An unfortunate accident has sent Grace Reeves spiraling out of control. Having lost her voice, as well as her closest friends. , she returns home to recuperate. But as time passes, Grace's family grows concerned with the severity of her depression...
Abigail Arlington fled home after her husband was diagnosed with undifferentiated schizophrenia. Despite abandoning her son, she was able to move on. She sobered up, found a suitable partner, and had more children. She didn't tell her shiny new family about her old, broken one. Occasionally, she'd see her firstborn in the papers or on ESPN, but she knew he wasn't hers anymore.
Except, none of that is true.
Abigail Arlington isn't living another life. She isn't watching me play football on television. She isn't pontificating about the family she left behind. I told myself many lies—envisioned countless scenarios—but none of them come close to the truth.
Abigail Arlington is dead. She's been dead this whole time.
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My mother is now a skeleton, laid out in anatomical order on a metal slab in a private wing of the Philadelphia Medical Examiner's Office. I study her brown, brittle bones. They're covered in dirt and lichen, but identifiable. There's a skull, jaw, pelvis, one femur, and part of a ribcage. The police didn't uncover everything. After two decades exposed to nature, it's a miracle they found this much.
The medical examiner clears his throat, readying himself to speak. "There is no sign of foul play."
I turn my head, but don't take my gaze off my mother's remains. "You think a woman in her twenties simply walked into the woods and died of natural causes? Do you believe she dug her own grave, laid in it, and somehow piled the dirt on top of herself?"
"Speculation isn't in my job title. My area of expertise is in cause of death, and I'm telling you, there is no visible indication as to how this woman died." The ME pauses, but I still refuse to give him my full attention. "Granted, I can't perform a toxicology screen, or examine organ tissue. I have to work with what the bones tell me. There are no fractures, bullet holes, or lacerations."
"That's where our department comes in," Deputy Barnes states, tucking his thumbs into his belt. "We'll take another look at the missing persons report Fred filed."
I was six years old when my mother left, so I had no idea Pops filed a report. I don't remember speaking to an officer, but apparently, they asked me about my mother's behavior leading to her disappearance, and whether I thought my father might have anything to do with 'why she left.'
"The police accused me of harming my Abby," Pops murmurs, his voice cracking. He also hasn't stopped staring at his wife's remains. "When they couldn't prove it, they decided Abby up and left of her own free will. I was told the department wouldn't waste resources on a runaway."
