by M. S. Parker
I wasn’t going to call him on it, though. I was a one-time babysitter and an uncle. Dealing with stuff like this was his parents’ department, not mine.
“It all depends on how quickly he recovers. It’ll probably be at least a week. He won’t be playing right away, either. Your parents might have a specific date when they get home.”
Les nodded. “Do you think he’ll be better in time to go trick-or-treating? We already got our costumes.”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Maybe you two can come up with a way he can still have some fun even if he can’t go out.”
“We can give him some of our candy,” Les suggested.
“I ain’t givin’ Clancy nothin’.” Betsy’s scowl deepened. “It’s my candy.”
“We can share with him,” Les said. “It’s not like Mom and Dad can’t buy us candy.”
“It’s not the same,” she insisted. “I’m a princess, and I keep my candy.”
Damn.
She really was a little mini-Ashley.
“That’s her costume.” Les rolled his eyes. “Clancy was going to be Spiderman. Betsy was a princess.”
I had a feeling she would’ve said the same thing even if she’d been going as a ghost. I kept that thought to myself and asked instead, “What’s your costume?”
Being here with Les and Betsy just drove home how little time I’d spent with my niece and nephews. No matter what my issues were with my parents and sister, I never should have let it keep me from knowing these kids. Even the princess.
He smiled, pleased that I’d asked. “Sherlock Holmes.”
“Fan of mysteries then?”
The kid’s entire face lit up. “I love them. All kinds of mysteries, but Sherlock Holmes is my favorite.”
“I. Want. Ice cream.” Betsy thumped her fist on the table, but she didn’t raise her voice.
Not surprising. One of the ‘rules’ Mom had drilled into us kids growing up was that a Southern lady never raised her voice, no matter how insistent she needed to be. It seemed Ashley had passed that lesson down to her daughter.
“Are you done with your lunch?” I asked. “Because you haven’t finished your apple.”
“I’m done.” As if to emphasize her point, she pushed her plate away.
“You’re not hungry?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Only for ice cream.”
“That’s not how this works, Betsy. You know that.” I glanced at Les, and he shrugged. “If you don’t finish all of your lunch, you don’t get dessert.”
“She’s going to throw a temper tantrum,” Les said matter-of-factly. He ate the last apple slice. “May I be excused?”
“You don’t want your ice cream?”
His eyes went wide, and he shook his head. “Not if she’s not getting hers. You don’t want to have something she wants.”
Damn. The kid was scared of his little sister. Not like ‘pee-your-pants’ scared, but he definitely wanted to be away from Betsy when she threw a fit.
Ashley had moved past the tantrum thing fairly young, so I didn’t really have any memories of her like that, but for as long as I could remember, she’d mastered the art of manipulation and cutting, backhanded insults. I had no doubt her tantrums had been just a more immature version of that.
“Wait a minute,” I said to Les before turning back to Betsy. I gave her my best stern expression. “I don’t know what your parents do when you’re like this, but I’m in charge right now. If you don’t finish your lunch, you don’t get ice cream, but you won’t be in trouble. But if you throw a fit, you’re gonna spend some time sitting on the couch doing nothing.”
I didn’t say anything as Betsy glared at me. I could see the gears working in her mind, trying to figure out if I would actually do what I said. I could feel Les watching me too, apparently fascinated with the fact that I wasn’t going to let Betsy do whatever she wanted.
After a minute, she picked up an apple slice and ate it. I waited until she ate the second one to get up and go to the fridge. “Les, why don’t you come help me get your bowl ready, and then when Betsy’s done, she can help me get hers.”
A couple minutes later, Betsy and I took our bowls over to the table to join Les. I didn’t know if Betsy would behave for the rest of the afternoon, but I’d take this as a little win. I used the time to chat with them a bit more, asking about school and friends, basically trying to get to know them better.
It didn’t take long for Betsy to get bored once she finished her ice cream, but because she’d been good once I’d given her the ultimatum, I wasn’t going to make her stick around just to talk to me. She went straight back to her playroom, leaving Les and me at the table, finishing our dessert.
“Do you like history stuff?” Les asked suddenly.
“I do.”
“Mom got a whole bunch of boxes from Papaw and Mamaw’s house, and she said they have bunches of letters and papers and stuff in them. I can show you if you want.”
Well, damn. I hadn’t even been thinking about my film right now, but it looked like something might’ve just fallen into my lap. I just hoped whatever was here would be relevant.
“That’d be great.” I ruffled his hair. “Do you like history?”
He nodded. “Dad says I can go to college to become a history professor or a detective, but Mom says I have to become a lawyer like Dad or be in politics like Papaw.”
I was honestly surprised that Ashley had even given Les that much of a choice. Then again, having a law degree often led to a political career. I couldn’t see Les having the temperament for it, though. He’d inherited his father’s quiet personality, but having a career as a white-collar lawyer wouldn’t be enough for my ambitious family, not for the number one grandson. Warren gave Ashley a comfortable lifestyle that she controlled. She’d want to control Les too, but she’d see our father paving the way for whatever they wanted for Les as being as good as her personally controlling him.
