Chapter 10
The sleeping pills worked a little too well.
In fact, I was so dead asleep that I didn’t hear the sirens.
Not even the commotion outside my house woke me.
My phone ringing on my bedside table next to my head didn’t even reach through my slumber.
But somehow the tiny little notification beep of my phone startled me wide awake: one new voicemail.
In a world full of texting, hardly anyone leaves voicemails anymore unless they’re a retiree or have too much time on their hands. Or in this case, both. I tap the message while rubbing sleep out of my eyes.
“Gianna, it’s Mamma. Please call me back as soon as you get this. It’s important.”
It’s been four years since I’ve heard my mamma’s voice, but she sounds exactly the same as always. High and breathless and tight, like she’s either been crying or doing jazzercise. Knowing her, it could be either one.
I frown. Even before my prison sentence, Mamma never called unless something terrible happened—her version of terrible, anyway. The last time she left a message like this was before Stew was killed, when she was dog-sitting Zoomie so that Stew and I could enjoy a getaway.
He’d eaten a battery. A large D battery, of all things.
I had raced home expecting to find him foaming at the mouth or glowing radioactive green.
Instead, he’d looked thrilled, wagging his crooked tail like he’d solved cold fusion.
It turned out he passed the battery a day later, along with a sanitary napkin that may or may not have saved his life by soaking up the battery acid.
My mother had cried harder about nearly losing Zoomie than she did on the day I got convicted.
So if my mamma is calling, it’s either a national crisis or a minor inconvenience blown wildly out of proportion. With her, it’s a coin toss. I call her back right after I brush my teeth because as a retired dental hygienist, it’s always the first thing she wants to know about—my dental care.
She answers on the first ring just as I’m spitting out toothpaste. “Bambina, is it really you?”
“Hi, Mamma, yes it’s me.” I don’t know why I’m trembling. It’s my mother, the woman who birthed me, but my heart is racing and I’m sweating like I just finished a marathon. I feel like I’m cold-calling a stranger. “It’s been a while. I tried reaching out but you never called me back.”
“Oh,” she sighs, and I have a feeling I know where the excuses are heading, “well, I just couldn’t, Gianna. Not after what you did. You have to understand—”
“It’s fine, Mamma,” I interrupt.
I already know what she’s going to say, because I’ve known her all my life.
She’s embarrassed by me. Her parenting was publicly criticized when I first got brought in for questioning, and I completely destroyed our family reputation when the prison sentence was given.
To her, the damage to our family name was unforgiveable.
“I don’t want to talk about the past, okay?” I continue. “You called me, so I’m just returning your call. Oh, and I go by Shari now.”
“Oh, right. I forgot you abandoned your Italian heritage in order to keep your secret identity.”
“I didn’t abandon my heritage, Mamma. Shari’s my middle name. I’m still the same person.”
“You are not the good girl I raised, but I’m not going to argue. So, well, how are the teeth? Any cavities?”
“Mamma, please. My cavity-free teeth are not why you called.” I figure I could at least throw her a little good news.
“Oh good,” she says, then continues, her voice trembling, “I just… I wanted to make sure you weren’t involved in what’s going on over there.”
“What do you mean?” I pull the phone away and stare at it like maybe I dialed the wrong number. “Mamma, what are you talking about?”
There’s a sharp inhale on the other end. I picture her clutching her floral nightgown, eyes wide like she’s watching the Weather Channel’s end-of-days special.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Gianna.” Her voice breaks. “Didn’t you hear what happened? Certainly you should have heard the sirens from right across the street!”
Sirens? Across the street? My mother’s pitchy voice hurts my ear through the phone speaker. Or maybe it’s sudden-onset tinnitus ringing, because I almost miss the next thing she says.
“Turn on the news. Your neighbor Ivory Cobb is missing.”
I freeze in the middle of my bathroom, one hand still resting on the faucet. Ivory is not just a neighbor. She’s my best friend.
“Missing?” I repeat, because I must have heard her wrong. “No, Mamma, that can’t be right. I literally saw her yesterday evening.”
