by Lisa Gardner
“Can you describe the man to me?”
“Umm, younger. Early thirties, maybe? Fit. Not tall, but muscular. Dark hair, smooth shaven. He’s wearing a blue T-shirt and jeans and I can smell him—soap and aftershave. Fake-Everett only ever smells like sweat and dirty clothes. The man stares at my chest. I pull up the top of my dress again. I hate the dress. Fake-Everett tells me I should be grateful when he gives me clothes. I’m not.”
“What happens next?”
“A tray of nachos goes by. All chips and melted cheese piled with salsa and sour cream. Oh my God, they smell so good! The man sees me eyeing them and asks the bartender to bring us some. I’m pretty sure to share, but I don’t dare ask. Fake-Everett has a hand on my shoulder. He’s squeezing very hard. He’s on something. His eyes are too bright. In this mood, Fake-Everett is very dangerous. I don’t feel so good anymore. I’m nervous. Very nervous.”
“Are the man and Fake-Everett talking?”
“The man is tapping the bar.” My fingers move. There is a pattern. Same rhythm, over and over again. I can hear it in my mind. My fingers play it out on the table. Tap, tap, tap, tappity tap. “I think he’s nervous, too,” I whisper. “But I don’t know why. He keeps staring at me. I just wish he’d look away.”
“And then?”
“Nachos. They arrive. The man says we can share. I look at Fake-Everett. I’m trying to understand. He never talks to others, he never shares. He tells me to show the man some respect, be more appreciative. I don’t understand that. Something is wrong. This whole . . . scenario. Something is going on. The strange man, Fake-Everett, it’s like they know one another. And the man keeps tapping, tapping, tapping. I wish he would go away.”
“What does Fake-Everett do next?”
“Eats nachos. Scoops up big mouthfuls. Smears sour cream and salsa on his face. He doesn’t care. He’s a pig.”
“What do you do?”
“I eat, too. Quickly. Drink more beer. Something is going to happen. I don’t know what.”
“And the man?”
“He doesn’t eat. He ordered the nachos but takes only a single chip. He just keeps looking at me, and fidgeting. He orders more food, but again, for Fake-Everett and me, not for himself.”
“What do you hear, Molly?”
The change in focus startles me. I return to tapping the table. The man’s restless beat. Then, I’m humming, too. A Kenny Chesney song playing from the jukebox behind us. Clink, clink of pool balls.
And voices. Fake-Everett and the man. Heads closer together, murmuring while I grab another chicken wing and hastily gnaw away. I have a suspicion now. A growing feeling of dread over what’s going to happen next. Must eat. Must eat as much as possible as fast as possible.
“Conner. Fake-Everett calls the man Conner.
“‘Told you she was pretty,’ Fake-Everett says.
“‘Too skinny,’ Conner says.
“‘Not at the rate she’s eating now. Trust me, trained her myself.’
“‘You’re sure?’
“‘Course. Deal’s a deal.’
“‘And the return?’
“‘Same place tomorrow night. Parking lot. Don’t want to make too big an impression, hanging out at the same bar twice.’
“‘And she’s agreed?’
“‘Course. Girl knows better than to make fuss. You’ll see.’
“The bar lights flicker.” Seeing it abruptly in my mind, I report the memory out loud. “Closing time. We have to leave.” My hand presses against my stomach. “I’m scared.”
“What happens next, Molly?”
“The man, Conner, he pays the bill. Throws down a hundred without even blinking. When the man turns away, Fake-Everett grabs the money for himself. So fast, like a snake. I don’t feel good. I stumble, walking out. The beer, the food, what I’m now sure is going to happen next.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“Fake-Everett . . . he sold me. Or rented me? But what they were whispering . . . Fake-Everett is going to tell me to go home with this man. I should be grateful. He’s cleaner, younger, better-looking. But I think that’s the problem. I know Fake-Everett. He doesn’t share his toys. And I can already tell you, he doesn’t like this guy. He doesn’t like any man better-looking than him. He’s playing some game. This Conner, myself, we’ll both pay for it in the end.”
