Ask Nathan
Nathan Cole had become exactly the kind of man we’d all assumed Nathan Cole would become. Successful. Expensive. Annoyingly photogenic. His law firm’s website had a picture of him standing in front of a wall of windows in a navy suit with his arms crossed like he’d personally invented litigation.
NATHAN COLE, PARTNER. Corporate litigation. Commercial disputes. Crisis management.
I actually laughed at that one. “Of course.”
Twenty years ago, Nathan was the person you called when you’d locked your keys in your car at two in the morning or needed someone to talk a cop out of writing you a ticket. Apparently now you called him when your company was being sued. Same basic skill set. Much better suit.
I stared at his picture. He looked older, obviously. We all did. Claire still looked like Claire to me, just a little sharper around the edges. Nathan looked like life had sanded some of him down. Shorter hair. Heavier jaw. Lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there at nineteen.
I clicked through his bio. Law school. Awards. Board memberships. Very impressive. Very boring. Nothing about the time he’d jumped naked off a second story balcony because Owen bet him twenty dollars he wouldn’t.
I smiled at the memory. Then something flashed through my head.
Nathan at Blackwater. Mud on his jeans.
I blinked. Gone.
“What the hell?”
I sat back and looked at his website again. Same suit. Same stupidly professional headshot. Definitely no mud.
I looked at the phone number under his bio. I could call him. Claire would absolutely hate that, which, honestly, almost pushed me over the edge.
Instead, I closed the page.
Not yet.
Chapter Five of The Last Night at Blackwater refused to cooperate.
For three days I wrote around the problem. The problem was Ben. I’d put blood on his shirt because it felt creepy at the time, which is apparently not the same thing as having any clue why there was blood on his shirt. This was the downside of writing without an outline. Eventually your own bullshit came back and asked questions.
I tried a nosebleed. Stupid. A cut hand. Boring. Emily’s blood. Way too obvious. I deleted three pages, opened a bottle of wine, wrote two more, hated those too, and finally decided Future Mara could deal with Ben’s shirt.
At eleven that night, I stopped trying to explain the blood and wrote the first thing that came into my head.
Ben lied about the shovel.
That was the second thing I remembered. The first was the mud. It covered the knees of his jeans. Not splattered. Ground in. Like he’d been kneeling.
The shovel was leaning against the side of the shed. Clean. Too clean.
I asked him about it once. Years later. He looked at me for a long time before saying, “Some things are kinder buried.”
I stopped typing. Read the last line again.
Some things are kinder buried.
I didn’t like it. Not because it was bad. Because it felt familiar. I sat there trying to remember Nathan ever saying something like that. Nothing. I deleted it.
Typed: Leave it alone.
No. Deleted that too.
You don’t want to know.
Closer. Still wrong.
I closed the document. Chapter Five wasn’t due until Thursday. For once, procrastination seemed like the healthier option.
The message came Friday morning while I was brushing my teeth. My phone buzzed on the bathroom counter. I ignored it. It buzzed again. I spit, rinsed, looked down.
Private message. @LenaLived. My stomach tightened automatically now, which felt like a fun little development.
I opened it.
Ask Nathan what he buried.
I stared at the screen. Then read it again.
“What the fuck?”
The image from Nathan’s law firm website came back. Not the suit. Nineteen year old Nathan. Dark jeans. Mud across both knees.
I sat down on the closed toilet lid, toothbrush still in my hand. No. I had written the mud. Except I hadn’t. Not exactly. I’d seen it first, that weird little flash when I looked at Nathan’s picture. Then I’d written it.
My mouth suddenly felt dry.
I opened the message again. Ask Nathan what he buried. I typed: What did he bury?
Nothing. I waited. No response. Then: Why Nathan?
Still nothing. A minute later, another message came through. Ask him.
“Very fucking helpful. Thank you asshole.”
I opened my contacts. Nathan’s number had been sitting there for almost twenty years, which was kind of ridiculous considering I had no idea if it was even still his number. Apparently there are people you stop talking to but never quite delete.
I stared at it for another few seconds. Then pressed call.
He answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”
His voice hit me in a strange way. Not exactly recognition. More like time travel.
“Nathan?”
A pause. “Yes?”
“It’s Mara.”
Silence. Not Mara who? Just silence.
Then: “Mara Voss?” He said quietly.
“Unless you’ve collected another one.”
Nothing. I smiled nervously.
“Sorry. I just, wasn’t expecting you.”
“That’s fair.”
“How are you?” It sounded like the kind of question you ask someone you’re hoping won’t actually answer.
“Currently? Confused. You?”
“Busy.”
“I saw.”
“Saw what?”
“Your website.”
Another pause. “You looked me up?”
“Don’t sound so flattered.”
