Page 55 of Forget Me Not
“Why?” I ask. “What was she doing?”
Bethany just shrugs, averting her eyes like she’s suddenly ashamed.
“She snuck me into their woods once. It was a good place to party at night.”
I swallow, my mind on those trees surrounding the vineyard; Liam’s words,fifty acres,bouncing around in the back of my brain.
I think of those pictures I found in the shoebox, the one of Bethany and Natalie surrounded by brush. There were so many shots of Galloway in there, stills of my sister deep in the vines, and I realize now that the ones in the woods might have come from the same roll.
If those pictures were still in any kind of order, they might have been taken on the exact same day.
“Did anyone else go with you?” I ask, remembering the one of Jeffrey now, the way his arm hung around Natalie’s neck like a noose, a cigarette dangling limp from her fingers.
“A couple other people,” she says. “I think they were mostly her coworkers.”
I nod as she pulls out a muffin before pushing it in my direction with one gloved hand.
“Anyway, it was good to see you,” she adds, an apology in her eyes for all this talk of the past. “I’ll have that coffee out in a minute.”
I make my way to the table now, my mind spinning from what I just learned but still not sure what it all means. Then I plug in all the things from my bag and wait impatiently for them to turn on, my phone buzzing back to life before a trickle of texts start to come through.
Claire, are you okay? What just happened there?
I’m sorry if any of that came out harsh, I’m just really worried about you.
I sigh, remembering the way Ryan and I ended our call. That conversation cut short by the strengthening storm. I know I should probably check in with him soon, reassure him that everything is fine, but at the same time, I’m still angry at how he hadn’t believed me. Dismissing my concerns as nothing more than hysteria, like I’m somehow imagining these signs that something’s not right.
I ignore him for now, instead opening my laptop and tapping at the keys, my mind chewing over our conversation again. As much as I hate to admit it, he was right when he claimed I don’t know much about Marcia and Mitchell; that I might be jumping to conclusions solely based on the things that I’ve read. I’ve learned a littleabout Marcia through all of her entries, those articles I found once I searched her name, but Mitchell is still an enigma to me. A mystery I’ve barely begun to crack.
I launch a new browser window, deciding I’m going to focus on him next. I don’t have much to go on—the last time I tried searching his name had revealed nothing significant at all—but then I think of some of the diary’s earliest pages when Marcia was on her mission to piece him together herself.
What did you study at Berkeley?she had asked, wrapping that sweatshirt around her bare shoulders.
People,he said.I studied people.
I pull up the Berkeley website, navigating to the alumni directory and finding a phone number at the bottom of the screen. Then I grab my phone, punching in the number and hitting Call, my foot tapping hard on the floor as I listen to the endless ringing. Realizing it’s still early out in California, doubtful anyone will even pick up.
“University of Berkeley Alumni Association.”
“Hi,” I say, sitting up straight once I hear an older woman’s voice on the line. “Hi, yes, I was wondering if you could help me confirm the graduation date of one of your alumni.”
“Do you have their member number?”
“No,” I say, my foot bouncing harder now. “But his name is Mitchell Galloway, and I think he might have graduated around or before 1983.”
The line stays quiet for a beat too long.
“I’m sorry, but we’re not supposed to give out alumni information without a member number.”
“Please,” I say. “I’m a friend, and I’m throwing him a surprise retirement party. I just want to make sure I have the right year.”
The woman is silent and I feel my hopes start to deflate.
“I know he majored in psychology,” I add. “Maybe that could possibly help?”
“Well, if he majored in psychology, then he didn’t graduate before 1983.”
A faint tapping erupts on the other side of the line as the woman starts typing, the phone suddenly slick in my hand.
