by Marlie May
My brain flashed to me and Brianna. Standing in the main cabin. She held a gift.
“Normally…” Bettina’s voice jarred me back to the present. “We’d suspect explosives in a case like this, because of the way the fire burned.”
“Really?” Manuel said. He wrote some more. “This is fascinating and exactly what we need for our project. Why do you say explosives?”
“From what we could tell, there were two likely causes of the fire. The fireworks or the cooking oil used in the galley. They had fried shrimp that night.”
Dad had always loved fried shrimp. “How can you tell what the causes might be?” I asked.
“It’s harder when the wreck’s under water, of course.” Tipping back in her chair, she linked her fingers on her chest, her face relaxing as she slipped into education mode. “But from the way the ship burned, we can conclude that the fire was hottest in those areas. And it went up fast.” She snapped her fingers. “Like tinder.”
I slumped in my seat, unable to handle the idea of the crewmen, my family, and Brianna burning.
Manuel shot a concerned look my way and leaned sideways. “You okay?” he whispered.
I grimaced. I needed to get this over with and get out of here before I broke down. Or threw up. That would blow our school project cover in a flash.
“In this instance,” Bettina said, leaning forward to tap her finger on the screen. “The yacht burned hot and fast but it remained above the water, likely until the fire reached the hull. Then it sunk.” She squinted and pinched her chin with her thumb and finger. “Makes finding the remains difficult.”
Manuel grunted while I swallowed back the acid pooling in my throat.
“You know, boats don’t just slide down to the ocean floor,” Bettina said. “They shift and tilt as they go down, causing any remaining contents to either float or fall. Often, they’re picked up by the current and scattered. We go down with divers and retrieve what we can. Of the remains, that is. The boat and contents? We leave them there unless we feel they need to be brought up to aid in the investigation.”
Remains. I wanted to shout that they weren’t remains. They were people. People I loved.
“That’s why it’s so challenging for our crew,” she said. “It’s not just a matter of sorting through the wreckage strewn across the ocean floor. It’s difficult sometimes to find anything at all. And what you do find can be darn gruesome.”
Gulping back my lunch, I stood. “I’ve got to leave.”
“It is morbid,” the woman said, glancing up at me. Her gaze slid to Manuel. “Even when it’s our job, it still hits us hard. Because they’re people. You know?” Her face was crinkled. “Every case turns your stomach.”
Manuel rose, as did Bettina.
“An entire family,” she continued as if she didn’t see me flapping my mouth like a fish dragged onto the shore. “The crewmen. That teenage girl. All gone in an instant.”
Except for the daughter. Me.
“One weird thing, though,” she added as I backed toward the door.
“What?” Manuel asked. His concerned gaze darted to me but I could tell by how he kept scribbling on the paper that while he wanted to help me, he also didn’t want to miss any details that might add to our case.
I opened the door and rushed out into the corridor. Stifling humidity hit me like a sopping wet blanket. Leaning against the wall, I gulped and gasped but the air I dragged in tasted like defeat. The urge to run, to put distance between me and the details the woman kept spewing, surged through me.
Tonight, nightmares would haunt my dreams.
“Some of the adult remains were found in the lower deck, approximately where the bedrooms would be. One in the galley. But the young adult female—” She tipped her head back and rubbed her neck. “Well…”
I couldn’t handle anymore. Spinning on my heel, I fled, bolting down the hall toward the lobby.
“What’s wrong with her?” I heard Bettina call out.
“She’s got a light stomach,” Manuel said. “The details must be too much for her. Hey, do you happen to have a card? Then I can…”
As I slammed through one of the double glass doors, I blocked out the rest of his words. Lungs on fire, I stumbled along the crushed stone path leading around the building to a grassy area with picnic tables and park benches overlooking the sea. My legs spasmed and my heart dragged me down. I wanted to slump on the ground and curl into a ball and wail.
Seagulls reeled overhead, their screeching calls edging down my spine like a switchblade.
I only made it a few more feet before I collapsed onto a park bench.
Another memory crashed through me like a tidal wave, knocking me flat.
23
As I drove my car out to the marina, Brianna and I danced in our seats along with the music blasting from the radio. It was Saturday night, and we were ready to party.
At the pier, I parked in the lot and we got out, grabbing our overnight bags from the back seat. My parents had rented a big boat for the weekend to celebrate the upcoming release of an app Dad said would be hot. We also had something else to celebrate: Brianna’s upcoming birthday.
Shimmying our hips, we kept on singing and kept on dancing. No need to pause the party.
We crossed the lot and took the stairs down to the dock. I was skipping along the wooden planks toward our boat, looking back over my shoulder at Brianna, when I ran into someone.
Looking up, I grunted. “Mr. Somerfield?” What was Brandon’s dad doing here? My breath huffed out. Dad wasn’t going to bail on us for business again, was he? He’d cut short two other trips this past summer already, and Mom would kill him if he did it again. I might, too.
“Oh, hey, Janine,” Mr. Somerfield said, his lips thinning. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
“I, uh, dropped something off for your father. Will you tell him I left it in the main cabin?”