“What do you mean?”
“Fake-Everett’s already told me he’s going to kill me and feed me to the gators. Conner touches me, Fake-Everett will kill him, too. Both of us. And take all the money, drugs, whatever it was Conner promised. Fake-Everett doesn’t negotiate. He steals. He hoards. He is awful, but he’s consistent. Conner doesn’t understand yet. He’s as dead as I am.”
“Where is Conner?”
“Walking ahead of us. Straight into the parking lot. He has square shoulders. Strong, fit. Fake-Everett’s fingers are digging into my arm. He’s dragging me out of the bar. I can feel the rage coming off him in waves. I think he would like to kill me right now. Or maybe it’s Conner that he hates so much.”
“How do you feel?”
“Like I’m going to vomit. But I have to hold it in, time it right.”
“For what?”
“Parking lot. The air is warm, humid. For the first time, I’m not chilled. Except now I’m breaking into a sweat. But it’s okay. I know what I’m doing. I got this.
“People disappear, climb into their pickup trucks. Conner stops. Looks back at us. And then—I vomit. All over his shoes. He jumps back. Swears. Yells. Others turn, start to pay attention. Fake-Everett waves them off. I can still feel his anger, but it’s softer. Conner is backing up. No one wants a puker.
“Conner turns away,” I whisper. “He leaves without me. And I know Fake-Everett isn’t happy, but then I also know exactly what to say. You’ve been gone for a week. I just want to be with you. Only you. Fake-Everett thinks he’s so smart. He thinks he’s the one in control. But I have my tricks, too.
“Fake-Everett isn’t angry anymore. Fake-Everett takes me back to the motel. And I survive another day.”
I’m tired suddenly. So exhausted my head slumps forward. I’m not thinking of popcorn or beer or country music. I’m thinking of the intense fatigue of all those minutes, hours, days. Never knowing if I would make it. Hating my life, but still not quite able to give it up. Eking out each moment because the will to live makes it harder than you think to simply let go.
Samuel’s hand, solid on my shoulder. “Flora, open your eyes.”
I do, but I still feel blurry, out of it.
“It’s okay. Take a moment. You did good.”
A bottle of water appears before me. I drink it gratefully, washing the aftertaste of beer from my mouth. I hardly ever drink, and certainly not Jacob’s favorite beer. I’m shivering slightly. I realize I’m barely dressed and find my pile of clothes, pulling each layer back on.
The others are behind me, murmuring in low voices.
“Conner was one of Conrad’s fake IDs,” D.D. is saying.
“Abita Select Amber is one of the top-selling beers in Mississippi,” Quincy supplies.
Keith says nothing. Comes to sit beside me. Remains silent, for which I’m grateful.
“The tapping,” Samuel says. He rests his dark hand on the table, finds the pattern. It jars me a little, the sound from my head playing out in real life.
He regards all of us expectantly. “No military backgrounds?” he presses.
Keith suddenly lights up. “Oh my God. He was tapping in Morse code!”
“Exactly.”
“What was he saying?” D.D. asks.
“He wasn’t. He was asking a question, the same question, over and over. He was asking, ‘Are you okay?’ But Flora never answered him.”
CHAPTER 22
EVIE
BEFORE RETURNING HOME, I CONVINCE Mr. Delaney to swing by CVS for some basic supplies. I find a gigantic purse. Cheap brown leather, covered in miscellaneous pockets and snap detailing meant to make it look urban cool. Definitely not my classic Coach Christmas gift from Conrad. My mom will hate it. I smile as I sling it over my shoulder.
I pick out a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, light makeup. My mother has the bathroom fully stocked but I want my own toiletries. Brands I prefer.
I find myself in front of hair dye for a long time. Mr. Delaney has wandered off. No doubt trying to give me space. Alone in the pharmacy store aisle, I find myself thinking like the murder suspect I truly am. Maybe I should think beyond my preferred hair gel. What about a bug-out kit? New hair color, new hairstyle? Sunglasses, hat? If I ever want to leave my mother’s house, it will require some subterfuge.
