Page 35 of Forget Me Not
BOYFRIEND ARRESTED FOR MURDER OF MISSING GIRL
Then I read it again, more carefully this time.
An arrest has been made in the disappearance of Natalie Campbell, the eighteen-year-old girl who went missing from her bedroom on the evening of August 24, 2002. The suspect in question is Jeffrey Slater, a twenty-eight-year-old Claxton local who has been known to police for quite some time.
I take in the mug shot of Jeffrey now, a sting of sweat prickling under my arms. Then I clear my throat, force myself to keep going.
Detective Eric DiNello, the lead investigator in charge of the Campbell case, reports that eyewitness testimony, as well as a search of Slater’s car, is what ultimately led to his swift arrest mere days after Natalie was reported missing by her mother.
“Jeffrey Slater is nothing more than a petty criminal who unfortunately graduated to taking a life,” DiNello said during a recent press conference. “He has been in our system for years, charges ranging from drug possession and distribution to supplying alcohol to minors.”
Although Campbell’s body has yet to be found, several of her personal effects, including an article of clothing soaked in her blood, were discovered in Slater’s possession, leading investigators to seek a murder charge.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, that niggling feeling still just out of reach until a tapping erupts from the other side of the room and I twist around in the direction of the sound. There’s a face peering in through my window, the fogged-up glass blurry with dew, but I can tell it’s Liam, a self-conscious smile snaked across his lips as he pushes his finger into the pane.
Are you ready?he mouths.
I glance back at the clock on the stove. It’s starting to get late, the heat of the day rising fast, and despite how badly I want to keep going, all these unanswered questions continuing to climb, I know I’m only here because I was hired to work, so I reluctantly slap my laptop shut, forcing a smile as I make my way to the yard.
“Why New York?”
I look up, the sudden question cutting through the quiet.
“What do you mean?” I respond, glancing back down at my hands, the tips of my fingers tugging at the base of a grape. Liam and I picking in such a slow, silent rhythm, I almost forgot he was even here.
“It’s just a big change from Claxton,” he says. “There must be a reason you moved out there.”
“Work, I guess,” I say, feeling my nails plunge into something wet, the liquid insides of putrid fruit. Then I pull my hand back, taking in the leaves speckled with rot as Mitchell’s voice worms its way into my mind.
If you neglect the crop, it’ll die on the vine.
“You guess?” he repeats, turning to face me.
“I mean, I guess I could have gone anywhere,” I say, wiping my fingers against my jeans before glancing up at the sky. I’m not sure what time it is, how long I’ve been ruminating on all these things that I’ve learned, though I would guess it’s early afternoon, the midday sun still high up above. That, and I can feel the damp of my shirt stuck to my back, the slow dribble of sweat as it drips down my neck. “I just needed to go somewhere different. The city felt like a good place to start fresh.”
Liam falls silent, no sounds between us but the rustling of leaves.
“I had never even been out of the state until I graduated high school,” I continue, going back to the vines and continuing to pick.“Can you imagine? Spending your entire life in one place? I honestly can’t think of anything worse.”
He stays quiet and I turn toward him now, the back of his neck red from the sun.
“Have you ever been?”
“New York?” he asks, his back still toward me. “No, can’t say that I have.”
“Never?”I ask, the word coming out harsh.
“I’ve never been up north.”
“Wow,” I say, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand before resting my wrists on the top of my hips. “Where’s the farthest you’ve been?”
He twists around, a shy smile as he spreads his arms wide.
“Shit,” I say, my stomach sinking as I think about what I just said, the condescension of my earlier words. I should have known better, the urban bubble I’ve called home for the last fifteen years making me forget where, exactly, I am. “Liam, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” he says, laughing. “Really, don’t sweat it.”
“It’s a great place,” I offer, trying to backpedal, though there’s been a tangible shift in the air, a tension I hadn’t felt before. “Pretty much everyone I know has never left here, either. My mom, my—”
