A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

happened to our friend before her body was left abandoned and
alone, thinking of Delilah. Praying that the naked body does not
belong to Delilah, but also wondering, if it is Meredith, then where is
Delilah? Death might be preferable to being taken by someone we
don’t know.
Because of our close proximity to Josh’s house, Bea and I go
home and gather snacks to pass around to the search party, which
now nears thirty in number. When we step into the house, the
workers are there. The music is loud, something techno with a low
bass that makes the entire house shake. They’re hard at work, but
they stop when we come in. They stop and stare.
“Excuse us,” I say, begging their pardon for being in my own
home. I feel a man’s eyes on me as I collect strawberries from the
refrigerator, wash and slice them in the kitchen sink. It’s unnerving.
Bea grabs two bags of chips and as many bottles of water as her
arms can carry. We go back, grateful to get out of there.
Everyone politely declines our offer of food. No one wants to eat.
Everyone feels the same sickness in their stomach, a sadness and
unrest, not knowing what’s happening down there by the river. It’s all
anyone can think about. I, myself, try and imagine the scene: police
and evidence technicians, reporters, yellow caution tape. A body
being exhumed from the bramble.
After a while, I watch as Bea pulls the midwife aside. I see them
talking on Josh’s front porch, where they’re sheltered from the rain.
I’m in the middle of talking to the woman who first heard about the
body late this morning. She and her husband, she tells me, tried to
make their way to the body, to see it for themselves, to see if it was
Meredith or Delilah. But they got only so far before the local
community service officers got in their way, blocking them and
anyone else from getting too close. Many people had the same idea,
fueled mostly by morbid curiosity: to see a dead body.
I excuse myself. I make my way to Bea, extending a hand to the
midwife and telling her that my name is Kate. The midwife is
midfifties with tender eyes and a kind smile. Her hair is long, graying,
woven into a single braid down her back.
“Kate is my partner,” Bea says.