So I do it. A rich brunette to cover my ash blond. Then, while I’m at it, a cheap purple scarf, oversized sunglasses. Then I go a little nuts in the hair accessory section, from scissors to hair extensions to flowered barrettes. I don’t know why I pick the things I pick, and yet it all makes perfect sense. Next up, pen and notepad. Then, even better, I stumble across a rack of prepaid cells. I select three. Again, not sure why. It feels right.
I need money. But my ATM card melted in the house fire. Maybe Mr. Delaney will take me to my local bank, where I can withdraw in person. Or loan me money? I feel uncomfortable, like I’m crossing some line; then I order myself to get over it. I can’t be dependent on my mom and helpless in the face of whatever is going to happen next. Between retrieving my passport and financial documents from the safe, and now this little shopping expedition, I’m going to make it.
I head back to the checkout line. Mr. Delaney magically reappears. He already has a credit card in hand, which makes me feel self-conscious again. Then he spots the prepaid cells. Without a word, he returns his credit card to his wallet, extracts cash instead.
I think I get it. He doesn’t want there to be evidence he bought the phones. In case they are recovered later at . . . what? The scene of a shooting? Another house fire? He doesn’t ask. I don’t tell.
“Nice purse,” he says finally when we emerge from the store and I start transferring over my supplies.
“I need cash,” I say. “And a new ATM card.”
He drives me to the bank.
There, things get more interesting. I walk in, and the first teller across from me, some woman I’ve never met, immediately gasps. I actually stop and glance behind me, wondering what the fuss is about. Did someone famous walk in behind me? Nope. Next, I look down. Are my clothes covered in lunch? No. Then, finally I get it. She’s gasping at me. A woman whose picture has been all over the news as a murderer.
I feel a lot better about my decision to buy hair dye. I only wish I’d bought more.
I square my shoulders, produce my passport, and get to work.
I know my accounts. I know what Conrad and I have and don’t have in our joint savings. I’m not sure if the police can freeze the funds as part of their investigation—sounds like a logical enough thing for them to do—so I make a large withdrawal now. The woman fusses, says she needs her manager. I play it cool, officially having an out-of-body experience where I’m no longer a shy mathematician’s daughter whose been shunning the limelight for her entire life but a regular La Femme Nikita. Yeah, that was me on the news. And if I was willing to shoot my own husband, just think of what I might do to you.
Then I wise up enough to turn sideways and show off my rounded belly. By the time the manager returns, I have the full pregnancy profile going on. She softens almost immediately. At least my future stretch marks have come in handy.
She tries to tell me there’s a limit on what I can withdraw. Which is partly true, but not the paltry amount she’s conceding to me. I keep my voice firm and polite as I walk her through it. This account is in my name. My passport verifies my identity. I am entitled to withdraw what I want to withdraw. Any questions, my lawyer is sitting in the car.
In the end, the manager counts out five thousand dollars. Stacks of hundreds. I find myself thinking of the metal box again, Conrad’s own stash of IDs and cash. It both confuses and saddens me. What was he really doing on all those business trips?
And why marry me? Why acquire a wife, then a child, if his whole life was just a lie?
As long as I’m in the bank, I order a new debit card to be sent to my mother’s address. That customer service person is equally skittish to be around me. I keep my chin up, but on my lap my hands start to shake. I’m an introvert. This level of attention is difficult for me. Especially the way people look, whisper.
Forget Conrad. I feel like a sixteen-year-old girl who just shot and killed her father all over again.
I get my money. I get promises of a new card. Then I clutch my bag to my shoulder and flee the premises.
* * *
—
THE MOMENT MR. Delaney turns down my mother’s street, reporters rush forward. He is patient and firm. One slow, steady speed. The reporters quickly start giving way because he will not. It occurs to me that he’s probably driven this gauntlet before, both given his line of work and given what happened sixteen years ago.
