The Reappearance of Rachel Price

The White Mountains Mall had bright overhead lighting that hurt your eyes, tinny uplifting music that didn’t work at all. At least not on Bel; she couldn’t tell with Rachel.

The camera was nestled on James’s shoulder, and Saba held the boom mike over their heads, struggling to keep it steady, moving at this speed. Ramsey walked with the camera, out of frame, and Ash was behind somewhere, citrus bright in a yellow spotted shirt tucked into orange pants.

Rachel was walking too fast, that was the problem, like she was running from something, chased by the camera. Bel was keeping step, side by side but not too close, sometimes even outpacing Rachel, like they were racing to some unknown finish line.

“So, Rachel,” Ramsey said, cautiously. “How does it feel to be back here? In this same mall where you first disappeared over sixteen years ago.”

“There are certain things I’m not allowed to discuss,” she said, “as this is an ongoing criminal investigation.” She didn’t turn back to say it, didn’t give the camera her face.

“Of course, I understand,” Ramsey said with a deferential nod. They’d already had this discussion, when Ramsey tried to make conversation on the drive here. Bel had sat in the front next to him, Rachel alone in the back, closely watching the world go by, smiling when they passed dogs or kids.

Ramsey tried again. “Does it feel surreal to be here, now you know that this place played a huge role in the mystery of your disappearance?”

Rachel did turn back then, cracking open a smile for the camera.

“I’m happy to discuss sitting down with you for an interview another time,” she said, not unkindly. “Maybe tomorrow, when Anna is back at school.”

Ramsey looked confused by the name; he wasn’t the only one. How hard could it be? Take the end of her name instead of the start.

“But for now,” Rachel continued, pulling the smile wider, showing more teeth, “I really just want to take my daughter shopping. I’ve waited a long time for this.”

“No, sure.” Ramsey backed off. “From now on, you will see us, not hear us. Promise. Pretend we’re not here.”

“I will,” Rachel said, again not unkindly, but it could only be meant one way. Like something Bel would say. A small flicker played on Ramsey’s lips, like he’d noticed it too. No, stop that, they were nothing alike.

The mall wasn’t busy; it was a Monday afternoon, meandering moms and dads with strollers. But every eye soon fell on them, a sure thing, if Bel had five bucks every time. A growing wasp-buzz of whispers when people recognized the Rachel Price from the news this morning, reappeared with a camera crew and going into H&M.

“OK,” Rachel said inside, arm brushing up against Bel’s. “I just need a few basic things, really. Couple pairs of shoes. A jacket. Some tops, pants. Maybe a skirt, I don’t know.” She blinked, shy and unsure. “Will you help me look? Tell me what will look good? Everything’s a bit more high-waisted than I remember.”

“Sure,” Bel said again, because Rachel kept trapping her into it. “What colors do you like?”

“Anything, really,” Rachel said, voice honey-soft. It didn’t match her eyes. “Maybe not red.”

They both thought of it then; the red top she’d disappeared in, grainy footage from this very mall, the same filthy red top she’d been forced to wear for the past sixteen years. If her story was real, that was. There were already two strikes against it.

“No red,” Bel agreed.

Bel moved off, mission in hand, distracting her from the knot of tension in her gut. Rachel and the crew followed her around like ducklings, weaving in and out of the aisles. Part of her wanted to slip away and hide from Rachel, in a rack of clothing, like she never got to do as a kid. Making moms panic to prove they truly loved you; she assumed that was why children did it. She was too old for that, and the test wouldn’t work because Rachel knew more about disappearing than she did. They didn’t even know each other, forget about love.

Bel picked out a couple of nice shirts, thin sweaters for daytime, black ankle boots, plain white sneakers—

“Versatile,” she said, passing the shoes over.

Some check pants Ash would probably be jealous of. A cropped trench jacket in stone—

“That’ll go with everything,” she told Rachel, handing her the hanger. “You can layer under it. You don’t want something too thick for summer.”

Rachel made a sound, in the back of her throat. Eyes twinkling, like she might just cry. The jacket wasn’t that nice.

A khaki midi skirt buttoned all the way. A black shirtdress—

“You can dress that up, or down to be more casual.” Bel added it to the pile in Rachel’s hands.