“I’m not.” That almost sounded like Nathan. Almost.
“I’ve been writing something,” I said.
“I know.”
I stopped. “You know?”
“I’ve seen it.”
My grip tightened around the phone. “You read it?”
“Some of it.”
“How did you find it?”
“People talk.”
“What people?”
“Mara.”
“What?”
“You called me.”
Right. I leaned against the kitchen counter. “Fine. What did you think?”
“About the story?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t answer right away. Then: “I think you should be careful.”
Every hair on my arms lifted. “Interesting.”
“Why?”
“Claire basically said the same thing.”
“I haven’t talked to Claire.”
“I didn’t say you had.”
Silence. Well, that wasn’t weird at all. I looked toward my laptop. @LenaLived’s message was still open. Ask Nathan what he buried.
“Nathan, do you remember Blackwater?”
He exhaled. “Yes.”
“The house?”
“Yes.”
“Lena?”
That pause was different. Heavier. “Of course I remember Lena.”
I swallowed. “Do you remember what happened that night?”
“Yes.”
I straightened. Not maybe. Not pieces. Not I remember some of it. Yes.
“You do?”
“I remember enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means what I said.”
“Which is not actually an answer.”
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”
“The truth would be a fun place to start.”
“Mara.” There it was, that warning tone I remembered from twenty years ago.
I pushed anyway. “Did you see Lena leave the house?”
“No.”
“Did you see her after she left?”
Nothing.
“Nathan?”
“No.” That one took longer.
“You hesitated.”
“I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did.” Deja vu creeping in from my earlier conversation with Claire.
He exhaled hard. “I haven’t talked to you in almost fifteen years, and now you’re calling me in the middle of the workday to interrogate me about something that happened when we were nineteen.”
“Twenty years.”
“What?”
“It happened twenty years ago.”
“I know. I said I haven’t talked to you in fifteen.”
“Oh.” Well. That was embarrassing. I rubbed my forehead. “This is going great.”
Nathan actually made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. Tiny. But there. Good. Maybe terrible conversations were my new superpower.
“Do you remember 12:17?”
Nothing. Not even a sigh. Just dead quiet.
“Nathan?”
Then, finally: “Where did you get that?”
My whole body went still. Not what does that mean? Not why? Where did you get that.
“Why?”
“Who gave you that time?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Mara.”
“Tell me what it means, Nathan.”
“I can’t.” His voice was quieter now. My pulse picked up. “You can’t or you won’t?”
“Both.”
I walked over to the laptop and sat down. “Someone’s been contacting me.”
“I figured.”
“How?”
“Your comments are public.”
Right. Of course they were.
“They call themselves @LenaLived.”
“I saw.”
“You know anything about them?”
“No.”
I looked at the profile. Blank picture. No bio. 614.
“Do you believe it?”
“Believe what?”
“That Lena lived.”
Nathan didn’t answer.
“Nathan.”
“You shouldn’t be asking me that.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have answers you’re going to like.”
“That’s not the same as not having answers.”
Silence. I could hear my own heartbeat.
“Did Lena die that night?”
Nathan inhaled sharply. Then said, “I have to go.”
“Nathan.”
“I have a meeting.”
“Bullshit.”
“Goodbye, Mara.”
“Wait.”
He hung up.
I stared at my phone. “Well, that went beautifully.”
I called him back. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. I sent a text.
What happened at 12:17?
Nothing. Then: Why did you ask who gave me that time?
Still nothing. I stared at the screen for a while before finally typing: Did Lena die at Blackwater?
Delivered. No answer.
I opened the blog. @LenaLived. What does 12:17 mean?
Nothing. Then: Nathan knows.
Still nothing. I hated all of them. Nathan. Claire. The account. Myself. Pretty much anyone who seemed to know more about my own damn life than I did.
At 1:07, my phone buzzed. Nathan. I grabbed it so fast I nearly dropped it.
Not a call. A text. Stop contacting me about this.
I stared at the message. Then typed: Why?
His answer came almost immediately. Because some things don’t stay buried just because you leave them alone.
I stopped. Read it again. Buried.
I looked at the Blackwater draft. Some things are kinder buried. Different words. Same idea.
“What the hell, Nathan?”
My phone buzzed again. Forget I said that.
I actually laughed. “Sure.” Because that was definitely how words worked.
I took a screenshot. Just in case he suddenly developed amnesia too.
I didn’t hear from Nathan again that weekend. I did hear from Claire. Three calls. Two texts. I ignored all of them. I wasn’t ready for Claire, not until I figured out why Nathan had reacted to 12:17 like I’d read him his own Social Security number.
So I went back to the photographs. Nathan was in more of them than I’d realized. Nathan grilling. Nathan drinking. Nathan asleep. Nathan standing next to Lena. I studied each picture like nineteen year old Nathan might eventually get tired of me staring and confess.
