The Vanishing Girls by Callie Browning (great novels of all time .txt) 📗

She pulled into his driveway ten minutes later and stared through her window while she waited for him to get out. He lowered the radio’s volume and clasped his hands for a moment, mulling over how to phrase what was on his mind. “You know…I didn’t think about it like that. I’m sorry for not considering how the average woman feels in this situation. But…,” he paused and looked at her, “…I’m not heartless. Just because I didn’t understand doesn’t mean I can’t understand. If you have problems, you can tell me. I’ll help in any way I can.”

Her shoulders sank as though she'd had the fire sucked out of her. She glanced at Holden and said, “I’m sorry too. I’m tired, but I shouldn’t be so rude to you.” She shook her head self-consciously. “And I will try to talk to you more.”

He wanted to say something else but decided that they had made enough progress for the night. He simply tilted his head and replied, “Get home safely.” He climbed out, closed the door gently and watched Eileen drive to the other end of the semi-circular driveway and turn left to head home.

The night air was crisp and cool, but Holden’s mind was troubled. Eileen had been forthright about her fear, but not much else. He had asked about her last name twice. The first time she’d used humour to deflect his question. The second time she’d neatly glossed over it by discussing what she considered to be the crux of their conflict. Holden scratched his chin as he unlocked the door. There was no denying it: she was hiding something.

Chapter 5

Inside a Killer’s Mind

Dry grass, ripe ackees and the sight of tractors hauling cane to sugar factories were the hallmarks of a Barbadian June that gave the phrase ‘long summer days’ a whole new meaning. During rush hours, long caravans of vehicles would trail the bright red tractors on the two-lane highways, leaving the cars’ occupants with little else to do except chitchat on their extended journey. It was during these car rides that Eileen had grown accustomed to Holden’s good-natured grumbling, finding his observations both comical and profound. He was a deep thinker, capable of simultaneously invigorating her mind and making her laugh until she collapsed in tears. He appeared to relish amusing her and took to talking more than he did in the presence of other people. Her initial reservations about the job slipped away and soon her interactions with both Clifford and Holden improved.

On one particularly hot day, as they passed the scorched banks of the Constitution River on their left and Queen’s Park on their right, Holden grumbled, “Look at this ten-story eyesore. It breaks up the skyline like a concrete exclamation mark.”

Eileen grinned. The concrete exclamation mark Holden referred to was the new central bank. It was just around the corner from the funeral home and had been a topic of public contention for months since it would be Barbados’ tallest building once completed. It was hard to miss, visible even from parishes in the middle of the island like St. George and St. Thomas. Traditionalists felt it compromised the rustic appeal that lured visitors to the island. Progressives felt tourists wouldn’t come to an island lacking the necessary infrastructure to support a burgeoning economy.

Holden spent his life in a constant limbo of embracing the old and reluctantly fending off the new, which left him squarely on the outskirts of the debate — he didn’t mind progress, but took umbrage when it blocked his view.

“More and more, this place is reminding me of London. Big buildings, traffic…oh goodness, the traffic. I wish I had a private underground tunnel so I could drive anywhere I wanted.”

Eileen snickered, “I didn’t know you could drive.”

“I have a license. I simply choose not to drive.”

“How come?”

He exhaled deeply, his chest dropping like a sunken soufflé. “I had a bad accident two years ago. I was fine, but I was trapped in the car with my father’s body for hours until help came.”

Eileen bit her lip. She had assumed he was cheap or had some neurotic reason for being a businessman without a car. Now she felt horrible for prying. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Holden’s eyes glossed over for a moment, unseeing and distant as though the memories had taken shape before his eyes. “I think if he had struggled before he died, it would have been different. But being inside that car — calling out to him over and over as he grew cold — was excruciating.”

The thought of it made Eileen nauseous as she reversed her rusty blue Toyota Crown into the car park behind the washed-out funeral parlour. She wondered why she had bothered being nosy.

Eileen escaped to the lunchroom, hoping her embarrassment would cool off before she faced Holden again. The newspapers were open on the table, covered in Clifford’s biscuit crumbs. The police hadn’t made any breaks in the Cane Slasher case and for the most part, the murders had gradually sunk beneath the front pages. That day, one of the dailies ran a lengthy article on page nine headlined “Profile of a Killer”. As Eileen read the story in the muted brightness of the small kitchenette, goosebumps covered her arms as she realized with searing clarity that she had the wrong idea all along. The psychiatrist who penned the piece believed the culprit to be one man who had evaded capture for months because he was cunning and meticulous. The article noted that the women who vanished were between seventeen and twenty-three years old, which hinted that the Slasher had good social standing that would endear women. The isolated dump sites supported this theory because the killer probably had access to a car, a luxury available to less than a fifth of the population. The good doctor warned that a lapse in murders wasn’t indicative of the killer’s rehabilitation, but rather a sign that