away for a bit. I’ll have Addison rearrange my surgical calendar, and we can leave for the Bahamas by lunch tomorrow.”

Mom tosses him a flippant look of disgust. “Ugh, not the Bahamas again.”

“Bermuda?”

She grins and nods. Thankfully she didn’t have to worry about any tears going into her mouth as she smiles like the Cheshire cat at his change of venue.

“It’s decided,” he says, asserting a fully professional tone. “Detective Marcum, I’m taking my wife on a much-deserved and needed holiday. I have our monthly news conference scheduled for two weeks from tomorrow. I suggest that the department does all it can between now and then to find some new leads on our daughter’s case. I’d hate for our local sheriff’s department to be cast in such a negative light on the national platform. I’m sure you understand what I’m trying to say.”

Marcum just sits there dumbfounded. He’s used to their dramatics, but even this episode was a bit much.

My parents make their exit from the room, briefly pausing in the doorway when they realize they’re forgetting one small, little thing—me, their other daughter.

“Ella,” Dad beckons me like a master calling his pet.

I politely smile. “I’ll be home soon. Remember, we drove separately.”

He nods curtly, and I’m left drowning in the residue of my mother’s $400 perfume. It takes only a few moments for the gravity of the situation to settle over me like a dense, heavy fog, and tears spring to my eyes. I cover my face with my hands and cry. Marcum quickly assumes the role of surrogate father, gently patting my back, hoping he can pound the sorrow from my soul and the demons from my home.

I honestly don’t know where I’d be without him. I couldn’t have survived the past six months of torturous hell without him and my Uncle Ray’s family.

Eventually, my flooding tears subside and my hysterical hiccups fade. Together we move from the conference room and make our way through the sheriff’s department to one of the detectives’ rooms where Marcum shares an office with three other major case detectives. I sit opposite him, kicking my feet up on the edge of his desk, and pick up the latest framed picture. I smile at the toothless little baby boy staring back at me.Marcum’s grandson, born the same day Carrie officially went missing.

“Six-month pictures,” Marcum explains. “Makes no sense to me,” he shrugs. “Why do Brent and Stephanie want to pay a photographer every single month for pictures when they can just take a Kodak themselves?”

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