Now You See Her Page 0,7

to no one in particular, then turned to stare out the window, seeing only her own reflection staring back. I used to be considered beautiful, she thought, wondering when she’d become so tired looking and old. People were always telling her she looked at least a decade younger than she was, and maybe she had at one time. Before, Marcy thought. Before her life had changed forever. Before that awful October afternoon when she’d watched a police car pull to a stop outside her sprawling bungalow in Hogg’s Hollow, her eyes following the two officers slowly up her front walk, her breath catching painfully in her lungs at the sight of their crisp blue uniforms.

She’d always hated uniforms.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Peter had called as the doorbell rang. He was in the den, watching some sporting event on TV. “Marcy,” he’d called again. “Aren’t you going to get that? Marcy?” he’d repeated as the doorbell rang a second, then a third time. “Where are you? Why aren’t you answering the door?”

“It’s the police,” Marcy managed to croak out, although her feet had turned to lead and she lacked the strength to move them. She was suddenly fifteen years old again, standing beside her sister in the principal’s office.

“The police?” Peter marched into the foyer and pulled open the front door. “Officers?” he asked, the word suspended ominously in the air as he ushered the two men inside.

“Are you Dr. Peter Taggart?”

“I am.”

“We understand you have a cottage on Georgian Bay,” one of the officers said as Marcy felt her body go numb. She looked away, not wanting to see their faces. If she didn’t see their faces, she reasoned irrationally, she wouldn’t have to hear what they’d come to say.

“Yes. That’s right,” Peter answered. “Our daughter is up there for the weekend with some friends. Why? Has something happened? Did she set off the alarm again?”

“Your daughter is Devon Taggart?”

“Yes, that’s right. Is she in some sort of trouble?”

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” the policeman said. “Perhaps you’d like to sit down.”

“Perhaps you’d like to tell me what’s happened.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Marcy saw the police officer nod, then look toward the floor. “Neighbors saw your daughter climb into a canoe at around ten o’clock this morning. The water was pretty rough and they noted she wasn’t wearing a life jacket. When they saw she still hadn’t returned some three hours later, they called the police. I’m afraid they found her overturned canoe in the middle of the bay.”

“And Devon?” Peter asked quietly, his skin turning the color of parchment paper.

“They’re still searching.”

“So you haven’t found her,” Marcy interrupted forcefully, still refusing to look their way.

“Not yet.”

“Well, that’s good. It means she probably swam to shore.”

“I’m afraid there’s little chance of that,” the officer told her, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. “The canoe was miles from anywhere.”

“It could have drifted,” Marcy said stubbornly.

“Yes,” he acknowledged. “I guess that’s possible.”

“Devon’s a very strong swimmer.”

“The water is extremely cold,” the second officer stated. “It’s doubtful—”

“You said she went to the cottage with friends?” the first officer interrupted to ask Peter.

“Yes,” Peter said. “Carrie and Michelle. I can’t remember their last names,” he added helplessly, looking to Marcy.

Because you never knew them, Marcy thought angrily. When did you ever take the time to learn the last names of any of your daughter’s friends? You were always so damn busy with work or golf. Although that never seemed to matter to Devon. “Stafford and Harvey,” Marcy informed the officers. “I’m sure they’ll be able to tell you where Devon is.”

“According to your neighbors, your daughter was at the cottage alone.”

“That’s not possible. She told us she was going up there with Carrie and Michelle. Why would she lie?”

Why did she usually lie? Marcy thought now, brushing aside a tear.

“Are you all right?” Vic asked immediately, as if he’d been watching her every move.

Marcy didn’t answer. She burrowed down in her seat and closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep.

“Do you know if your daughter has been depressed lately?” she heard one of the policemen ask.

“You’re saying you don’t think this was an accident?” Peter said, avoiding the officer’s question. Marcy had to grab her hands to keep from slapping him, twist her fingers to keep from scratching out his eyes. How dare he even entertain such a suggestion, let alone say it out loud?

“I have to ask: Do you think it’s possible your daughter took