The Silent Places

By Skyla Dawn Cameron

"Tightly paced, laser-focused, and scorchingly honest--I want to give this book to every woman I know." - Lilith Saintcrow, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

 

It's been nearly a year since Imogen Sharp's husband Nick went missing—and a year of everyone in the Yukon village of Red Fox Lake whispering that she killed him.

 

With interest in the case rising again as the anniversary of his disappearance approaches, a journalist comes to town and sparks new rumours. Did Nick take his own life without leaving a note? Did he leave of his own volition? Or did his would-be widow have something to do with it as everyone believes?

 

When the story reaches national news and Imogen's photo is plastered everywhere, something darker than local rumours comes to her door. Because five years ago Imogen Sharp didn't exist, and now even the most remote place in Canada can no longer be her refuge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skyla Dawn Cameron
• Release date: Dec 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781927966433

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The Silent Places

Copyright © 2020 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Cover Art © 2020 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

December 2020

eBook ISBN: 978-1-927966-43-3

Print ISBN: 978-1-927966-42-6

Hardcover ISBN: 978-1927966-47-1

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this or any copyrighted work is illegal. Authors are paid on a per-purchase basis. Any use of this file beyond the rights stated above constitutes theft of the author’s earnings. File sharing is an international crime, prosecuted by the United States Department of Justice Division of Cyber Crimes, in partnership with Interpol. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is punishable by seizure of computers, up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 per reported instance.  Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material.

The Silent Places

A Novel

Skyla Dawn Cameron

*

It’s been nearly a year since Imogen Sharp’s husband Nick went missing—and a year of everyone in the Yukon village of Red Fox Lake whispering that she killed him.

With interest in the case rising again as the anniversary of his disappearance approaches, a journalist comes to town and sparks new rumours. Did Nick take his own life without leaving a note? Did he leave of his own volition? Or did his would-be widow have something to do with it as everyone believes?

When the story reaches national news and Imogen’s photo is plastered everywhere, something darker than local rumours comes to her door. Because five years ago Imogen Sharp didn’t exist, and now even the most remote place in Canada can no longer be her refuge.

*

Content warning: this novel deals explicitly with domestic violence and contains scenes that may be upsetting to some readers.

If you need detailed trigger warnings, you’ll find them here.

For those who get out, those who can’t, and those who still try.

For those who rage.

October 25

A heavy snowstorm came to Red Fox Lake the day my husband went missing.

Even knowing that we usually saw snow ten months out of the year, we hadn’t expected that kind of storm yet. A few inches would typically accumulate in October, but the Weather Channel had predicted something more common for January on its way. The coming storm was what sent Nick to the house we were building—behind schedule and well overbudget, of course—so he could ensure the tools were locked down and tarps covered the window frames awaiting glass.

A twisting in my gut said he shouldn’t go. But I was in the middle of a project for work and Nadia had a cold I was trying my damnedest not to pick up myself, and so I tucked away that worry and told him to call me when he got there and when he was on the way home.

At 1:35, almost fifteen minutes after he left our apartment, he sent a text saying he was there and would be maybe half an hour before leaving.

An hour later, I’d heard nothing.

An hour after that, I still hadn’t heard.

I called. I texted. No read receipt indicated he’d seen my messages. Reception was spotty out there, only the proximity to Whitehorse offering any coverage at all, but he should’ve been home by three at the latest, even accounting for problems.

I paced in our tiny hunter-green-wall one-bedroom apartment—so goddamn small with a toddler’s many things everywhere. Not even counting the fact that we all needed her to have her own room soon, the insane rent prices were what drove us to finally go for Nick’s idea to build our own place. He was good with his hands, I was good with instructions, but even then, the house wasn’t going to be done in time for winter—not with every updated energy rating requirement tossing our plans aside—and the thought of spending one more season confined in this apartment had me dreading the falling sun and plummeting temperatures.

But none of that dread came near what I felt staring out the window at the wall of white approaching Red Fox Lake and failing to will my husband back home.

Chewing savagely at my bottom lip, the wind rattling the windows to the point it almost drowned out the TV a sniffling Nadia was watching, I reached for my phone again and sent another text.

I am going to come out there after you.

Please please answer.

Still nothing.

I dialled him then, held the phone to my ear, each ring ratcheting up the tension coiled in my gut. Once again, I got Nick’s voicemail, his deep but gentle voice urging me to leave a message.

I couldn’t leave any more.

I slipped the phone in the back pocket of my jeans and spun. C’mon, Dee, get your boots.