Some sweats.

“You know, for being lazy around the house.”

Rachel didn’t say anything this time, and Bel looked back to check she was still here. She was, crying, struggling through all the clothes to wipe her face.

“You don’t like them?” Bel asked, hovering awkwardly between the aisles.

“No, I love them all, thank you.” Rachel finally reached the tear, brushing it away.

Bel felt an ache in her gut, something new, less urgent than the knot. Her face softened, offering Rachel a half smile.

Rachel completed it, making one whole. “Thank you for doing this, Anna.”

Anna again. And it was just the knot after all, pulling tighter now Bel had given it her attention. Rachel must have noticed the shift.

“Do you want something for you?” she said, widening her eyes. “I saw you looking at that green top? Something else? And that jumpsuit.” She gestured with her head, no hands free. “That would look good on Carter, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t need anything,” Bel said, turning away.

They headed into the fitting rooms, leaving the crew behind. They had too many items to take in, each carrying several hangers, but the woman at the entrance made an exception. Maybe she recognized the Rachel Price. Bel would have to get used to that, she supposed.

“Here.” Bel hung the clothes inside the cubicle at the far end, gestured Rachel inside.

Rachel moved slowly now, glancing in before she entered. Bel reached forward to close the door for her, but Rachel’s hand darted out, caught it.

“Maybe we don’t have to shut it all the way,” she said, a breathiness in her voice, close to fear. “It’s pretty tight in here.”

Tight, like sixteen years in a basement.

Another tug in Bel’s gut. Maybe she was being unfair. Two mistakes didn’t make Rachel a liar, did it? Things felt strange, and Rachel was strange, but she would be, wouldn’t she? If she’d been trapped in the dark all that time, alone.

“Sure, we can keep it open a little,” Bel said gently, guiding the door back, giving Rachel a few inches.

She sat outside the cubicle, flashes of flesh and material through the small crack in the door.

“Bras are more complicated than they used to be,” Rachel huffed from inside.

Bel fought a smile; she lost.

“You OK?” she called.

“Nearly,” Rachel replied.

She emerged a few minutes later, the khaki skirt skimming her calves, paired with a ruffled black top and white sneakers. She showed Bel, standing there with sad, subdued jazz hands.

“I like them,” Bel said, trying, even though it didn’t come naturally to her. “Wait.”

She moved closer, bending to her knees.

“What is it?” Rachel looked down at her. “Wrong shape?”

“No, it looks great. It’s just your socks,” Bel said, reaching forward. She hesitated, seeking permission with her eyes. Rachel nodded above her. “People don’t wear them like that anymore. Need to push them down.”

Bel rolled the socks down below Rachel’s ankles, over the dressing on her left ankle, where she’d been chained. Now she was this close, she noticed something else, peeking over the top of the Band-Aid.

There was a large scar on the inside of Rachel’s ankle. A half circle, gnarled and healed, with pearly puckered skin. Where did that come from? When? Dad had never mentioned it, and it wasn’t in the press releases that described Rachel’s birthmark as her only identifying feature. So she must have got it sometime when she was disappeared.

“Better?” Rachel asked.

Bel straightened up, stepped back. “Better,” she confirmed.

Why hadn’t Rachel mentioned it in her story? The man never touched her, she’d said, so how had she got that scar? Had it come from an injury you couldn’t get if you were locked in a basement all this time?

“Next?” Rachel said, retreating back inside the cubicle, leaving the door ajar.

No, stop it. Bel was trying. She was giving Rachel a chance. It was probably where the cuff used to rub, the same wound as below, an earlier version. She shooed away the knot in her gut; it never listened.

Rachel came back out, now wearing the check pants and a white shirt, with the black boots and the jacket on top.

Bel cleared her throat to try again.

“Looks really good,” she said.

Rachel looked up, catching herself in the long mirror, not quite meeting her own eyes.

“You don’t like it?” Bel asked.

“I do,” Rachel said. “It’s just weird, seeing myself.” Bel couldn’t read Rachel’s eyes because they wouldn’t stay in one place, darting over the person in the mirror. She spun in a half turn, one way, then the other. “I look … nice.”

