34. Sawyer
SAWYER
The tiny room is almost as I remember it, though from a very different lens.
My face stares back at me from dozens of photos pinned to the walls, some from my time in New York, some from before.
Lots from Sawyer Hansley’s life. Pictures of my island, me with a now resigned prime minister, a headshot taken four years ago, the day after a shot of botox that left my face too tight for a week.
I’d all but forgotten about the bogus website it was used for when America’s Most Wanted flashed it.
Notable are the photos of before Sawyer Hansley. My senior yearbook photo, my driver’s license, a group photo of my theater class after a performance—I played a killer Romeo.
I knew Luna had to have found my real name, but staring back at an identity I haven’t touched since I was eighteen… I busy myself searching for the chloroform with my eyes drawn low. Persephone’s ballet flats tap the hollowed board covering the tunnel.
“Are you sure Her Grace wanted me to see this?” she asks.
I find the bottle on a small shelf with various other containers, all of which appear equally nefarious. I slip the bottle, along with a neatly folded rag, into my pocket.
“She just wants you to see the way out in case of emergencies, like a fire. You’ve been staying here more frequent—”
As my head turns, I lock onto a newspaper article that steals the words from my mouth and the breath from my lungs.
The tension that laces through my arms reminds me of the shift of a shadow down a darkened alley. It’s always a cat, but for a moment or two, you’re sure it’s a mugger.
The article is nothing I didn’t know, nothing that could hurt me. But the tension never leaves as I stare into my mother’s eyes, once a shifting mix of deep blue and silver, like the ocean at dawn, now dulled by the black and white ink.
It’s dated twenty years ago. Which means it’s been twenty years since I’ve read these words, and the hit is no less brutal.
To the left of her photo in big block letters is the headline: Local Woman Found Dead on Monterey Shore in Apparent Suicide
I don’t need to keep reading, but I do.
Monterey, CA — The body of Eleanor Whitmore, 39, was discovered early Tuesday morning along the shoreline near Cannery Row in what authorities are calling an apparent suicide.
According to Monterey Police, a jogger found Whitmore’s body partially submerged in the surf at approximately 6:15 a.m. Emergency responders arrived on the scene shortly after and confirmed she had been deceased for several hours.
A handwritten note, believed to be hers, was found nearby on the damp sand.
Whitmore, a longtime Monterey resident, is believed to have entered the water late Monday night after filling her coat pockets with stones. A handwritten note was recovered nearby, though its contents have not been publicly disclosed. Police described it as brief and personal.
“This appears to be a deliberate act,” says Detective Mark Hensley of the Monterey Police Department. “At this time, we do not suspect foul play.”
Whitmore is survived by her husband, Gerald 'Gerry' Voss, and her 18-year-old son, Sawyer Voss. Neighbors described her as a lively, warm woman who was deeply devoted to her son. In recent years, some noted a change in her demeanor, attributing it to ongoing personal struggles.
If you or someone you know is struggling, help is available. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline provides 24/7 support at 1-800-273-8255.
“Mr. Hansley?” Persephone softly nudges my shoulder. “The horn blared. We’re required to leave for the arena as soon as we hear it.”
Shifting my tongue, I search for moisture along my cheek. But find nothing. I clear my throat and try to swallow before yanking the article from the wall, a metal tack clinging to ripped flimsy paper. It crinkles in my fist and tears at the corner as I shove it down my pocket.
“It’s all right. I know a shortcut,” I tell Persephone.
She gives me a rumpled face but doesn’t protest as I fling open the door at our feet and start down the ladder.
There’s a moment of hesitation where I think she’ll refuse to follow, but twelve years of indoctrinated submission are hard to break free from.
“Come,” I say, firmly enough that I fight a wince.
She lowers herself without a word.
The next fifteen minutes happen on autopilot.
We drop to the bathroom where I rip the board from under the sink. A minute later, I’m ignoring Persephone’s protests while I lead her into the tunnel. So much has changed since the last time I crawled through this dirt, and yet it feels nearly the same.
Running for my life.
Captive in tow.
The nagging feeling that something is wrong.
Not a trap this time, but a reluctance just the same. A pit in my gut that seems to stiffen my limbs and dull my reflexes. I crawl right through a spider web and brush it away as an afterthought. I hear Persephone’s anxious whine and forget that I should comfort it.
It isn’t until I heave myself out of the tunnel and find Liberty anxiously waiting on the other side that I’m conscious enough to school my expression.
