So why did Chatham/Alana concoct a whole new identity? Why give herself a whole new name? And why did Savannah assume Alana’s name?
Chatham asked for an ID.
I helped her get it.
What if Chatham didn’t have ID when she arrived in Sugar Creek because Savannah had taken Alana’s license with her when she left? Because Chatham had refused to run away with Savannah, Savannah could have swiped the driver’s license to avoid leaving a trail. If Savannah was approached, she could pretend to be Alana—whom no one would be looking for because she opted to stay on the farm. Being Alana would have raised fewer flags than being Savannah on the run.
I think back to the day Chatham told me about what Savannah had said about the stables at the Goudys’ farm. She’d been convinced Savannah was in danger because she’d found Savannah’s money, and her license, under the floorboards of the stables. She realized then, she should have gone with Savannah.
Either way, what do these sisters have to do with Rachel Bachton? Have they come all this way, to this has-been town, to convince the police their foster parents are involved in Rachel Bachton’s disappearance?
I look up at the television, where a reporter is discussing the case in front of Rachel’s old house:
“. . . despite sightings at train stations along the East Coast, despite thousands of tips, and despite the recent surfacing of a photograph, and the testimony of a man currently in custody on charges of domestic violence who may or may not be involved . . .”
Damien!
“. . . police are no closer to solving the case than they were a decade ago. The missing girl’s family holds out hope that even though this lead did not pan out, others will. Police continue to cite a possible connection between Rachel Bachton and the case of Baby A, whose remains were found earlier this year in rural Chatham County, Georgia.”
She goes on, but I’m distracted by the reporter’s backdrop: Rachel’s old house; more specifically, a leaded glass window in the door, just beyond the gate the reporter is standing in front of, the gate against which sympathizers tied ribbons and left flowers and teddy bears.
I hear the echo of my sisters’ voices on the beach on the last day of summer: criss-cross windows!
I practically bounce off the sofa cushions. The house!
Of course!
It’s the house Chatham sculpted on the beach! The turret, the wrap-around porch. The criss-cross windows!
By the time I get the picture up on my phone to compare, the camera cuts to Rachel’s parents, who are thanking the public for their continued concern, awareness, and support. “We’ve been through this before. Some young woman insisting she’s our daughter, some Good Samaritan thinking he’s seen our Rachel. But even every negative result, every lead that doesn’t pan out, puts us one step closer to knowing the truth.”
There’s a photo-montage of their precious daughter on the screen now. In some pictures, she’s posing with her little brother.
I snap a picture of one in particular—Rachel on Northgate Beach. The lighthouse is in the background. She’s wearing a two-piece swimsuit with wide ruffles; it coordinates with her brother’s stars-and-stripes trunks.
But it’s not really about the beach. And it doesn’t matter that it must be the last summer she spent with her family before someone grabbed her.
It’s what I see that a lot of people might not notice.
I enlarge the picture and study what I think I saw:
Rachel has a birthmark on her left hip—an oval patch of dark against her ivory skin.
I flash back to the day Chatham unbuttoned those amazing cut-offs and revealed the X on her hip, and I hear the words she said to me in the back of my mind: It makes sense, based on what Savannah remembers. She says it wasn’t an accident. She says Loretta held me down and Wayne branded me. Like, some sort of punishment. She saw it, she says.
Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod.
My fingertips are tingling, and it’s getting hard to breathe.
“Here is an age-progressed image of what Rachel Bachton may look like today.”
I snap a picture of that, too, because I’m on overload. I can’t process.
“If anyone has any information . . .”
I take a deep breath and compare the age-progression of little Rachel to the teenage blonde Rachel. She’s not identical to the Chatham Aiden’s doctored on his screen, but there are definite similarities.
Is the scar on Chatham’s hip a coincidence? Or did the Goudys purposefully burn her to get rid of an obvious connection between her and a missing girl from northern Illinois?
It’s possible. Chatham had a vague recollection of being at the farmers’ market, and she assumed it was because she might’ve witnessed Rachel’s abduction.
Could it be she was wrong?
Could it be she was the one who was abducted?
“Someone saw something,” Rachel’s mother is saying on camera. “It’s been long enough. Tell us what you know. Put us—put yourself—at ease, and tell us. And, Rachel, if you’re out there, and we believe you are, all you have to do is tell someone. Tell someone about the charm on your necklace. Even if you don’t have it anymore, it’s all right. Tell someone.”