A sound in Rachel’s throat, somewhere between a sniff and a laugh. Bel chose for her, laughing quietly too.

“Yeah, you do. Could dress it up more with some jewelry.”

Rachel held one arm out, the sleeve pulling taut, looking at her bare wrist.

“Like that gold bracelet you have,” she said.

Bel stalled, mouth open. What bracelet did Rachel mean?

“The one with the skulls?” Rachel explained as though she could hear Bel’s thoughts.

Bel didn’t like that. But there was something else she didn’t like more. The laugh staled on her face, the smile turned bitter.

“I don’t have that anymore.”

It was just one second. Rachel’s eyes widened, staring at Bel’s reflection, hiding in the back of the mirror. And then it was gone, just as fast, Rachel dropping her arm and rearranging her smile.

“Must be thinking of one Sherry used to wear.”

The knot stirred in Bel’s gut.

“Yeah,” she said. “Must be.”

“I think that’s everything.” Rachel beamed at herself, sharing it with Bel as she stepped back into the cubicle.

The door closed and Bel dropped her smile, unwatched, unguarded.

That bracelet.

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 it?

Another question. Another mistake?

Bel didn’t want to, but the knot insisted.

She pulled out her phone, swiping until she found the Instagram app. On to her profile, untouched in years. And the last photo Bel ever posted: a selfie of her and Sam, Bel beaming at the camera, Sam’s nose nuzzling her cheek. Bel’s wrist on the desk in front of them, that gold bracelet catching the light, two small skulls hanging by the clasp. Probably the only photo ever taken of that bracelet, the only proof of its existence before Bel made it disappear.

She checked through the crack in the door that Rachel was still changing. The only way Rachel could have known about the bracelet was if she’d seen this photo after she reappeared. But that wasn’t possible either. Rachel didn’t have a phone yet, she didn’t have access to any device that could connect to the internet. And she didn’t have time; Bel had been with her since she returned, apart from at the police station and while she was sleeping. There was no way Rachel could have seen this photo online since Saturday. So how the fuck did Rachel know about the bracelet if she came out of the basement just two days ago?

The answer was clear this time: she couldn’t.

Something Rachel knew that she couldn’t possibly know if her story was true. Which meant it wasn’t. Not some of it, maybe not any of it. That wasn’t just a mistake. That was a lie. Which meant the other two weren’t mistakes either.

Three lies.

Bel had caught her now.

And if those were lies, what else could she be lying about? Some of it? The rest of it? All of it? Was that all it was, a story, crafted to fit the details it needed to, to fill in the mystery? It didn’t even make sense: Why would the man just let Rachel go after all these years? What if there was no man?

Rachel Price had disappeared and reappeared. And now Bel knew for sure, she was lying about some of it, maybe all of it.

The door nudged open and Rachel came out in her old clothes, oblivious or pretending to be, a mountain-pile of new ones in her arms, nearly blocking out her face.

“You OK?” she asked Bel, trying to read her eyes.

Bel blocked her out, looked down. The board had shifted again, rerighting the sides, Bel and this stranger now exactly where they belonged, on opposite ends. A liar and the one who knew about it.

“Fine,” she sniffed.

Rachel didn’t let it go. “You need water?” she asked. “You look warm.”

“Shopping …,” Bel said, as though that explained it.

They stood at the back of the line for the register, the camera crew waiting for them at the front of the store.

An iron fist took hold of the knot in Bel’s gut, twisted it, tightened it, winding up her insides along with it. A breaking point, and Bel couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Rachel was distracted, looking at the rack of socks, now was her chance. Bel’s hand snaked out, toward the nearest shelf, wrapping around one of those tiny pots of lip balm. She slipped it up her sleeve, then into the pocket of her denim jacket, safe there.

The little lip balm fed the knot in her gut, sating it. A reprieve, an undoing, cooling and necessary, pull and push, another secret fight where Bel didn’t have to choose a side because she was the battleground.

Bel looked away, accidentally meeting Ash’s eyes, standing over there by the accessories, running his thumb over a bright pink headband. He hadn’t seen, had he?

