Not Quite Free

by Lyla Payne

  I think about Mel and Will, about Leo and even Travis.

  Beau.

  I swallow, trying to keep my emotions in check. After all, I don’t have the excuse of hormonal imbalance and I’ve already lost it on one of my friends this morning. Amelia needs me to be the strong one, the way Leo was for me on that bench an hour ago.

  “Even when they hurt you, it can still be worth it,” I conclude.

  It’s true. I feel no regret over my relationship with Beau, over the energy we both spent trying to make a good thing work. And I bear no ill will toward him or Lucy, which honestly kind of makes this whole thing that much harder. If I could hate her, my frustration would have somewhere to go, anyway.

  The expression on Amelia’s face says she can read my mind. And though a normal person might respond with pity, my cousin is not a normal person.

  She’s all empathy, followed by a buck-up attitude.

  “I’m worried about you, too, you know. This whole thing with Brick happening so close to you and Beau breaking up. It’s not going to be easy for you, I know. Having him around, hearing him talk about his family.” She tips her head and looks forlornly down at her empty cup. “Are you okay with it?”

  I take her cup and mine over to the counter, where I refill them and doctor them the way we both like our coffee—cream, no sugar. The busywork gives me time to think about how to respond. She’ll want to know that I thought about it, that I’m not giving her empty reassurances.

  But how on earth could I deny my cousin happiness because I’m unhappy? Even if it’s going to be really hard. Even if it’s unfathomable right now to accept the thought of seeing Beau with Lucy at family events, Jack’s soccer games, and holidays in the years to come.

  Or maybe I’m getting way ahead of myself. That seems possible.

  I set the mugs back on the table and give her a smile. A real one, because despite all of my inner turmoil, I feel calm about Brick and Amelia. Confident that they’re good for each other, that his intentions are genuine and true.

  And that’s more than enough motivation for me to let go of my own selfishness for today.

  “I’m okay,” I tell her.

  It’s not the truth, but it’s not a lie either. It’s somewhere in between, in the space where if I’m not okay right now, I’m on my way to figuring out how to be again.

  I’ll make it. No question.

  Chapter Four

  The day at work goes quickly, especially since we changed story time to Wednesday this week because of yesterday’s meetings and Amelia isn’t there for me to pawn the kids off on anymore. In truth, they just prefer her to me, but we all get through it just fine, and LeighAnn sticks around to chat while her kids decide which books they want to check out for the week.

  She says nothing about my arrest, God love her, and we gossip about Victoria instead, who, since she’s new in town, has piqued the interest of most residents with her desire to renovate one of the most beloved historical homes in downtown Heron Creek. It’s nice to let someone else fall under local scrutiny for once, especially Victoria, even though I should be working on questions for our book club tomorrow night.

  And, you know, solving my father’s murder so I don’t end up with an unwanted but necessary lady lover in the slammer.

  After LeighAnn leaves, I focus on my duties for a while, but my work runs out before it’s time to lock up and meet Travis for a drink. I’m more than a little jumpy about being alone in the library after the strange ghost’s appearance the other night, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let her intimidate me into running away a second time.

  I decide instead that it’s past time to face my fears about the contents of Clara’s latest journal entry—especially since we’re getting closer to the time Frank would have been born and my curiosity about what he was like as a child is climbing steadily. It’s been weeks since she sent me anything new because she was up against a deadline of her own. I should have been excited to get more and opened it right away, I guess.

  With that in the forefront of my mind, I push all the rest of my worries and responsibilities aside and open the attachment to Clara’s email, which is blank other than her signature line. From someone else, that would have seemed odd, but Clara’s the type to get lost for days in her work. She’ll forget to shower, to eat, and certainly how to perform the little pleasantries other people take for granted.

  Which I actually appreciate. I’m not sitting here to chat with Clara, after all—I’m trying to learn more about my family, especially whether or not I should expect to find myself committed to a mental institution.

  Charleston, South Carolina, 1960

  I never thought I would have children. Mostly because I’ve never, not once, wanted them, and after my forty-fifth birthday came and went, I figured I had escaped unscathed. Not true, as it turned out, and I spent the nine months of our time alone together fretting about my decision to see it through.

  All of which makes it strange for me to feel these overwhelming feelings of love as I stare at my sleeping son. He’s only a day old, and already, I would throw myself in front of a bullet if it was headed in his direction.

  At the same time, I think—no, I know—that he would have been better off with someone else as his mother.

  It was my grandmother’s institutionalization that convinced me as a girl that the line of Fourniers who aren’t quite all there should end with me. I’m the only one of my mother’s six children born with the strange ability to not only see, but assist, those who have gone into the ether. I believe the ghosts are real. That what they ask from me is important. Yet I cannot be sure this does not make me as crazy as the rest of them.

  Now, there is Francis. A tiny, helpless baby who won’t know for years—perhaps decades, and after I am gone, given my advanced age—whether he has been spared. Or whether I, and my irresponsibility, have condemned him to a life of indentured servitude, of paranoia and fear.

  I suppose now that he’s here, there’s nothing to do but wait. Perhaps every new mother feels this fear that she’s somehow passed along something deadly to her child. But not every mother is aware she carries such a legacy before getting pregnant in the first place.

