The Reappearance of Rachel Price

by Holly Jackson

“By the tripe.” “Aha,” Ramsey said, somehow locating it with those instructions. “Tripe?” Bel asked Ash. “Tripod,” he said. “I decided to shorten it. You gain a second every time you abbreviate. Those seconds all add up in the end. Time is money, my friend.”

“Daddy’s home,” he said into her ruffled hair. “Not leaving again. Never leaving you again, I promise, Annabel.” The small child nodded, snatching his promise from the air, pressing her hand to his mouth. Charlie blew a loud raspberry against it. “Daddy, ’top it. Come see my baby.” She pointed a stubby finger back toward the camera. Back toward her eighteen-year-old self, sitting on the living room floor, watching. The screen went dark.

“Thess,” said the kid, confident it was a word. “Thess ah mama blong-itf.” Confident that that was a sentence.

The woman stared back at her, like she knew something too. She was Rachel Price. Reappeared.

Not just words: moves and countermoves, an unspoken battle, sandwiches and shopping. One mistake was forgivable, it made sense. But two? Two felt like something else entirely. She smiled at Rachel and Rachel smiled back. It looked real, but what if it wasn’t? Bel couldn’t be sure, she could only trust the knot in her gut. And it told her what she wanted to hear. Rachel Price might just be lying.

The one Sam Blake gave to Bel for her fourteenth birthday. The one Bel threw in the river just a week later, when Sam said what she did about Dad. It wasn’t like Rachel could have seen the bracelet lying around the house since she’d returned; it was long gone. So how the fuck did she know about

“So,” Ash said in a low voice, hands on his hips, “anything new with you since Saturday?” Bel smirked. “Nothing of note. Took up knitting.” “Really?” Ash bobbed his head. “I, for one, wouldn’t put needles in your hands.” “Why not?” “You seem like the stabby type,” he said, their eyes meeting, a slow blink. “Thank you.” Bel nodded, leaning closer. “You look like a sad tangerine.” “Thank you.” He nodded back.

It wasn’t just a bracelet, was it? It was a countermove, after Bel snooped in her room, stole back that sock. A lock to keep her out, and a bracelet to keep her quiet.

“Suspicious, isn’t it? When you were also the first person on the scene when Rachel disappeared, the one who found me. Your prints all over the car. Is that because you helped Rachel disappear? Do you know where she was all this time? Are you still in love with her?” Ash tensed. There was a shift in Mr. Tripp’s face: jaw jutting forward, brows furrowing, eclipsing his eyes. Bel waited, ready for the fight. Didn’t he know, she’d spent her whole life fighting? “I’ll see you Monday morning, Annabel,” he said, low, through gritted teeth. Said like a threat. Mr. Tripp stepped back, one last look at the camera before he slammed the door in their faces, a thunderclap without a storm.

“Whatever Jeff thinks Grandpa knows about Rachel, he’s kept it to himself, and now Dad’s gone.” Bel set her jaw. “But he won’t be keeping it much longer. He’s going to tell me, tomorrow.” Bel could do it; get Uncle Jeff to crack, just like Sherry. Because there was something else hiding between the members of the Price family, something Rachel’s return had disturbed. Beneath the land mines, there were secrets too.

She’d told him to dress incognito, which, for Ash, meant a thin yellow turtleneck and denim overalls. Like a Minion.

“She’s less likely to spot it there, right? Do you have the small camera?” “Of course.” Ash dropped his backpack, unzipped it one-handed. “But has no one ever told you it’s rude to ask a guy about the size of his camera?”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, looking down at two people standing shoulder to shoulder, looking down at an iPad. One dressed like a Minion. The other with a secret smile.

Bel chose. And she chose right this time. Head and heart and gut. She closed the gap between her and Rachel, eyes fixed on the key, watering because she couldn’t blink, blink and everything might disappear. Bel reached out, fingers gliding through the air, a shiver as she touched the skin of Rachel’s palm. Warm, not cold. She closed Rachel’s hand around the key, into a fist. Skin to skin, bone to bone. Held it there, tight. Eyes on her mom’s. She chose her.

He gave her a salute, hand crooked, matching his smile, and he walked away. Bel watched him go, all the way down the road, until he was little more than an outline, misshapen darkness. He left, and that was OK. Ash was always leaving. And leaving wasn’t the same as leaving behind.