And it isn’t enough.
“Did something happen?” Liberty asks, her pitch high.
I only answer by helping Persephone out of the tunnel. She glances between Liberty and me before pulling her jacket tight and hurrying toward the treeline, probably just nervous to get to the ceremony, but this freaks Liberty out. Her eyes pop as she looks between me and Persephone.
Why does it feel like time is slowing?
“Sawyer.”
I touch the pocket with the article.
What would’ve happened had I not found it? No doubt as soon as Liberty and I leave, she’ll contact the authorities. No doubt they would’ve searched every inch of the compound and found my name, along with my mother’s.
The press would want someone to blame for my wickedness.
They’d find it in the scar on my arm, the perspective of my elementary teachers, the reports filed by CPS. A child kept from school; a child with wild stories and confusing injuries.
My faults are mine, but I’ve spent nights praying they’d blame it all on my father.
They wouldn’t.
“Sawyer, what are you doing?!”
My eyes refocus on Liberty. She’s full-blown panicking now, her feet pointed in the direction of Persephone. I turn my head. Persephone is almost out of sight.
I pull the chloroform and rag from my pocket, and instead of waiting for me to go after Persephone, she does it herself.
There’s a scream. It’s faint. I’m glad it wasn’t me who caused it.
By the time I reach them, Persephone is slumped in Liberty’s arms. I pick her up and cradle her as I lead the way into the forest.
“What happened?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
She doesn’t believe me.
But she doesn’t press. Tension winds, and our anxiety feeds off each other as we make our way to the coyote trap.
Freedom! I hear Liberty think. I can feel it in the quick way she moves, careless of the traps I have to point out one-by-one. The extra sap drips make them harder to spot than they should be, but I expected nothing less of Luna.
She’s clever. She’s prudent.
She would’ve had a plan to destroy any evidence revealing my identity before anyone else could find it. She’s not careless—and clearly, she isn’t planning to die tonight.
She must have a plan.
But as the horn blares a second time, it stops me in my tracks.
“What?” Liberty asks, fingertips brushing my arm as she searches the bushes for a Keeper
“The ceremony is starting.”
Her mouth hangs open. Pointed nails dig into my arm as she tries to pull me forward. “So let’s hurry.”
Away from the fight.
Away from Luna.
What will the press say about her?
A sinking sensation tugs my knees and cords my tongue. I try to breathe, but it’s as if my lungs have turned to lead. I lay Persephone on the forest floor and catch myself before toppling. My hands find my knees as I listen to the thump thump thump in my ears.
Baby killer.
Torturer.
No one to blame but pure evil itself.
“Please,” Liberty begs, her hand on my back as she leans in an attempt to make me look at her. “You’re scaring me. Say something.”
Panic attack.
It’s just a panic attack.
“You have to go,” I manage to croak. I nod to Persephone. “Just take her.”
“What?” Liberty shoots up. Her head swings around before coming back to me. “We can’t go without you. What are you even talking about? There are fucking boobytraps everywhere!”
Liberty wipes her hands over her face. “I’ll carry her, just… Get up. Please, you have to get up.” She bends to haul Persephone up, groaning as she lifts her over her shoulder. I forgot Liberty is a triathlete.
I let my head hang and close my eyes while I breathe—a little easier now. Slow breaths. Don’t panic. Just calm down.
The river is twenty-two-hundred steps from the Grove.
Then five-hundred seventy-three steps to the oak tree with roots arched from the ground.
Turn feet thirty-five degrees to the left and walk another one-thousand-eight-hundred and six steps.
“Get up,” Liberty commands. “Please.”
I ignore it. Even when she starts to panic-sob, I ignore it.
Once outside the compound, it’s four thousand nine hundred thirty five steps east through the forest. Right turn, left veer, left turn, right turn, and there’s a barn.
“Sawyer.”
My breaths get deeper, more even, and finally, when air touches the bottom of my lungs, I stand straight and start striding. We have to move. Now.
Liberty and I don’t speak another word as we walk deeper into the forest, weaving around traps and ducking beneath branches. When the horn sounds a third time to signal the end of the ceremony, I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood, but I don’t allow my steps to slow.
Numbers flash in my mind with every step. My teeth tap along. I don’t have the mental bandwidth to consider anything but my steps and my count.
Everything else must wait.
When Liberty lags behind, I take Persephone from her and start to jog. Not too fast, I don’t want to incorrectly estimate my strides.