Don’t want, she whined, grinding on my nerves.

That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t her fault she was sick and Nick was worrying me.

I know, Little Sparrow, but Auntie Janelle isn’t home, and we have to pick Dada up. There might’ve been a problem with the vehicle. From the big front window, I saw in the lot he’d taken the car—the one we wanted to sell because we so rarely used it, but it had been useful to keep two vehicles. I’d driven that car to Whitehorse four years ago from the south when it hadn’t occurred to me the use of four-wheel drive would be needed. Nick’s phone might not get a signal, and the car was no good in drifts, now rising by the minute, despite the snow tires. He’d left me with the SUV.

Methodically I got myself into my boots, heavy coat, mitts, and hat, then went through getting Nadia in her snowsuit. She whined but I left the TV on while I dressed her and let her carry Mr. Bunny—she named him when she was two—with her when I scooped her up. Had my purse and keys in hand, and the SUV was well-stocked if anything came up. For a moment the cold taste of fear filled my mouth and a very loud voice in my head said, Do not leave this apartment.

But something was wrong for Nick to not be back yet, and so I headed out.

*

The storm would hit hard within a half hour; there were already several centimetres of snow and the only folks in the area were driving into the town—mostly to pick up groceries before everything shut down for the day.

Every mile, every moment, I thought I’d see Nick.

I expected him to come up the stairs of our apartment building as I clutched Nadia to me and headed down. We’d laugh, I’d mutter a curse for worrying me, he’d have an excuse, and then we’d settle in for the night.

Or he’d be just pulling into the parking lot as I got out there, his dark eyes filled with chagrin as he was quick to offer an explanation.

Or he’d be in the parking lot of the small grocery mart picking up something for dinner because he knew I was tired and didn’t want to cook, and they had Nadia’s favourite tomato sauce noodles on sale.

Or the car—that damned old blue Jetta—was stranded on the side of the road and he was grateful, so grateful, that I’d come for him when he couldn’t flag down help.

Even when I headed down the long driveway, tires crunching through fresh snow toward the house in mid-development—a dark spot among all the falling white—and pulled up to the foundation, frame, and unfinished roof, I expected to see him.

The Jetta was still there. Bright blue tarps, held down with stones over some of our supplies, fluttered in the bitter wind. Trees shook in the distance and in the twenty-five minutes it had taken to get here, the falling snow had already thickened.

I checked my cell—I had a signal. He should as well, and even if the battery died, he could charge it in the car.

Cold settled deep into my bones that could not be chased away by the blaring heat in the SUV.

He might’ve fallen inside. Hurt himself. I braced myself and reached for the door.

Momma come, Nadia called from the back.

I looked back at her, met her eyes from her booster behind the passenger seat. She was barely visible beneath all the winter gear; I’d tried to pull the mauve scarf up over her face, but her thickly mittened fingers had immediately pulled it down once we were in. The skin below her nose was chaffed and red from the sniffles, she sucked back another huge glob of snot.

You are a terrible fucking mother for dragging her out here in this weather. If only Janelle had been home—she was the only person, other than Nick, I trusted with my kid.

I just need to go in and look for Dada, I said.

Momma come. Fat tears filled her eyes and I somehow felt even worse. She was sick and confused about it—children don’t understand they’ll get better, they just know Something Isn’t Right and It Hurts—and my own anxiousness was likely not helping. I should’ve done more to keep her calm, but it was all I could do to hold myself together.

She’d tip into screaming and I did intend to make this quick because I was convinced I’d find Nick inside. With a resigned sigh, I climbed out of the SUV—left it running—and swiftly scooped her out of the back, though not before pulling the scarf over her face again.

Bitter air bit at my cheeks and snuck through any crevice it could find in my outerwear. It wouldn’t have been that cold if not for the wind. I shuffled swiftly through snow that crept up my shins, holding her face to my shoulder, and pushed open the large, heavy front door. It had no knob or lock yet, and easily let me inside.

Nick? I called, clomping my feet on subflooring to get the snow off. I rushed in, shivering with the cold that followed, and looked up the stairs to the far left past what would eventually be the kitchen. Nick!

Nothing.

The windows were covered—as he’d come here to do—snow and wind rattling the tarp, and the only light came from the open door. We had flashlights among our equipment here, though, and I picked up one, flipped it on, and did a quick search of the downstairs.

