2010
I’m in my bedroom, putting on my walking shoes, when my phone rings. The number on the screen is unfamiliar, and against my better judgment, I answer it.
“Is this Kayla Carter?” the caller asks.
“Who’s calling, please?” I respond, already annoyed. I left Rainie on the deck playing with one of her dolls as she waits for me to get my act together and take her for a walk through the trail behind the house. I’m trying to inoculate myself against the eerie feeling I get in the woods by spending time on that trail.
“You ordered window shades and things from us,” the woman says, “and I’m afraid we’ve lost the order. The paperwork with all your choices and the measurements? We need you to fax your copy to us.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed. “What do you mean, you lost the order?” I think of all the energy that went into figuring out how to cover my fifty windows. All the time I spent with Amanda, the designer who has always been right on top of things when I’ve worked with her in the past. “Are you saying my window treatments haven’t even been ordered yet?” I ask, my voice rising. “You’re supposed to install them in a couple of weeks.”
“It’s entirely our fault and I’m going to knock five percent off your order,” she says. “So could you fax your paperwork over to us right now and I’ll get it taken care of?”
I’m not sure if I’m speaking to a woman or a man. A woman, I think. She has one of those deep, androgynous voices and she sounds sort of breathless.
“I placed the order with Amanda,” I say. “Can you put her on the phone?”
“Amanda’s not here right now. It’s not her fault, but somehow your order didn’t get transferred over. I’m so sorry. Do you have your copy of the order so you can fax it to us again?”
“Somewhere,” I say. “But I want to be moved up in your queue. You owe me that.”
“Oh, of course,” the woman agrees. “And that five percent discount, too. Fax the information over to us right now. We’re putting together our order for this week and we don’t want to hold yours up any longer.”
“I’ll have to find it,” I say, getting to my feet and heading for the hallway and my office.
“That’s fine. I’ll keep an eye out for it.” And with that, she hangs up.
I shake my head in annoyance as I walk into my office. My desk is piled high with dozens of receipts related to the house. I peek out the window to check on Rainie, but I can’t see the part of the deck where she’s playing. Sitting down at the desk, I start working my way through the stack of receipts.
It takes me forever to find the information. There are pages of it—measurements and prices and treatment choices for nearly every window in the house. Who am I supposed to fax the information to? I pick up the phone again and tap the woman’s number, but it only rings and rings and rings. I roll my eyes. I should go tell Rainie I’ll be a little while longer, but I just want to get this done, so I sort through the pages of information until I find the shop’s fax number. I jot a handwritten note to Amanda, asking her to be sure my order goes out today. Then I set the stack of papers in my multi-use printer and hit fax.
When I’m finished, I’m in a grisly mood—not at all in the mood for a walk through the woods past “Little Hell Lake.” I shut my eyes. Fold my hands in my lap. You are incredibly lucky to live in a beautiful house with enough money to buy window coverings for fifty windows, I remind myself. In a moment, I feel better. Not exactly peaceful, but I’m pretty sure my blood pressure’s back in the normal range. I take the papers from the machine, set them on the desk, and head downstairs and out to the deck.
Rainie’s not there.
“Rainie?” I call. Her doll is gone too. Could she have headed down the trail without me?
I take off at a jog, calling her name. I trip over one of the roots and scrape my knee and my palms. Getting to my feet again, I brush my stinging hands together to get rid of the dirt. I call her again and listen, but hear nothing other than birdsong. I jog back to the house and head up the south side of the trail, but there’s no sign of her there either, and I start to cry, panic mounting, as I pull my phone from the pocket of my shorts.
I call my father, who says he’ll be right over. Before he hangs up, he tells me to call the police. “Better to overreact than not,” he says, and for the second time this week, I dial 911.