4 Sterling Darling—Zach Bryan #3
He shakes his head, one hand stroking his white, cotton-candy beard. “Alright, son. Watch your lip.”
“Sorry, sir. Where’re we starting today?”
Lifting my toolbox and pruning shears from the truck, I carry them over to the workbench that I set up in the library’s small patio area a few days back. Melville launches into his usual spiel that he thinks is helpful, so I tune him out.
By the time I’ve got the overgrown conifer shaped into a relatively neat cone, he’s set himself up on the memorial bench opposite the entrance with a steaming cup of tea and the newspaper. It’s his daily ritual—putting the world to rights while tutting over the news.
“Anything interesting?” I start bagging up the clippings.
“The usual doom and gloom.”
“I don’t know why you still read that thing every day.”
“No point pretending like bad things aren’t happening all over,” he replies distractedly. “You know, it’s days like this I think it’s better Sal isn’t alive to see what’s becoming of the world.”
That’s exactly the kind of statement that would’ve earned him a smack around the head by his late wife. Sal wasn’t just the town matriarch—she was a formidable source of strength for everyone. At one point, they owned close to half the town.
When I returned home, she sold me the cottage for a cut rate so I had a blank slate to call home. I took the deal and moved in a few months before she passed away from a stroke.
“Careful, old man. I’m sure she’s out here listening still.”
A wistful smile touches his lips. “Of that I have no doubt.”
“Why don’t you put the paper down and come tell me what you think about this ivy?”
Grumbling, he folds the printed sheets in half, then tucks them under his arm. When he bumbles past, my gaze catches on a short article tucked into the corner of his discarded newspaper.
London-Based Exec, 33, Declared Missing.
A knot twists my intestines into an unbreakable loop. Missing. It’s an optimistic word, despite holding the power to provoke such desperation. If you’re missing, then there’s hope. Still a chance that you may be found alive. Your family can wait and pray.
Missing isn’t dead.
Missing isn’t gone.
Of course, the families left behind long for the finality of a definitive answer. Dead or alive. Coming home or not. Perhaps they even wish for a body. Something to bury. Something to grieve. After all, they just want closure.
If given even the slightest speck of hope, I would’ve grabbed hold of that spark and locked it tight behind my ribcage where no one could dare to extinguish it.
Instead I got an empty vessel to cremate.
The ashes of a broken life to scatter. And the emptiness of a future without the one person I intended to spend it with.
“Sterling! You listening to me?”
Tearing my eyes from the text, I find Melville watching me with concern.
“Sorry, what?”
He points towards the thick ivy creeping up the side of the library. “That stuff is invasive. We ought to strip it back.”
My voice rattles as I clear my throat. “Ah, no can do, sir. A building this old . . . we’ll ruin the stonework if we even touch that ivy. You’ll tear down half the exterior wall just digging it out.”
“Nonsense. Let’s have a closer look.”
“Go ahead.”
Mumbling to himself, he shuffles over to the building so he can inspect the sarcophagus of glossy ivy. I’ve placed the shears down and picked up the newspaper before my mind registers that my body has moved.
Vicious black ink spills across the pages, each letter tattooing itself into my aching heart.
The Metropolitan Police are requesting the assistance of the public in locating a missing person. Rachel Heavensly, 33, was last seen in Chelsea on January 27. Her disappearance is being treated as suspicious at this time.
If you have any information to share, please contact the Missing Persons hotline.
Acid scorches my oesophagus, a bubble of vomit barely held back by willpower alone. Right now, her family will be out plastering the local area with flyers. Frantically calling friends, relatives, anyone who may offer the slightest relief. Staring at the front door and willing the doorbell to ring.
You never think it’s going to happen to you until it does. Then there’s no coming back. The existential fissures such a loss creates can’t ever be filled or patched over. Life may go on . . . but real living ceases.
“Sterling?” Melville calls. “Give us a hand, boy.”
I drop the paper like it’s a hot lump of coal. “Coming.”
“We’re going to need some muscle. Call that brother of yours in . . . and bring a chainsaw.”
“A chainsaw . . . right. Sure. I’ll make the call.”
“If my grandson were here instead of gallivanting around Europe with that damned band of his, this could’ve been sorted weeks ago.”
“Don’t worry, sir. We’ll take care of it.”
When I step away from the grounds to retrieve my phone, that article still roils like burning acid in my gut. Missing. I hope to fuck they find her, because I know exactly what her loved ones face if not.
An empty, lonely existence.
An aching nothingness.
A silent death.