Chapter 7: Lost

MAX:

The nightmares tormented me night after night. I spent a few days in a sleep deprived stupor. Horrible memories crashed down upon me like a house of cards.

These nightmares began to bleed over into my waking life, the flash of a camera would trigger memories of the dark room. The sound of a shower, and I'd be back in the storm. Every single loud sound, and I'd see Chloe...getting shot all over again.

I was exhausted, Chloe was exhausted, everybody was exhausted. My parents came down to Arcadia Bay to see me, understandably worried.

I'd spent the majority of my time in Chloe's room, and I hadn't been to school in several days. Chloe, my parents, and even David, struggled to keep me from wasting away. David recognized what I was feeling, and suggested I see a psychiatrist.

My startle response was off the charts, I'd go into fight or flight mode at the slightest provocation.

Following a severe panic attack, my parents had enough. They took me to a psychiatrist in Portland.

It was grueling. The psychiatrist, a balding heavier set man in his mid-forties, went by the name of Dr. Clark.

He asked me a plethora of questions for a little over three hours, and had me fill out a questionnaire. He was very certain of my condition.

His verdict: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

My treatment plan consisted of cognitive behavioral therapy and medication.

Chloe had also helped me self-medicate, allowing me to smoke some of her marijuana from time to time when my anxiety shot up.

Mom and Dad were perfectly okay with this, since it helped me a great deal.

My illness improved after a miraculously short time, though I'd still have the flashbacks on occasion. I'd snap out of them, and Chloe was always by my side.

My parents had to go back home to Seattle, and I remained in the care of Chloe and her family like an unofficial family member. Mom and Dad still made sure to constantly check on me.

Things got better, but shadows of terrible memories still lurked around every corner.

CHLOE:

I sat at my computer, mindlessly scrolling through web page after web page.

Max had learned to cope well enough that she'd returned to school.

And I thought I was traumatized. She wouldn't talk about any of it, I learned more about what she went through as I flipped through random pages in her journal. Anybody else would just call her insane, but I wasn't just anybody else. I was her partner in time, and for all I knew...maybe I'd end up her partner for all of time. That is if Rachel's out of the picture, or something. I scolded the shit out of myself for thinking that. How could I think that?

'Jesus...I can't believe she has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I guess she kinda knows what David had to go through now. Who knows? Maybe they'll bond over it in their own weird way."

I hated to say or think it, but a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I didn't know how much longer I would've been able to cope with the situation, had it not improved.

I clicked on a month old link:

Former Blackwell teacher charged with multiple kidnappings, assault on police officer.

I couldn't bear to read it, so I turned the glass monitor off. My reflection stared back at me, and I looked like complete shit.

The undyed blonde roots of my tangled hair had become visible, and dark circles outlined my eyes. My face was pressed into a subtle involuntary frown. I hadn't slept very well in a while, but that wasn't going to stop me.

I was going to find Rachel, and the internet was my only source. The monitor flickered on again and I started by simply searching her name.

A few results came up: A dead social media account, and several missing persons reports.

I checked the social media account, and it was filled with nothing new. Pictures of her and I covered her page, right up until the point she disappeared.

This wasn't useful to me, so I went to the missing persons reports. Those weren't helpful either.

I cleared the search bar and entered something else, hands shaking: rachel amber dark room.

A single result came up, a news story reporting on Mark Jefferson and the dark room. The story itself yielded no answers, I grit my teeth in annoyance.

Max's journal sat by the side of the computer, collecting dust.

There had to be a page mentioning Rachel.

I combed through the journal and found more or less what I was looking for.

Chloe was so upset when we discovered that Rachel had actually been involved with…

My heart sank down into oblivion, I just stared at it.

...Frank Bowers and she just blew up.

Muscles in my neck tensed up, causing my head to shake slightly. I slammed her journal shut and stood up, pacing around the room with my hands clasped behind my head. Rage bubbled up within me, and it overflowed. I punched the wall with a thud, screaming through clenched teeth. My hand shook following the impact, small lacerations on my knuckles oozed equally small amounts of blood. My fist struck the wall again. Several of my fingers were jammed, and skin peeled back from my knuckles. I wailed in agony, not for my hand, but for my soul.

I curled into a ball on the floor and erupted into a fit of sobbing. My body shook with every pained breath, tears forming a small puddle beneath my face. I sobbed until it hurt, leaving my head throbbing. It got to a point where I couldn't cry anymore, so I got up.

