Closure

This story is by Elizabeth Poyser and won an honorable mention in our 2025 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Elizabeth Poyser is an Ontario-based writer whose story ideas are often based on quirky history, myths and legends. Having recently earned her Professional Editing Standards certificate, she is balancing finishing her own novel with helping other writers catch those pesky typos. Connect with her on Instagram @liz_and_lit  

I should never have looked in that box.

Had I ignored my curiosity, I’d be enjoying one last peaceful morning in the backyard before the movers arrive.

Relatively peaceful if you ignore Mrs. Campbell’s dog baying in the yard next door. At least when he’s barking you know he’s where he’s supposed to be. Roscoe’s talent for escape is
legendary.

I should leave a note for the new owners; remind them to keep the gate closed.

Dan’s new job is taking us away from Fairview. We both grew up here and it’ll be hard to leave a lifetime of memories behind. My therapist would tell me it’s exactly what I need to let go of the past for good.

I can’t do that.

Despite her advice, I didn’t throw everything away. I boxed up the past and stored it out of sight—but never completely out of mind. I’m bringing it with us.

Hanging on to the pain, she’d say. Hanging on to the hope, I say.

Hope that she’ll come back.

But this morning, doubt overshadows the hope.

My boxes are neatly labelled, an inventory of the items within pasted on the lids. This one is blank.

My curiosity demanded answers.

Its contents almost fooled me into thinking it was one of mine—newspaper clippings about those desperate days turned hopeless weeks.

My teenage sister’s disappearance had electrified the town. It simultaneously brought people together and drove a wedge between them. Neighbours and strangers joined search parties,
roaming the woods side by side for any trace of her. Later they’d eye each other suspiciously in the market, wondering if he or she was the one responsible for Nina’s unknown fate.

Until, out of the blue, an anonymous tip placed Nina at the bus station the night she disappeared. With nothing to go on, no evidence of foul play, Chief Harris declared her a runaway.

Case closed.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, went back to leaving their doors unlocked and letting their kids play outside until the street lights came on. The community that had rallied around us during those dark days inched away.

My mother had done her best to raise two girls on her own. When the stress became too much, alcohol became her crutch. Maybe if I hadn’t been juggling my senior year in high school, a part-time job and tutoring to help pay the bills, I would’ve noticed that Nina had adopted Mom’s liquid coping mechanism.

Nina hid it like a pro. Her disappearance though cracked her life open and exposed everything I’d failed to see. Each story that surfaced during the investigation hit like a punch to my gut: bush parties, sneaking vodka into school in water bottles, a record of misdemeanours she and Mom had kept from me.

As the stories spread and the novelty of Nina’s disappearance wore off, the town’s sympathy dissipated and the students I tutored dwindled. Their parents likely feared whatever had
infected our family might spread to theirs.

My dreams of college shifted to an obsessive crusade to find my sister. I’d let her down. It was my responsibility to get her back.

I no longer blame Chief Harris for his decision, nor for closing his office door every time I showed up at the station. He’s a good man, but this investigation was beyond the scope of Fairview’s finest who had a town to police, underfunded and understaffed.

He’d never admit it—fiercely loyal to the badge—but I’m sure Dan agreed the chief accepted the runaway theory too quickly.

Despite having our roots firmly planted in Fairview, Dan and I hadn’t crossed paths before Nina ran away. He’d left for college when I started my freshman year and joined the local police force when he returned.

This was how Dan had come to know Nina; the new guy sent to break up the rowdy parties and disperse the under-aged drinkers. But he he must have seen in Nina the good kid beneath the hurt. I’m sure that’s why he’d indulged me, chasing down every lead I’d brought to him, no matter how remote, until there was nothing left to chase.

I had to accept that Nina was just as adept at concealing her whereabouts as she had been at hiding her problems. I had to trust she’d choose to come back someday.

My mother became my next mission. If I couldn’t save Nina, then I was going to save Mom.

Alcohol and grief had a decade long head start though. I was too far behind and Mom welcomed death too willingly. It was Dan who got me into counselling, helped me get my life back and gave me a future.

A future about to lead us to a new state. A fresh start. Where Dan could become the investigator Nina’s case helped him realize he wanted be.

I shouldn’t be surprised then to find he had his own box of files related to her case. It was the other files in the box—other missing girls gone without a trace—that whispered it hadn’t been Nina’s choice to leave.

The back door slides open and Dan appears on the deck, sweaty from his run. “Hey, I’m gonna grab a shower before the movers get here.”

He notices the box at my feet, folders piled haphazardly on the patio table. “What’s that?”

“That’s a good question,” I say.

He comes closer, peers down at the pages in front of me. “Where did you get this?”

“You told me there were no other cases like Nina’s.”

Dan crouches in front of me. “Gillian, there’s nothing in those files that link these girls’ disappearances to Nina.”

“Why did you keep this from me?”

“Because I knew you’d think the worst. You’d finally accepted that Nina ran away…”

“You can’t honestly believe all these girls ran away.”

“Teenagers run away. Hundreds every year. Nina isn’t the first troubled kid and won’t be the last. We did everything we could.” Dan stands and turns for the house.

“But what if we were wrong?”

“Gillian, stop.” He doesn’t even turn to look at me.

The hiss of air brakes out front prevents me from testing his patience further.

“That’s the moving truck.” He steps inside and wrenches the sliding door with such force it bangs against the frame and rebounds, landing about an inch from closing.

I flinch.

It’s just the stress of the move. Yes, we’re moving for his career, but leaving his family home—bought from his parents when they retired south—can’t be easy for him.

And this box. Does it make him doubt the direction he’s chosen? Imagine future unsolved cases, faces that will haunt him?

I repack the files, return the box to the stack and let the movers get to work. Dan, freshly showered, chats amiably with the crew: how do they like their jobs; what’s the weirdest thing they’ve ever moved; their favourite sports.

The day drags and then suddenly the rooms are empty and our voices echo. Dan suggests a final pass of each floor to make sure nothing has been missed. I’ve wandered the house aimlessly all day; I know all that’s left within these walls are unanswered questions.

I walk out into the garden one last time. Movement in the back corner catches my eye. Dirt arcs from Roscoe’s paws as he digs with singular focus.

The movers must have left the gate open after they collected the patio furniture.

This is all I need. I march over, grab Roscoe by the collar and try to lead him away. He resists, paws still cycling into the earth. Even once I’ve dragged him out of the hole and across the yard, he struggles to return to it.

I deposit him in his own yard and borrow a shovel from Mrs. Campbell’s shed. Bent to scoop displaced dirt into the shovel, what I thought was a thick root looks more like a bone. A beloved family pet buried in the yard I guess. A shiver runs down my spine nonetheless.

As I empty the shovel over Fluffy or Spot or Buddy’s remains, the sun peeks out from behind the clouds and reflects off something in the hole. Curiosity wins over revulsion. I lay the shovel down and sink to my knees.

Scraping away the dirt reveals silver beads woven into coloured thread faded by time.

I can’t breathe. My heart pounds in my chest. I’d searched relentlessly for it after she’d gone; assumed she’d thrown it away—just another childhood memory eclipsed by the pain of a broken family.

I shove up the sleeve of my shirt and stare at its twin encircling my wrist. “Together forever,” we’d said as we tied our homemade bracelets on each other’s arm.

Turning away to retrieve the shovel I see the feet I hadn’t heard approach.

Dan’s face is hard stone, his eyes determined yet tinged with sorrow, the shovel aimed at my skull.