Then I found the porch photograph again. This time I noticed his jeans. Mud. Maybe. It wasn’t obvious, there was something dark across one knee. Dirt, shadow, spilled beer, who the hell knew. I held it closer. His shoes looked dirty too.
“Okay.”
I turned the photo over. Nothing written on the back.
Next one. Nathan in the kitchen. The blue mug behind him.
Next. Owen and Claire.
Next. Me and Lena.
I stopped. We were sitting together on the porch steps. Lena had one arm around my shoulders. I was laughing at something outside the frame. She wasn’t looking at the camera. She was looking at me. Her bracelet hung loose around her wrist. Five little charms.
I stared at her face. For twenty years, Lena had mostly existed in my head as the girl who disappeared. Which was a horrible thing to realize. Because before all that, she was just Lena. My friend. The girl who stole my fries and my sunglasses. The girl who laughed too loud. The girl who got pissed off and cried at the same time, then got even more pissed off because she was crying.
I touched the edge of the picture. “I’m sorry.”
The words came out before I knew I was going to say them. Then I sat there wondering what exactly I was apologizing for.
That part bothered me. A lot.
By Wednesday night, Chapter Five still wasn’t finished.
I opened the draft again. Shovel. Mud. Ben. Buried. I deleted the entire scene. Then stared at the blank page.
For a while, nothing came. Then my fingers started moving.
There are things you remember. There are things you forget. And then there are things someone teaches you not to remember.
I stopped. I had no idea what that meant.
“Cool.”
I left it anyway. Then I kept writing.
Ben came downstairs at 1:03. His jeans were wet to the knees. Mud covered his shoes.
Claire looked at him. He shook his head. No one spoke.
I remember asking where Emily was. Claire answered. Not Ben.
“She left.”
That was the first time anyone said it. By morning, all four of us believed it.
My hands had started shaking. I pulled them away from the keyboard.
That hadn’t happened. At least, I didn’t remember it happening. But Claire’s voice, “she left“, I knew that. I thought I knew that.
“Oh, fuck this.”
I closed the laptop. Chapter Five was done. I didn’t read it again.
Thursday at six, I published it.
The comments went off almost immediately. Readers were convinced Ben had buried evidence. Or Emily. Mostly Emily.
BEN BURIED HER. I’M CALLING IT NOW.
THE MUD. THE FUCKING MUD.
Then: Claire knows EXACTLY what Ben did and nobody can convince me otherwise.
That one bothered me more than it should have.
I refreshed. Nothing from @LenaLived. Again. Still nothing.
At 6:31, my phone buzzed. Nathan. Take it down.
I stared at the message. He’d read it. I typed: Why?
Nothing. Which part bothered you? Still nothing. Then: The mud?
No answer. I waited another minute. Claire?
Nothing. I put the phone down. Picked it back up. Still nothing. Then his typing dots appeared. Stopped. Appeared again. And disappeared.
No message.
“Seriously?”
My laptop chimed. Private message. @LenaLived. I opened it. One word.
Closer.
My pulse jumped. Nathan’s text was still sitting open beside me. Take it down.
I went back to the private message. Closer to what?
Nothing. I waited. Then: Why did you tell me to ask Nathan?
No answer. A minute later, a new message appeared. Because he won’t tell you unless you ask the right question.
My hands went cold. I typed: What question?
This time the answer came quickly. Ask him what he buried.
I stared at the words. Again. Ask Nathan what he buried. I’d asked him about Lena. About 12:17. About whether he saw her leave. But I hadn’t actually asked him that. Not directly.
I picked up my phone. Nathan’s number. Call.
He answered almost immediately. “Mara, don’t.” No hello. No pretending he had no idea why I was calling.
I swallowed. “What did you bury?”
Silence. I could hear him breathing. Once. Twice. Then: “Who told you to ask me that?”
I looked toward the laptop. @LenaLived. 614.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because nobody should know that.”
The room suddenly felt very quiet. I stood. “Nathan.” Nothing. “What did you bury?”
His breathing changed. “Nathan,” I said again.
“I can’t do this over the phone.”
I stopped. “What does that mean?”
“It means if you want answers, we talk in person.”
“When?”
Another pause. “Tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“I’ll send you an address.”
My throat tightened. There was one question left. I almost didn’t ask it.
Almost.
“Was it Lena?”
Nothing.
“Nathan.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “Did you bury Lena?”
When he finally answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“No.”
I closed my eyes. Relief hit first. Fast and hard. Then everything else caught up.
“What did you bury?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
The call ended.
I stood in my kitchen staring at the phone. A second later, my laptop chimed. Another private message.
@LenaLived. Two words.
He remembers.
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