Frank, I needed to confront Frank.

I dialed his number after taking a few deep shaky breaths and wiping my puffy eyes. The phone rang once...twice...three times...

He finally answered, "What?"

My voice shook, "Frank, meet me at our beach spot, right now."

I hung up and threw my phone at the wall as hard as I could; it survived.

His RV was parked there on the lonely concrete slab surrounded by fine sand. Tire tracks led to it. He had erected a folding table, which he was seated at with his back to the door.

I stepped out of the truck onto the sand, shoes sinking an inch or two into it. I was bundled in a coat, my warm breath visible in the freezing air.

I walked up to it, and plopped myself down across from him as he ate a spoonful of steaming canned beans.

He inquired as he swallowed it, "What the fuck is this about, Price? Money? Drugs?"

As much as I wanted to scream at him, I knew it wasn't in my best interests if I wanted to find Rachel.

I let out a disdainful snort, "Rachel...it's about Rachel."

He subtly shrunk back, enough to notice, "Yeah, what about her?"

"I'm trying to find her."

"What's it to you?"

"What is she to you?" I retorted with a tight-lipped smile.

He shook his head, tugging at the collar of his jacket, "You're barking up the wrong fucking tree."

"Look, I know you and Rachel had a thing going on. I just need to know where she is."

He scowled, "It's none of your goddamn business."

I gulped, "Frank, remember the teacher they arrested on kidnapping charges a month ago?"

"Yes."

I closed my eyes for a moment, strained words rolled off my tongue, "Rachel was one of the victims."

"What? Bullshit!" A deep line appeared between his brows.

During the court case I'd had an urge to steal one of Rachel's dark room photos. It proved to be useful.

I pulled out the small folded image and slapped it on the table.

He glanced down at it, before narrowing his eyes at me, "What the fuck is this?"

"Open it."

His hands began to reach for the picture, but he pulled back, "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

I growled through clenched teeth, "Open the fucking picture."

He opened it and immediately slouched, pressing his palm to his forehead.

"Frank...she's out there somewhere, alive."

No words escaped from his mouth, lines formed in his jaws as the muscles clenched.

"She's alive, and I'm going to find her."

He muttered, still looking down at the picture, "I'll kill that son of a bitch."

I folded the picture back up and stuffed it into my pocket, "Look, Frank. If you care about Rachel, you'll help me."

He glared up at me and crossed his arms, "If I help you, what'll be in it for me?"

I blurted, before giving it any real thought, "If I find Rachel, she's all yours."

I slammed my palm into my forehead, 'Jesus Christ, why did I say that?'

"You don't seem very sure," he said, as his breath formed a cloud in the cold air.

I waved my hand in dismissal, "I'm not. I love her too, alright?"

His tone changed to a much calmer one, "Fine, I'll help you. But only for her, understand?"

I nodded.

He stood up and cleared his throat, "I don't know exactly where she is. But I know what she's doing."

"And what would that be?"

A cigarette came from behind his ear. He lit it while speaking out of the side of his mouth, "I had a stash go missing around the time she disappeared, all signs point to her."

I pulled out my own cigarette, lighting it as my hands shielded it from the biting wind, "You think she sold it?"

He sighed, almost grinning, "She could sell dogshit and pass it off as chocolate. I have no doubt she was able to."

Clearing his throat, he uttered, "Not long before she disappeared, she was planning to run away with me to California."

His arms were thrown out to the sides, "What the fuck would I be doing in California?"

I stared at him, wide eyed, "Wait. She planned to go to California with you?"

He almost rolled his eyes, "Yes, she did."

"She'd planned to go to California with me," I jerked a thumb towards myself.

He shrugged, before taking a hit of his cigarette, "Well, it looks like she went alone. I'm pretty sure that's where she is right now."

I dropped my shoulders, gazing skyward as I groaned, "Fuuuuuuuck."

"If I had to guess, I'd say she's in Los Angeles as we speak."

I chuckled very briefly, "Yeah, she probably has her name on the Hollywood walk of fame by now."

He nodded.

My eyes narrowed at him, "You were strangely...cooperative."

A scoff escaped his mouth as he flicked the cigarette onto the ground, "Yeah, don't count on it ever happening again."

He began to walk towards his RV, but he turned on his heel and stabbed a finger at me, "And you still owe me that fucking money."

I grinned, "Same old Frank."

He slammed the RV door behind himself, Pompidou's barks sounded from behind it.