  As he breathes and I listen, I know that I cannot regret him, regardless of how things turn out. My own mother died young, in her fifties, by her own hand. She left no note, but I know why—the responsibility of lost souls became too much for her to bear. Or maybe it was merely the fear that she would end up in someplace like Saint Elizabeth’s, even though my brothers and I promised nothing of the sort would ever befall her as long as we were in charge of her future.

  Some days, I think the guilt was what did it. That she left her own mother in a home like that when she knew, deep down, that she hadn’t gone mad at all.

  I’m sleepy. I don’t plan to write in this book often, or at all, unless Francis develops this odd gift of mine, or the people who so frightened my mother and grandmother turn out to be real. If none of that happens, I shall live a happy life as another Carlotta Fournier. A strange woman, perhaps, but one happy enough to lead a quiet life with her fatherless son. Here’s hoping that things continue to go as not planned.

  The short entry doesn’t tell me a whole lot about the next generation, or about her son, since he was only just born. Like most of the other entries I’ve read from the Carlotta journals, it’s left me with more questions than answers—like whether she was my grandmother, and whether her Francis was my father. If so, he was a full ten years older than my mother, more of an age difference than I would have thought. Twenty-seven when he’d gotten her pregnant with me, which was more than a little illegal.

  Knowing my mother, she’d probably lied about her age. Knowing Frank, I’m not sure it would have mattered if she hadn’t. The information, if true, is mildly interesting, but with both of them gone, I can’t see how it matters much.

  More interesting, perhaps, is the mystery of his father. Why was Carlotta so sure that he
would never be part of her son’s life? When had she moved to Charleston? Why didn’t she talk about what had become of her brothers?

  Her revelation about her mother’s suicide rocks me to my core—based on the single entry I’d read a few weeks ago, her mother hadn’t seemed the type—and I’m not sure I have the stomach now to read the rest of her writings. It will be painful to watch her deteriorate. The knowledge leaves me feeling sorry for her daughter and her sons, who bore witness to it in person.

  My phone vibrates with a text message from Travis, verifying the time and place of our meeting, and I reply yes before grabbing my things and packing up for the night. I’ve been trying to decide since we made the date what exactly we should try first as far as unearthing anything useful in Frank’s past. From the state of my plan—or lack thereof, as it happens—I hope the names Travis came up with pan out in some way.

  I try to ignore the relief I feel when I leave the library without being accosted by the dead lady in the wedding dress. Leo is right that she can’t be a priority right now. It’s probably too much to hope for, but it’s kind of nice to think that one of my ghosts seems to understand my full docket and be okay with it.

  It would be fine with me if she never came back, honestly. My skin crawls just thinking about the empty, black pools of her eyes.

  “Hey,” Travis greets me as I step out of the cold evening air and into the over-warm interior of Pistol Pete’s. The place is hopping at the tail end of happy hour, but Travis must have gotten here early enough to grab the best table in the place—at least the one that allows for holding a remotely private conversation.

  I shed my coat as I join him at the two-top tucked away in a corner by the fireplace. The heat from the roaring flames billows toward me, along with the scent of burning cedar and a brush of ash, and beads of sweat pop out on my forehead in a matter of seconds.

  “Hi,” I say back, scooting onto my stool and trying to catch the waitress’s eye. In a miracle feat, it happens, and I simply point to whatever amber liquid is chilling in Travis’s glass. I need something to get through this evening, and it is happy hour, after all.

  Time to get happy.

  “How was work?” Travis asks.

  “Fine.” I eye him, wondering if we’re really doing this small talk thing. Our relationship is still weird, but maybe that’s to be expected when you don’t find out you have a sibling until you’re in your mid-twenties. “You?”

  “Fine. Another boring day in the police life of Heron Creek. Thank goodness.”

  “Yeah, I’m told that’s how every day was before I came back to town,” I joke. “But you probably already heard that.”

  He snorts. “The Ryan twins say a Hail Mary every morning, asking for things to go back to the way they were.”

  “I believe it.” My fondness for those idiot twins is rivaled only by the amount of exasperation they cause me whenever possible.

  We lapse into silence until the waitress brings my drink and a steaming order of spinach and artichoke dip, which she sets between us. I raise my eyebrows at Travis.

  He shrugs. “I know you like it and I figured you’d be hungry.”

  My traitor stomach growls. I give in and chuckle, nodding. “Thanks. I do, and I am.”

  Pete’s doesn’t have a ton of ambiance or class, and they’re never going to win any service awards, but even though their food is just bar food, it’s damn good. I munch a few chips. Travis piles some dip on his plate, swirling in some of the salsa that was delivered with it before dumping some salt into the mix and taking his first bite.

  We’re avoiding the elephant in the room: our dead father. It was okay for a minute or five, but now it’s beginning to grate on my nerves.

  I drop the chip in my hand and brush the salt from my fingers before folding them in my lap. Since this obvious signal that I’m ready to get down to business has failed to get his attention, I clear my throat. He looks up from his dip and meets my eyes. “So, what do you think we should do first?” I say.