Yesterday. When I sat across from Ivory in her kitchen, watching her face remain stoic as I told her I’d seen Fred with another woman. When she told me not to say anything and to keep this secret. Did Ivory confront Fred after all?
“Yesterday evening?” she asks. “As in you might have been the last person to see her alive?”
Since when did my mother start working for the police department? I don’t like this line of questioning at all.
“No, her husband Fred or her daughter who live with her were probably the last ones to see her.”
“Well, that’s good, at least. Maybe you should keep your head down, just in case anyone saw you over there. I’d hate to see you head back to you-know-where.”
She says it like prison is just a mysterious evil character in a Harry Potter book.
“Okay, I appreciate the call.”
“Alrighty, Bambina. Stay safe,” she says.
Before she hangs up, I ask the only question that’s on my mind after this terribly awkward conversation.
“Did you want to maybe come over for lunch sometime? We could make focaccia di recco together.” It was one of my father’s favorite homemade dishes, and an olive branch to my brokenhearted mamma.
My voice sounds flat and mechanical because I don’t want to sound needy, but right now all I want is my mommy.
A dial tone answers for her. It feels like my heart is breaking.
Instead of giving in to the desire to curl up in a ball and cry, I immediately dial Ivory, which goes straight to voicemail. Maybe she’s ignoring calls today, finally processing Fred’s infidelity. So I redial. Voicemail again.
A prickle runs down my arms. I cross my bedroom to the window that overlooks Hemlock Drive and pull the curtain back.
My breath catches at the view. Across the street, Ivory’s house looks like the backdrop of a crime show.
Two police cars are parked in front of her house—one at the curb, the other in her driveway, their lights silently flashing.
A news van idles at the end of her driveway, the big satellite dish pointed at the sky like it’s listening for CIA secrets.
A cluster of neighbors hovers on the sidewalk, presumably starting up the rumor mill.
“What the heck…”
My heart thuds so hard I feel it in my throat. I fumble for my phone, nearly dropping it, and open a browser. My fingers feel wooden as I type in the search engine:
Ivory Cobb Doomwood Falls Missing
A Doomwood Falls Daily article pops up at the top of the first result:
DOOMWOOD FALLS — Authorities have launched an active investigation following the disappearance of a local woman, Ivory Cobb, who was reported missing late yesterday evening.
Cobb was last seen at her residence on Hemlock Drive, a quiet neighborhood bordering the river that gives Doomwood Falls its name.
According to the DFPD, her husband Fred Cobb reported her missing when she didn’t arrive home that night. Officers arriving at the residence found no signs of forced entry. Her car remained parked in the driveway.
“She didn’t just vanish without reason,” the police chief stated during a brief press statement the following morning. “We’re treating this as a missing person case and following every lead. At this time, we’re asking the public for patience and vigilance.”
Residents described Cobb as outgoing and friendly, someone who kept to a routine. “She is the glue that holds Doomwood Falls together,” said a neighbor who wished to remain anonymous. Another neighbor Ali Azad said, “When I not see her yesterday, I knew something wrong.”
Search efforts began overnight, with officers canvassing nearby woods and questioning locals in the area. By mid-morning, additional resources had been brought in, including county investigators. Police declined to comment on whether any persons of interest have been identified.
Doomwood Falls, a town better known for its annual harvest festival than criminal activity, has been unsettled by the news. Rumors have already begun to circulate, fueled by the town’s long memory and the dense forest that presses in on its edges.
Authorities urge anyone with information—no matter how small—to come forward. Residents wait for answers, hoping the silence surrounding Hemlock Drive will soon be broken.
My mouth goes dry. This isn’t a coincidence that the day Ivory finds out about Fred’s affair she suddenly disappears. It can’t be. As I stare at the article, something bubbles up in my memory, something I brushed off. But now, looking back, it feels urgent.
I vaguely recall something I noticed at the waterfall. And if I’m right, it might explain what happened to Ivory… and if she is dead or alive.