Did I come out of the house back then? I don’t remember. I was so lost in my own grief. While I’m sure the media was terrible to my mother, asking for the gory details again and again, I’m also sure she got to vamp up her role of heartbroken widow. While I, the strange quiet kid, was let off the hook as a minor.
What did I do after my father’s death? Sat in my room and stared at a wall, trying not to see his shattered chest. Sat in his office and stared at his whiteboard, trying to capture his last bit of genius. Then one day my mother said I was going to school, so I did. Because that’s how it works in my family. We don’t talk. We don’t resolve. We just . . . move on.
Mr. Delaney turns into the driveway. Once we’re on private ground, the reporters have to give up. I notice signs staked in the lawn: No Trespassing. Probably Mr. Delaney’s handiwork from when he first arrived this morning. It makes an interesting counterpart to all the neighborhood Christmas decorations.
Mr. Delaney parks the car and looks at me.
“I’ll be okay,” I tell him.
“Two vodkas are okay,” he says. “Five are too many.” He’s referring to my mother, who probably is a functioning alcoholic. Take away her vodka and she’s unworkable. Too much vodka and she’s overly dramatic.
Conrad rarely drank, only the occasional beer. I realize now that’s one of the things I liked about him. Growing up in a household where alcohol felt like a necessary evil, I barely touched it myself, and was happy my husband didn’t either.
“Will you tell her about the lockbox discovery?” Mr. Delaney asks me.
“No. She already hates him enough.”
“Do you know why?”
“A window salesman isn’t worthy of Earl Hopkins’s daughter.”
Mr. Delaney smiles. “I don’t think that’s the case.”
“Then why?”
“You should ask her yourself.”
My turn to give him a look. But I’d told him I’d be okay and I can’t make a liar out of myself now, so I pop open the door and step resolutely out of the car. Across the street, the reporters shout questions, hoping to get lucky. In front of me, my mother appears at the side door, vodka martini already in hand, though it’s only three in the afternoon.
Last glance at Mr. Delaney.
Then, ready or not, here I come.
* * *
—
MY FIRST ORDER of business is trying to gauge how much my mother has already consumed. A jug of Ketel One sits on the kitchen island, a peeled lemon beside it. She follows my gaze, then raises her martini glass in open defiance. Normally, my mother waits till five o’clock sharp for her daily habit, but she’s
never been great under pressure.
As usual she is impeccably garbed. Dark-green wool slacks, a cashmere turtleneck the color of oatmeal, a beautifully pleated chocolate-brown vest. Given her beverage and the waiting media, I doubt she’s planning on going out, but in my mother’s world, there’s no excuse for ever looking other than your best.
Now she spies my new chunky, clunky purse. Immediately, her brow furrows. “What is that?”
“My new bag. Old one burned up in the fire.”
“Evie, if you needed a purse why didn’t you just say so? I have a number of Chanels that would be perfect for you.”
I don’t answer the question, simply set my purse on the kitchen chair closest to me. Then I cross to the bottle of vodka, screw back on the cap, put it away. In my world, this passes for conversation.
“Did you eat lunch?” she tries now, going on the attack as a concerned mom.
“Mr. Delaney took me for lunch.”
“Did you eat? It’s very important that you eat. The baby—”
“I had a very healthy, fulfilling lunch, thank you. Including OJ, hold the vodka.”
She flushes, frowns at me again. “Did you find what you needed at your house?”
“I learned enough.”
“Is it a total loss?”
I hate to say this. “Yes.”
“Then, that’s it; you’ll stay here. Your rooms are ready to go, the nursery is nearly done. A woman in your condition can’t be subject to undue stress. Frankly, all this nonsense about the shooting is enough.”
For a moment, I think she’s referring to my father, then realize she means Conrad.
“The police say Dad didn’t kill himself.” I don’t mean to utter the words so baldly, but I don’t know how else to deliver them.
My mom freezes. There’s some kind of look on her face, but I can’t read it. Horror, sorrow, confusion. All three.
“Why are the police talking about your father’s death?”
“Because I told them the truth: I didn’t do it.”
