This time I typed Rick Aimes into the search bar. Another common name, another broad net. I added Central Valley, and the first thing that popped up was the obituary for his wife, Marie. There were scant details. Just the survived-by names—Rick and his son, Jared—and the date of the service.

My phone rang as I was scrolling for any more details, and I jumped, almost dropping it in my lap. Bennett. Probably making sure I was okay, now that he was up. I was glad he was calling; it made me think I was overreacting—about all of it.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Hey, is Elyse there with you?” He sounded slightly out of breath, like he was in a rush.

“No, no. I’m out at the store.”

A pause. “When did she leave your place last night?”

“She didn’t,” I said. “She didn’t stop by.”

Bennett cursed under his breath. “She fucking quit. Left an email and her badge and fucking quit. Didn’t come to her shift, didn’t ask someone to cover. Completely irresponsible, left them short-handed. Couldn’t even be bothered to call it in. And she’s not answering my calls now.”

“That’s not . . .” I began, about to say That’s not like her. But what did I know? As much as I’d come to depend on the routines of our friendship, she’d been here only a handful of months; she’d slid into my life so fast, she could probably extract herself just as quickly.

“What did you say to her?” I asked, accusing.

“Excuse me?”

“I heard you were arguing. My neighbor heard.”

He lowered his voice. “I was angry about her voicemail. Angry at the lack of information. I was riled up and . . . I took it out on her, but it had nothing to do with her.”

I knew how he could be, though, how he could find the one thing that really struck deep, and twist. “Bennett,” I said. “She quit.”

“God, it wasn’t that bad, I swear. Not something to fucking quit over.” But he said it tentatively, because what did we know? What did we know about the things that could push another person to extremes?

“She’s not answering my calls, either,” I said. “But I’ll swing by her place. I’m nearby.” Which wasn’t entirely true. The Mapleview apartment complex was in the other direction, heading out of town, but it kept me from going back home, sitting with my thoughts, chasing them down the rabbit hole. And I wanted to see her anyway, talk to her face-to-face.

“Tell her . . .” He trailed off, and I heard the crackle of the hospital intercom. “Jesus, just tell her to call me back.”

———

I SPOTTED ELYSE’S WHITE car right away. I parked in the spot beside hers, then noticed that the inside light was on. It would drain her battery, if it hadn’t already. Circling the car, I realized it was the driver’s-side door, just slightly unlatched. I could picture her last night, pissed off, riled up herself. Her mind half-focused as she exited the car. I leaned my hip into it, nudging the door fully shut, and the light turned off.

I pressed her apartment number on the intercom, but it was still chiming when a man exited the front security door, holding it open for me. It happened every time; I looked the part of a resident here—same age as the man, same determined stride. He might’ve even recognized me from when I lived here myself. He nodded once as we briefly passed.

I continued to the door at the end of the hall. There was a woven doormat, a wreath of dried, fake flowers, a pink sticky note that said: Package in the mailroom.

I knocked, then leaned in closer, calling her name as I knocked again. “Elyse? It’s Liv. Can we talk for a second?”

Nothing. I pressed my ear to the door. Silence.

I knocked again. “Bennett called me. Elyse, open up.”

Silence.

“Elyse!” I called again, more urgent.

This time a door did open—the neighbor across the hall. His eyes were bloodshot, and he wore gym shorts and nothing else. “Can you please keep it down?”

“Have you seen Elyse?” I asked.

He shook his head as he closed the door.

I listened again, for water in the pipes or movement inside. Her car was here. She hadn’t turned up for her shift. She’d abruptly quit, and that worried me. I thought of Elyse, showing up for me at the hospital and then staying while I slept—knowing it was what I needed without having to ask.

“Dammit, Elyse,” I mumbled, then stepped back, looking for where she might leave a key. Knowing Elyse, there would be a spare in case she forgot her set. She wouldn’t worry about someone else finding it. She would say, No big deal. She would say, Have you seen this place? What’s someone gonna take, anyway?

There was nothing under her mat, though. And very few options over where else a key might be. I ran my hand over the door-frame and came back with nothing but dust. I checked behind the flower wreath, coming up empty again.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she left one with a neighbor instead.

I knocked on her door once more; then, on second thought, pressed down on the handle.

It gave.

I pushed the door open. “Elyse?” I called. “It’s me. It’s Liv.” I eased the door shut behind me quietly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Something felt off. It wasn’t the disorder; that was normal Elyse. The purse on the sofa of the living room, contents falling out. The phone on the floor, facedown. The drawer hanging open in her bedroom, clothes spilling over, visible through the open doorway from down the hall.

It was the way I’d missed her at work; the way I’d frantically knocked on her door—like I’d known somehow that she was slipping through my fingers.

I checked anyway, room by room, calling her name. Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. But I’d known it as soon as I stepped inside. I’d known it even sooner, in some instinctive way, when I turned the unlocked handle.

Elyse wasn’t here, and something was wrong.

THE CURRENT—BLOG

October 3, 2010

Looking Back on the Rescue That Gripped a Nation

By Miles Truman

It’s hard to believe it’s been nearly a full decade since the search for Arden Maynor—the six-year-old girl from Widow Hills, Kentucky, who was swept away into the storm drain system while sleepwalking. But we will mark the ten-year anniversary in a matter of weeks.

If you were to visit Widow Hills now, you wouldn’t see much evidence of what happened over the three-day search-and-rescue operation. Before the rescue, the town wasn’t known for much other than its name: Widow Hills was so named because of the solitary cluster of mountains in the distance, where the clouds settled regardless of the surrounding weather, like three heads huddled together—a pocket of rain you could see across a clear sky.

But in the span of hours, Widow Hills went from a small town fading into obscurity to a place on the map.

Town and state officials never anticipated a storm like that. There were locally provided maps of the unmarked drains, the unofficial creeks. What would a six-year-old do while sleepwalking?

The community demanded attention, and they got it. The people of Widow Hills saved their own, and it’s still a source of pride and respect, as evidenced by the plaque that remains at the spot where Arden Maynor was found, commemorating the rescue.