  “Well, like I said, the pictures you sent me have turned up a few leads.”

  I nod, indicating that he should go on, but the reminder that I let the originals get lifted in the break-in makes me gnash my teeth. It was stupid of me not to have made copies of everything, but at least Clara has copies of the Carlotta journals.

  Which, I realize, Travis still doesn’t know exist. I’m not ready to tell him.

  “There are some people we could try talking to, like I said. Some local, others we could call. It’s not a surefire way to learn anything about his murder, but every little clue we can find about Frank will help us build a bigger picture of his life.” Travis pauses, looking unsure of himself. “If you’re interested.”

  “I think it’s better than nothing.” I chew on my bottom lip, then take a sip of what turns out to be a decent glass of whiskey. “I also think we need to see what more we can find out about Frank’s medical history.”

  “Those records are going to be private, Gracie.”

  We stare at each other for several seconds. The standoff isn’t new for the two of us—Travis plays by the rules; I don’t. Maybe it’s because he’s a cop and he feels like he has no choice, but whatever his reasons, I don’t feel like we have time for cutting down red tape.

  Of course, my ass is the one in the defendant’s chair.

  “I need to know if he was diagnosed with anything, and why he checked himself in to begin with,” I soldier on. “But with Clete gone, I’m low on options for how to dig into something like that under the radar.”

  He studies me, disapproval clear in his gray eyes. There are things he’s hidden from me—things he still hides—but his gut reaction to my impetuousness has never been one of them. Or his feelings for Clete, come to think of it. Which probably explains why he looks far more annoyed at my mention of Clete than worried about where the moonshiner has got off to.

  “And you don’t want to ask Will, because he’s crawled out on enough limbs for you over the past six months,” he guesses, wisely avoiding the topic of Clete altogether.

  “Try fifteen years,” I snap, more than a little irritated that he thinks he knows me well enough to give me shit about what’s gone on between my friends and me since my return to Heron Creek. “But no, I can’t ask him.”

  He sighs. “I don’t know. I want to help, but I don’t want to put myself in a bad position. Again.”

  I wonder what it says about me that I’m willing to ask Travis to get himself into trouble, but not Will, Mel, or even Leo. Maybe it’s that they’ve each had their turn. Or maybe part of me thinks Travis needs to put some skin into the game.

  After all, Frank was his father. The others don’t have any reason to stick their necks out.

  “I’m not an expert on murder investigations or anything.” Perhaps the previously untried tactic of appealing to his ego and expertise will work. “But I mean, there’s no way to know which part of Frank’s life is going to turn out to be responsible for this mess, right? Family, the criminal element…or someone he met in the hospital? Shouldn’t we cover all of our bases?”

  Travis purses his lips, but he does look less self-important than he did a minute ago.

  I take it as a good sign and dive in again, swimming deeper this time. Travis is a hard nut to crack, but if we’re going to be family, I need to figure out how to manipulate him at least a little. That’s how life works.

  “If this were a legit investigation and you had the police department behind you, wouldn’t you check every angle? Get search warrants or subpoenas or whatever?”

  “You really need to lay off the crime dramas.” His mouth tugs down into a frown. “You’re not wrong about checking into everything, but we don’t have a legal card to play.”

  “But you agree with me that the FBI aren’t going to be working to figure out what happened. Not when they already think they know.”

  “I agree with that, yes. They’ve closed their investigation pending your
trial, from what Will says.” He swirls his whiskey, then swallows the rest of it in one gulp. “I’ll make you a deal. If you go with me to talk to these people in our family about Frank and our past, I’ll give you the name of a guy who might be able to hack into secure computer networks.”

  “What’s the catch?” He’s offering me exactly what I wanted, but it seems too easy. Which makes me struggle to trust it.

  “You leave me out of it. If anyone asks, you found him through Clete or one of your other back alley cohorts.”

  “Jeez. I’m not an abortion doctor in the nineteen fifties. I just want some medical records.”

  “Yeah, well, too bad Clete disappeared before telling you who broke into the hospital. I’m guessing that person might have had some tips and tricks for stealing medical records.”

  I hate that everyone insists on reminding me that Clete’s gone. Every time I think about him going missing my skin crawls with the certainty that it’s important.

  That it means something, like Will said.

  The fact that I have no idea what, let alone how to find out, has been haunting me with more frequency than either of my current ghosts.

  “Too bad,” I echo before downing my drink as Travis did his. The whiskey lands in my belly and turns my insides as warm as my outsides. I motion to the waitress for another, then meet my half-brother’s expectant gaze. “Deal.”

  If Travis wants to pretend his hands are still clean, it’s no skin off my nose. I don’t have the luxury.

  The strange thing is that later, when I relay the conversation and outcome to Amelia, she’s far more indignant about his unwillingness to crawl out on the same crowded, bowing limb the rest of my friends are perched on…but I’m just not.

  Travis barely knows me, even if I am his sister. He wants to find out what happened to Frank, but more than that, he’s still looking for answers about who he is. Since I’ve made the decision to keep the knowledge of his mother’s identity from him, he doesn’t even have that. It’s for his own good, I think, but it still feels wrong.