The relief didn’t last long, standing this close to Rachel, shuffling forward until “Next, please.” The knot redoubled, pulling at Bel’s threads while Rachel pulled out Dad’s credit card. The hot prick of shame, right on time.

Ash didn’t say anything, even if he had seen.

The mall was busier when they left H&M. Was that normal for a Monday afternoon, or had word spread? People coming down to see for themselves. Not everyone recognized Rachel right away, but they knew she was someone to be stared at: Is she that actress from the pink lawyer film? No, she wasn’t, but that didn’t mean Rachel wasn’t acting, even now, a paper bag swinging at her side, matching the one in Bel’s hand.

People weren’t just staring and pointing anymore. Phones were out, recording Rachel, Bel and the crew as they passed. Taking selfies with them in the background, trading their faces for likes and comments. Bel scratched her nose with her middle finger, to ruin their videos.

Rachel stopped, shoes screaming against the floor, staring ahead.

“Oh. It’s a Starbucks now.” She chewed the inside of her cheek, turning to Ramsey to explain. She must not realize he already knew everything about her that it was possible to know. “There was a coffeehouse here, the Moose Mouse Coffeehouse. I used to work here after college. They did the best cinnamon buns. I dreamed of having one again. Annabel, I guess you don’t remember? Used to get sugar all over your face.”

Bel shook her head. No, the cinnamon buns were gone, right along with the memories of Rachel’s disappearance and what really happened. Which was not the same as what Rachel said had happened.

“I wanted us to have one together.” Rachel’s voice shrank, her eyes clouded.

James panned the camera to catch the two of them in front of the Starbucks. Even though the coffeehouse wasn’t here anymore, this was still the spot, the last footage of Rachel Price alive, before she and her toddler vanished here, into thin air.

“Starbucks probably do a cinnamon bun,” Bel offered.

“It’s not the same,” Rachel said with a sad sniff, moving on.

Bel had no choice but to follow.

At the corner, Rachel drew closer, leaning in. “Down there,” she whispered so the camera and crew couldn’t hear, pointing to a Staff Only door. “The recycling bins. Where we hid.” Her eyes were too close, fusing with Bel’s in a way that stung.

Their secret, that only one of them remembered. Bel blinked to break the link and pulled away. Did she have to believe that part of the story at least? How else had the two of them disappeared between security cameras?

Their last stop was T-Mobile, to get Rachel a phone. Ash asked the sales assistant to sign a release form: the guy was helpful, far too helpful, showing the camera his best angle as he talked Rachel through contracts and phones, checking his hair in the glass of the store window.

They settled on the newest iPhone with a monthly contract: unlimited everything. Bel winced on behalf of Dad’s card as Rachel went to pay.

“You might find it a little confusing to set up,” the guy said, clinging on to his fifteen minutes of fame. “Phones are touchscreen now. I’m sure your daughter can help you.”

“Will you, Anna? Sorry, B-Bel. Help me set up my phone?” Rachel looked at her.

“Of course she will,” the sales assistant answered for her.

Bel smiled, because the camera was rolling. “Sure.”

She left Rachel there, trailing off behind the camera to the back of the store, so she could drop the act. Ash was here too. Just a coincidence, she wasn’t trying to stand with him.

“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 was annoying, how much he enjoyed her spite, matched her for it with a smile. It got rid of most people, everyone else in fact, so Ash couldn’t be right in the head. Bel didn’t know how to work with that.

“It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?” he said, serious now, eyes straying over to Rachel. “This whole thing. Unbelievable.”

Bel studied him in secret, the outline of his straight nose down to the swell of his lips, pressed together in thought. She knew how he’d meant it; unbelievable to mean extraordinary, shocking, astonishing. But was there a chance he’d left it open to mean the other thing? That he couldn’t quite believe Rachel’s story, what he knew of it at least, a splinter of doubt hiding there.

If Bel told him everything, would he believe her? Would he be on her side, someone to talk to?

No, she was being ridiculous. Bel moved her eyes away. Ash didn’t care. They were just here to make their movie, then they’d fuck off back to England forever. Bel didn’t need to push; he was leaving anyway.

“Yeah. Unbelievable,” Bel said, but she meant it the other way.