Chapter 10 Jake
Jake scrambled through the forest, its branches clawing at him.
“Liv!” The undergrowth grew thicker, harsher, more combative.
He fought his way out into the clearing, increasing his stride, picking up pace toward the quarry cliff, leaping out into the void like an Olympic long-jumper, one leg ahead of him.
Time stopped, Jake suspended between height and depth, air and water, life and death.
Then he plummeted. The quarry stretched out infinitely below him, a black hole in the universe, sucking him under for eternity.
Something pulled him back. An insistent thrum of sound waves, enough for him to catch onto. A familiar melody.
His phone.
Jake twisted himself out of the dream, out of the tangled bamboo sheets now soaked in sweat. He grabbed at the vibrating, chiming cellphone on the nightstand.
“Uh, hello?”
Sunlight streamed through the ineffective muslin curtains Liv had picked out.
What time was it?
“Mr. Johnson, it’s Detective Adam Banks. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No,” Jake lied, checking the phone’s screen for the time. 10:43 a.m. Crap.
He sat up, swinging his bare legs off the side of the bed, running his hand through his hair, across his growing stubble. Liv would disapprove.
“Do you have news?”
It was like Groundhog Day. This was the sixth consecutive day Detective Banks had called and Jake had asked this very same question, his voice becoming more despondent each day.
“One key update,” Detective Banks replied. “The dredging of the quarry lake finished last night. There’s nothing but a couple of car tires and such. No bodies. Your fiancée wasn’t . . . in the water.”
Thank Christ. Jake blew out his cheeks. “That’s amazing news, isn’t it? Means she’s out there somewhere. Alive.”
“Well,” Detective Banks said slowly, “it means her body isn’t in the forest or in the lake. Not necessarily anything else. If she were alive and well, she’d surely be home by now. Increasingly it’s looking like there are other factors involved. Possibly foul play.”
“‘Foul play’? What does that mean? I was there with her. I’d have seen if someone else was there.”
“It’s just a theory we’ve been exploring,” Detective Banks replied.
“When we conducted the searches, we also noted any other findings that might suggest a third person was around. We’ve interviewed the hiker who found you and called 911, Kirk Evans, to see if he was with anybody else, or had seen anyone around, but he says no.
At this stage, we have no reason to suspect Mr. Evans was involved any further than helping you look for Ms. Grainger.
But we have to take all the possibilities into consideration. ”
He paused, clearing his throat. “That’s why we feel it’s time to hold a press conference. It’s been a week, and as you know there’s been some local media coverage of the search—”
Of course Jake was aware. He’d been reading all the local news websites, which had gotten wind of the police search of the forest and lake.
“—make sure the wider public knows, take it national. I know there’ve already been a lot of social media posts from her friends that have been reposted and that’s gaining traction.
We can capitalize on that attention by holding a media conference, getting not just Olivia’s face but also yours and the Graingers’ in the news.
We need to do that as early as possible — tomorrow morning, if you’re up to it. ”
Jake sighed. As a lawyer, he’d sat in on press conferences for some higher-profile advocacy cases, but it was different being on the other side. “What would I have to do?”
“As her fiancé, you’d be best suited, we think, to make a public statement — a plea for anybody with information, no matter how small, to come forward. You could talk about how you were celebrating your engagement anniversary, the wedding.”
“What about Liv’s parents?”
“We’re not sure Mrs. Grainger would be up to it, and Mr. Grainger is a little more . . . closed-off in his communication. You’re articulate, and ideal for the task. You’re photogenic, and we’d have a big picture of Olivia on a stand next to you, and . . . well, she’s very memorable.”
Beautiful, he means.
What happens if you’re not?
“We want to tug at people’s heartstrings, motivate them to want to help,” the detective adds. “Do you think you could do it? I could have one of our team come over later and help you craft a statement.”
Jesus. Speaking in front of TV cameras and microphones about losing Liv, begging the public for help finding her. How would he do that without losing his shit completely?
“I’m not sure I’d be any better than Tilly — I’ve been as much as a wreck as she has,” Jake protested. “Just because I’m a guy doesn’t mean I haven’t been crying myself to sleep every night.”
“To be honest, that’s not a bad thing. The public responds very positively to an emotional man, especially one in love. Even better if he’s good-looking. Some tears might help your case, so don’t worry about it.”