Nothing. No one in the room that would be the downstairs bathroom. The rest was open concept, and I checked every corner, passing the lines that marked where the cabinets would go, the marking for plumbing and electrical. Then thumping upstairs, my steps growing so frantic I had to remind myself to slow them so I didn’t dump both of us, Nadia heavy on my hip and growing restless.

I shone the Maglite over the upstairs—the hall, into the rooms that would one day house us, four in total. The master bedroom and ensuite bath—empty. Main bathroom—empty. Nadia’s room—empty. The office—empty. The optimistic extra bedroom added by Nick to the plans as his grin told me exactly what he was thinking...

All empty.

Back downstairs and I had to temporarily pocket the Maglite and grip the railing because I didn’t trust myself not to fall. The world spun out beneath my feet as I headed for the back door and eased it open to look outside.

I stared at the expanse of land that would be our yard, the marching trees beyond it, the falling snow that would’ve covered up any footprints an hour ago, and I felt a rising helplessness I had not experienced in over four years. Time had made me soft, apparently, because I didn’t know what to do with the sharp fear coating my skin or the frantic pulse of my heart.

I dug out my phone, fingers trembling either from the cold or the rush of adrenaline; managed to unlock it with my thumb, shuffling Nadia’s weight in my arms, and immediately dialled my husband.

The phone rang, somewhere, but not in this house—I didn’t hear a buzz of vibration. Nothing. I hung up when I got his voicemail again and stared out at darkening wilderness.

Nick!

My own echo was the only answer.

(Nearly) One Year Later

October 20

15 Days Before the Storm

Everyone thinks I killed my husband.

Though I met Nick living in Whitehorse, he was born and raised north of the city in the village of Red Fox Lake—population just under seven hundred, so everyone knew him. His parents had moved there from northern Vancouver before his birth, so there was likely a time when they’d been considered outsiders too, but to hear locals talk about Nick, one would think the Sparrows had been there for generations.

He and I moved to Red Fox Lake two years earlier because rent was only slightly less ridiculous than Whitehorse, and Nick had the idea to build a mostly self-sustainable house on land he’d invested his inheritance in after his parents died a decade ago. It was an idea I’d supported, not only because of his infectious excitement, but because I knew he was capable of it. Nick had worked as a contractor in Whitehorse when I met him, with sculpting and woodworking a hobby he excelled at, so I knew it wasn’t something he was diving into cluelessly. Red Fox Lake, of course, had welcomed him back with open arms, and by extension me, even if they were a little cautious of his new bride and a baby that called him Dada but didn’t really look like him.

I’ve always been reserved, though I’d say it was experience rather than nature. As small as Whitehorse was in comparison to Toronto, I still enjoyed the anonymity; that was impossible in Red Fox Lake. To my face, Imogen Sharp is accepted as Sweet Nicky Sparrow’s Wife; when I turn my back, their looks grow chilly.

That’s only gotten worse since he’s been missing. The chill in their reception of me and my daughter dropped several degrees colder and mixed with suspicion.

No trace of Nick has ever been found. His keys were still in the car. His phone could not be tracked—at first it might’ve been out of range, but after a while the battery was likely dead. I’d had no choice but to contact the police and turned over my own phone for review to the RCMP—always suspect the spouse, of course—but it was returned and there were no leads.

Folks vanish all over the country, but it is not uncommon for it to occur in the north. The remoteness probably plays a part. The rate of missing Aboriginal women in particular—already high in Canada—skyrockets in remote areas. I’m not sure about men, but Nick’s biracial heritage might’ve put him in those statistics as well. I don’t have the numbers however I know Nick’s is not an uncommon story.

But he was beloved, therefore his outsider wife must be at fault.

I weathered the winter in Red Fox Lake, braced and waiting every minute of every day. Waiting to hear some trace had been found, waiting to hear of any rumours that might point us in the right direction. Two Whitehorse RCMP officers originally grew up in Red Fox Lake and visited their families often—I knew at some point I’d hear word if there was anything to tell.

Almost a year to the date has passed, however, and anyone you talk to will tell you I’m the one responsible.

Janelle has Nadia for a playdate with her boys, giving me time to run errands, but mostly I miss my daughter and wish I was home. The prices in Red Fox Lake’s General Mart are painfully high, but the cost of gas to drive to Whitehorse’s Walmart makes it come out about even.

Years ago, if you’d told me I’d willingly include Walmart among my shopping, I would never have believed you, but being up north rapidly brings a whole other perspective and acceptance. Options are few, in many regards.

I carry a basket around the narrow dimly lit aisles and grab only