Betsy, on the other hand, had the potential to be as cutthroat as her grandfather. If someone didn’t curb those entitled tendencies of hers, she’d end up as President…or a reality TV star.
I didn’t share any of this with Les, though. When the time came that he needed someone to support him for something outside what the rest of the family wanted, I’d be there. I wouldn’t prompt the conversation, though. If he wasn’t ready, it wouldn’t matter if I pushed him to follow his dreams. Besides, not many kids really knew what they wanted to do when they were only twelve.
“The stuff’s in the library,” Les said as he put his things in the .dishwasher.
I followed him out of the kitchen and down a hall. Ashley’s house wasn’t as big as the one we’d grown up in, but it wasn’t small either. I was fairly certain the first floor alone was bigger than my cabin, but I wouldn’t have traded my freedom for any of this.
“Here they are.”
Three boxes that looked like the kind that held files sat on a table in the center of the room. The two high-backed chairs on either side of the table made it look more like it belonged in a public or college library than a private home.
I wondered how much time Warren spent in here, working on cases instead of being at the office. I imagined Ashley kept him on a pretty tight leash, wanting to make sure he wasn’t ‘staying late at the office’ while he was staying late at the office. I could see her telling him that he had a perfectly good library at home, so he could be there for her and the kids while he got work done.
Not that Warren would ever cheat on Ashley. I didn’t know if he actually loved her too much to do it, but he sure as hell was too scared of her to stray. And even if he hadn’t been scared of her, then he’d have been terrified of our father. She was Daddy’s Princess, and heaven help the man who hurt her. Despite the age difference between them, Warren had never even got close to taking advantage of her.
I pushed thoughts of my sister’s marriage aside and took the top off one of the boxes. It was fu
ll of file folders, and a quick look at the first couple ones showed them to be various speeches and flyers from political events over the years. I didn’t bother reading any of them too closely, but I did the whole due diligence thing and pulled out the entire stack to go through.
Les opened one of the other boxes and took out a single item to study. Him being meticulous didn’t surprise me. He was the most careful kid I’d ever met.
I left him to it, going with my instinct that he didn’t mind silence, and worked on my box. I’d skimmed the contents of half a dozen folders when Les tapped on my arm.
“Take a look at this, Uncle Bradyn.”
I put aside my folders and turned to see what had caught his attention. It was an old picture, old enough to have that yellow tinge that some black and white photos got. I recognized the estate immediately, even though there had been remodeling done in the century and a half since the picture had been taken. Despite not having seen this picture before, I recognized a couple people in it from family ‘lessons’ I’d had as a child.
“That says 1843.” Les gestured to the year written on the corner of the picture. “That’s before the War.”
“By almost twenty years.” I didn’t have to ask which War he meant. Down South, there was only one War that sounded like it was always capitalized. I pointed at the bride and groom, who were front and center. “That would be Obadiah Calvert and Charlotte Davis. They’re your five-times great-grandparents, I think.”
“That’s a lot of greats.” Les leaned closer, squinting in a way that made me wonder if he needed glasses. “Are you sure that’s them?”
“You mean your mom hasn’t made you memorize all of your ancestors?” I grinned at him.
“Come on.” He rolled his eyes.
“I wish I was joking,” I said. “Your grandfather used to test me at dinner, and if I didn’t answer right, I didn’t get dessert.”
His eyes widened. “Betsy would throw a fit.”
“I don’t doubt that.” I turned my attention back to the picture. “Yeah, those two are Obadiah and Charlotte. Married in the fall of 1843.”
“Mom says it’s important for us to know our family’s history.”
“It is,” I agreed.
I wanted to tell him that it was more important to know the truth about our family’s history than it was to memorize whatever rhetoric his mom and grandparents were giving him, but I kept my mouth shut. Sharing what I suspected but couldn’t prove to a twelve-year-old about his family would’ve been wrong on a lot of levels. If, once my film came out, he and I got the chance to talk, I’d be a little more open with him about what I’d found.
In all honesty, from what I could tell, he was a smart kid who paid attention to things. If my film exposed my family’s lies like I thought it would, he’d probably remember us going through these boxes and start putting things together. What he’d do when the family started bad-mouthing me was anyone’s guess, though. He was only twelve and seemed to have his father’s non-confrontational personality. Of all people, I could understand the position he’d be in.
None of that mattered if I was wrong, though, so what I needed to focus on now was using this information to figure out exactly what the truth was about my family and our history here in Savannah.
“My history teacher this year says we’re going to do family trees and find out if anyone in our family fought in the War.” Les set the picture down next to the box. “It wouldn’t be anyone in this picture, right?”
I shook my head. “Obadiah wasn’t quite forty when the war started, so he probably could have if he’d been in better health. If I remember my history right, he was in some sort of accident as a kid and lost one of his eyes. The other only had partial vision.”
“He doesn’t have an eye?!” Les sounded equal parts horrified and curious. He looked more closely at the picture. “How come he doesn’t have an eye patch? It doesn’t look like he’s missing an eye.”
