Chapter 9: Ryleigh
Trying not to draw too much attention to myself, I carefully drive down a few of the barren back streets. I pass a park where presumably a mother is pushing her young son on a swing set. The kid has no idea how lucky he is to have a mother. She will always be there for him to give him a push in the right direction. That bond can never be dissevered. I should know.
There aren’t too many places in Everton to hide out, none that I can think of, so with each second it becomes more and more likely that I’m going to drive past a cop and wind up in jail. The only person I can call is Alice, but she would never understand or help me, not anymore. With things spiraling out of control, I don’t have the luxury to even catch my breath and analyze what I do know. My obsession to get answers is in overdrive, but at this rate, I’m losing all my means and there is no end without the means to get there. I need some place to go where I can energize my body and mind. My eyes have become dry and slightly blood shot from the lack of sleep and alcohol, which makes driving nothing less than torture.
Suddenly, an unexpected phone call causes my phone to vibrate in my pocket and unexpected isn’t really my thing, which is why the tingling of the phone vibrating against my thigh forces me to jump in my seat. I fish the phone out of my pocket with one hand, but I have to look down to find it. One irritated eye remains focused on the road until the wide gaze causes it to shut. Everything in my body goes numb as the car goes barreling over the curb onto a flimsy sidewalk. With a quick jerk of the hands, the car skids back onto the street, narrowly missing a garbage can that had been left on the sidewalk.
Not wanting to wreck my car or draw any more attention to myself with jerky driving, I pull the car off the road. A look of bewilderment comes over me as I find the name on the call reads Ryleigh. I don’t think I know a Ryleigh; nevertheless, the name and number are programmed in my phone. I answer the call with my car’s Bluetooth function just before it goes to voicemail. My fingers tap rhythmically against the steering wheel, while I wait a couple seconds for someone to speak.
The line remains silent until a female voice comes through my car speakers in a hurried tone. “Hey. Ryan, Are you home?”
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Stop playing. This is serious. Where are you?”
I reply, “I’m not playing. Who are you? Do we know each other?”
She takes a second, then replies, “I have been waiting for you to call me. It was awful what happened to your parents. I thought you would at least get up with me, so we could cope together.”
Not even spending the time to process what she is talking about, I ask, “Were you at the bar the other night? I really don’t remember anything from that night.”
“Yes, I was at the bar. Do you really not remember me? Because you will have to forgive me, but that's hard to believe. We have known each other a while so that isn’t a good way to get rid of me.”
My hands softly massage my eyelids as I attempt to make sense of the conversation. Why did she call me sweetie? Are we together? “I’m sorry, but like I said, I don’t have the slightest memory of you.”
When she speaks next it sounds as if she is about to break into tears. “I, I don’t understand. After everything we have been through. If you don’t want to see me because of your parents, just say so.”
The whole conversation throws me into a panic. What is going on? Have I forgotten a complete relationship? After a few seconds of silence, which is probably longer than I should have waited, I reply, “No, you misunderstand. I’m not blowing you off. I have problems remembering stuff when I drink too much, and I can’t remember that night. I know it’s an insane stretch, but for whatever reason I honestly can’t remember you.”
While sniffling on the line she asks, “Where are you?”
I look around the street as a few cars meander past, “I’m on my way to Ma and Pa’s for breakfast.” I wait for her response, but instead sirens come through the dead phone line.
She returns after a few seconds. “Ryan, I’m driving toward your house and the road is blocked off just before I can get to your place. What in the world? Ryan, police are all over your property.”
Why is she going to my house? This lady has some serious explaining to do.
She says, “They must think you have something to do with your parents. They have to know we were there. Did you tell them we were there?”
Why won’t she answer my questions? I’m about to lose my mind. “No! I can’t remember! Wait, you were there that night as well?”
In a hurried tone, she replies, “Yes! You must be telling the truth; you really don’t remember that night. I have to get out of here. Um… Meet me at Colonial Park. Nobody should be there, so it should be safe. I need to see you.”
I reply, “I don’t understand. What happened that night?”
She says, “I’ll tell you what I know later. First, we need to get to the park.” With that, she hangs up.
Somehow, my life has found a way to get even worse. Going to the police keeps coming to the forefront of my thoughts, so maybe turning myself in to the authorities isn’t such a bad idea. As if the voice deep within me hears I’m about to do something stupid, my thoughts change. They are searching my house. Why would they do that unless they thought I did something? I don’t know what to do. Who would believe my story? I don’t even believe this is happening to me.
The two minded approach is admittedly not the best way to provide a reasonable way out of this conundrum, but I’m finding it hard to think linearly without division happening. Pressure builds and my migraine threatens to return. I pull back out on the street as I punch the roof of my car.
I take a quick right turn and head toward the old colonial period park. The park is about a mile out of town back in the woods, which could definitely be useful in my current predicament. With the cops after me now, everything makes even less sense. What did I do and how is Ryleigh involved?
I take a few turns that usher me to a long dirt road that runs past the park. I veer off the paved road and onto the dirt. This less traveled road leading out of town should be safer than the main highway in theory. A few houses, both new and old, align themselves along the road every so often. For some reason the older, more scenic houses bring a calming influence over me. Then again, the calmness could be produced by the flask of scotch I pulled out the glove box and have slowly been drinking.
This part of the city and the land just outside the city limit is more historically significant than the more modernized city limits. In fact, it is like many cities in the area that spread out from plantation homes that eventually were forgotten as modern times and industry took over. At least it should be a good place to hide out. Hopefully!
I drive around a curve that hides the park entrance. Town lore states that a confederate general ambushed a union brigade around this very curve in the terrain. I hope I’m not playing the part of a soldier. The feature that stands out in the park is a well-maintained lake that despite the lack of visitation to the park remains a picturesque example of pure beauty. From what I understand, the city keeps the park open more for the land's history than its recreational use.
As my eyes trace around the bank of the lake, I notice a car parked under the mossy oaks a few yards to the right of the lake. That must be her. I coast through the park with my eyes peeled in case of an ambush. I’m not sure I could live through any more surprises. Thankfully, life obliges and there is only the one car in the entire park.
I let the car come to rest a few feet from another parked that sits under a tree. The other car is black, considerably older, and more worn than my own. I pick up my phone and reread the mysterious text from the other day. My mind focuses on the words ‘be careful’ and ‘danger’. What if this is indeed a trap? I’m going to have to risk it. I need answers, and she is the only one that could have them right now.
Matt didn’t say anything bad about her. He’s an ass, but if he sensed
she could do harm to me, he would have told me. If this really is that girl from the bar, everything suggests that she and I had a relationship of sorts. I can’t give into my paranoia. I have to do this.
At the same time that I slowly open my door, the black car’s driver side door opens. I still can’t see anyone, which causes me to question the person’s motives. It could be the guy from the diner for all I know. Before the driver comes into view as I walk cautiously around the car, a shadowy female figure appears this time beside a tree.
The face of the woman comes into clearer view for a split second then becomes fuzzy. That’s the woman from the bar. Somehow, I just know it is the woman, but then the figure disappears just as the person from the car cuts in front of my view of the tree. I quickly refocus on the person standing in front me that had just exited the car.
As I am trying to process everything, a soft nervous voice breaches the quiet park setting. “Hey. I guess I need to reintroduce myself.” A realization quickly sets in during this unnerving moment as all my senses reach the same conclusion. This person from the black car is no doubt the woman from the bar, the voice is without a doubt the voice from the recent phone call, and the face of this woman is precisely the same face I saw behind the tree a few seconds ago.
Buried Truth Page 9