Wow. Way to exploit a family’s grief over their missing loved one.
With Jake remaining silent, the detective added, “So, can I send our public relations consultant Sandra over to your place today? Around three p.m.? Maybe you could jot down some thoughts beforehand, and she’ll help you put them into a statement.”
“Uh. I guess. Sure.”
Anything to help find Liv. If there was even the slightest chance someone had seen her, or if she was out there somewhere in hiding, and saw the news, saw how much Jake and her family wanted her home . . . Yes, he’d do anything.
* * *
Jake settled himself at the long desk beside Tilly, Burt on her other side, and Charlotte at the end.
Jake’s seat was in the middle of the stage, with a lectern on the far side and a large Wilmington PD emblem on the backdrop between them.
Below it, on an easel, stood a giant foamboard print of Liv, the headshot taken for her website a couple of years back, the one where she looked like a model.
She’d hated it. At this magnification, the gold flecks in her hazel-colored, slightly catlike eyes were clearly visible, her skin was luminous, and you could see the natural bronze highlights in her chestnut hair.
Jake had to turn away, or he might just fling himself at the photo in front of all these people.
A cluster of large black microphones had been placed on the desk before him, each with a collar bearing the name of some TV or radio news channel.
At least a dozen camera crews were jostling for position at the front, while journalists and TV reporters waited behind them with dictaphones, pens, microphones poised.
Sweat dripped down his back. He hoped his face wasn’t too shiny.
Two oversized studio lights, one each side of the low stage, were turned on with an audible clang, their brightness making Jake blink. He screwed up his face. His palm dampened the single-page printout anchored beneath his hands, slightly blurring the text.
Great.
Beside Jake, Liv’s mother emitted a tiny whimper while Burt put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. At least they didn’t have to say anything — just sit there and look heartbroken. It was all on Jake now.
Again, the weight of that gnawed at him. What if he didn’t get it right? Wasn’t good-looking enough to gain Liv enough attention? Wasn’t forlorn enough? Was too forlorn? What if whatever he said, or didn’t say, was the difference between Liv coming back or not?
Detective Banks stepped up to the lectern, looking clean cut and sharp in a pressed uniform. It struck Jake the man was also pretty telegenic. There was a low buzz of voices before the room fell silent. A few stragglers slipped into seats. Cameras were steadied, their tiny red lights blinking.
Jake’s stomach twisted itself into a knot; suddenly he was nauseous. It really wouldn’t be a good look if he threw up over the desk.
“Thank you for being here.” Detective Banks scanned the cameras with a grim half-smile. He’d clearly done this before.
“Olivia Grainger, a twenty-eight-year-old interior designer from Wilmington, was reported missing eight days ago. Wilmington PD has been conducting an extensive search of the area from which Ms. Grainger disappeared. We can now report that the forest search and the dredging of the former McMahon Quarry lake has resulted in no findings, and Wilmington PD is continuing its investigation into this very troubling missing-person case. Today we’d like to share a statement from Ms. Grainger’s fiancé, Jake Johnson, a lawyer with Refuge Advocacy International, who’s here supported by Mr. and Mrs. Grainger, Olivia’s parents. ”
Detective Banks stepped down. Was it weird he’d mentioned Jake’s job? As if that somehow made him a more credible figure?
The bank of cameras, a multi-headed technological beast finding its prey, slid its many eyes to Jake. He swallowed, his mouth desert-like in its dryness. He opened it: nothing came out.
Shit.
Taking a sip of water from the glass beside him, he felt the liquid coat his throat. He swallowed. Better.
When he lifted the sheet of paper, the typed words blurred as his hand trembled violently.
“My — my name is Jake Johnson. On the afternoon of May 27, 2022, at around 2 p.m., Olivia Grainger, my fiancée, disappeared while we were picnicking at the former McMahon Quarry lake.
We are planning to get married in August this year, and we had been celebrating the one-year anniversary of our engagement.
“I was packing up our belongings and Liv said she was going to take a short walk along the quarry ridge. When I looked up, she had disappeared. I searched for her but—” He took in a shuddering, deep breath.
Tilly laid her hand on his on the table, squeezing slightly, smiling her encouragement.
He turned his hand, linking his fingers through hers.