“He’s probably wearing a glass one.”
Les’s head snapped up, and he stared at me. “A glass eye?”
I chuckled as I reached into the box for a folder. “It’s not as uncommon as you’d think. It probably would’ve drawn less attention than a patch. Either way, he would’ve been fairly old to enlist, but his sight gave him a better excuse.”
“Did we have any relatives who fought?” Les asked.
“We did,” I said. “Two of Obadiah’s sons were killed in the war. Geoffrey and Robert, I think. Your great-great-great-great-grandfather, Luke Calvert, was too young, though. He missed the war by a couple years.”
“Do you think he minded?” Les leaned against the table, the picture still in his hands. “I mean, I know Pawpaw talks about what an honor it would’ve been to fight for the South, but I don’t think people who haven’t been in war can really know how they would’ve felt, you know? Maybe they’d be good at fightin’ and all that, but maybe they wouldn’t want to kill anyone, and that’s not a bad thing, is it?”
Damn. The kid had good questions.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I think a lot of it would depend on if you believed in what you’re fightin’ for.”
Les nodded, a pensive expression on his face. “I think I’m gonna go read a book.”
“All right. I’m going to take a look at more of this stuff. If you need me, I’ll be in here.”
Les nodded, and as he walked out, I wondered how much reading he’d be getting done or if he’d be thinking over our talk for a while. When I opened the folder and saw what was on the top of the stack of papers, however, Les was pushed right out of my head.
The yellowed, wrinkled page was inside a plastic sleeve, which made me less wary about picking it up, but it definitely didn’t help with the spidery, faded handwriting. It’d take a while to decipher exactly what information about my family this document held, but the printed letters at the top were clear.
“For sale, one male Negro, ‘Joshua.’”
Shit.
Twenty
Nyx
I’d given up on the coincidence versus fate argument. There were too many factors, too many things that could go one way or the other, too much that relied on whether or not someone was being honest. I had enough going on in my head, and on the list of priorities right now, that sort of philosophical shit wasn’t even close to the top.
The fact that I’d completely missed one very important avenue of research was proof of just how much all of this was affecting me. I’d been so focused on whether or not Bradyn had known about all the connections I had to his family and his family had to my clients that I never stopped to think about the possibility of someone else being the connection.
Someone else who could actually be pulling the strings.
Min Wu, the lawyer who’d come to me with Carmine and Kathie Douglass’s case, had been the one to set all of this in motion. I had no way of knowing what she knew or how much, if she’d sent me down here intentionally to meet up with the Traylors. She could be the connection between New York City and Savannah…
An idea popped into my head, something so crazy that it just might be possible.
Min Wu never told me the name of the law firm where she worked. I hadn’t pressed the issue because it didn’t matter to me where the money came from. I hadn’t been hired to investigate the Douglass’s lawyers so I hadn’t even looked. I hadn’t even doubted that she worked for a law firm.
This was why I was currently sitting in front of my laptop with Min Wu’s name typed in the search bar, trying to get up the nerve to push ‘search.’ This whole case had been the rabbit hole from hell, and my gut said taking this route would only drag me down more, but I needed to know. I was sick and tired of having shit kept from me.
I clicked and waited. Not surprisingly, several women’s information popped up. The third one down had a picture I recognized, and the information underneath it was familiar too.
Min Wu, senior attorney at A. Check & Associates.
Rochester, New York.
I slumped back in my chair.
Fuck it all.
A. Check & Associates, the Rochester branch of Check & Sons. That was a name I’d never wanted to hear again, so of course, it made sense that it’d be the final thing linking everything together. My past coming full circle to bite me in the ass.
The world shifted.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Footsteps. Door squeaking.
Someone was here.
“Nyx, the police want to talk to you.”
I forced my eyes open. Well, eye. The other one was too swollen for me to see. Two men stood at the end of my bed.
“Where’s my mom?” The words came out funny, and I coughed. “Thirsty.” A nurse walked over to me and picked up a cup with a straw. After I took a couple sips, I tried again. “Where’s my mom?”
The nurse looked to the two cops. “She’s a minor.”
“We have permission from the mom to talk to her alone.”
The nurse didn’t look happy about it, but she left. I drank some more water and tried not to think about why I hurt so much. Or why my mom wasn’t here. Or how I’d gotten hurt.
“I’m Detective Shade, and this is Detective Russell. Why don’t you tell us what happened?”
For a second, I remembered how Art had said no one would believe me, but then I remembered that it didn’t matter anymore. I was here, and so were cops. I needed to tell them everything.
“I was in my room…”
The world shifted.
I shivered, and it made me hurt worse, but I wasn’t really cold. When the doctor told me I could leave, I thought Mom was finally coming for me, but she didn’t. It was the cops. They said the detectives needed to talk to me again. I told them I just wanted to go home, but they said it’d be better for all of us if I came here first.
The detectives came in and looked just as annoyed as before. They hadn’t said a word, but I didn’t think they believed me. If they did, they would’ve been nicer.