Did he go on the boat? Okay. Why not wait for Dad to come get it himself?
This wasn’t the first time Mr. Somerfield had dropped something off for Dad without waiting around to visit, though. They might be business partners, but they sure didn’t act like friends. Not with all the arguments I’d overheard.
“I’ll say hello to Brandon for you,” Mr. Somerfield said, moving around me. “Have a nice trip!” His stiff suit making him resemble a black beetle, he scurried down the dock and took the stairs two at a time. His shoes clattered as he raced across the parking lot to his car.
Brianna lifted her hands above her head and restarted our song.
Forgetting Mr. Somerfield, I joined in.
Manuel sat on the bench beside me. He dropped his arm across my shoulders and gave me a half-hug. Despite the sun shining down and heat waves shimmering in the air, I shivered.
I stared toward the ocean, remembering.
Mr. Somerfield had been on the yacht that evening. He’d left something for Dad.
What had it been?
“You’ve been snooping.”
I jumped when my aunt spoke behind me.
Busy pawing through the fridge, I hadn’t heard her come home, let alone walk down the hall and into the kitchen.
I turned to face her and leaned against the counter. “What do you mean?” Talk about creeping me out. Her words were a tad too close to the messages I’d received lately.
Face tight, she dropped her purse on the island and yanked off her cardigan, smacking it over the back of a bar stool. “I got a call from Journey to Recovery.”
Crap. While I wanted to rush to defend myself, I kept my mouth shut. Because, really, I had no true defense.
But snooping…
I shivered and stared at my aunt, trying to read her expression, but I only received disappointment out of the creases on her face.
“We need to talk,” she said.
Maybe it would be a good thing to clear the air. I didn’t like doubting her.
She poured a glass of wine from the bott
le in the fridge and twisted her lips when I frowned.
“It’s just one,” she said pertly.
It always started with just one.
Glass in hand, she strode toward the hall, stating over her shoulder, “Come to the living room, please.”
I followed, taking a recliner while she dropped onto the couch. After sipping her wine, she placed the glass onto the coffee table and lifted and folded a blanket that had fallen on the floor.
Finally, when the cushions had been plumped, the blanket carefully smoothed across the back of the sofa, and the clicker lined up beside a paperback and my laptop, she spoke, “I’m horribly disappointed in you, Janine.” After fluffing her hair, she smoothed it. Fluffed it again. “There are things I’ve done that I’m not proud of. I wasn’t sure I’d ever share them with you, but now I have no choice.”
“I’m sorry.” I knew how I’d feel if someone looked into anything shady in my past. Not that I had much shade back there, but still.
“I don’t know how you found out and I don’t really need to know, but I think you deserve the truth, rather than make assumptions based on what you discovered.” She took another sip of her wine. “I’m your aunt. I know that I’ll never replace a parent, but I’m trying. I do care for you. I’m determined to do the best I can in this difficult situation.”
I squirmed, guilty that I still doubted her. While it hadn’t been my intention to dig up dirt about her past, I did feel bad that she was upset by what I’d learned. I’d jumped into this investigation without considering the consequences to her or anyone else around me.
She smoothed her skirt along her thighs, staring down. “For many years, I had a gambling addiction.”
Oh. I’d suspected alcohol.
“I’d borrow from those disgusting paycheck companies when I damn well knew my salary was barely enough to pay my bills and buy food, let alone pay them back for the loan.”
I leaned forward but kept quiet, not knowing what I could say.
She continued, “I kept thinking I’d make it big, hit the jackpot as they say, and then I’d be set for life.” Lifting her wine, she drank again. “But those places make their money off people like me and big winners are rarer than unicorns. Your father bailed me out over and over during the past fifteen years. And, as you discovered, he paid for me to get rehab, as well.”
“Three times,” I said.
Color filled her face. “Yes, three times.” Her chin lifted, but her lips trembled. “I’m not proud of my past actions, but I am proud of one thing. I haven’t gambled in over a year.”
We could only hope this statement was true. She should’ve dumped out all the wine. Why hadn’t she?
“That’s great,” I said, injecting cheer in my voice. After fifteen years of feeding a gambling addiction, it must be tough staying away. But she’d been to rehab three times and must’ve gone back to it again. Would she give in and start gambling a fourth time?
“It’s been a challenge. While it would be lovely to think I could make easy money, I finally learned that if I want to get ahead in life, I have to work for it.”
I didn’t have to fake the sympathy I was feeling. If only I hadn’t probed into something that was obviously painful for her. “I’m sorry.”
Her chest heaved. “It’s all right. I needed to shed that burden.” She sniffed. “But I’m asking you right now to stop looking into my past. It was hard for me to move forward, and it hurts to be dragged back into something I only want to forget. Your Dad…well, I think there were times that he hated me.”
“It was wrong of my family to cut you out of their lives.” If they’d included her, maybe she would’ve tried harder to change. The support of a family could make a difference.
“Addiction of any kind is a bad thing. You’ll…do things you wouldn’t otherwise to feed the call.”
Like what?
“I don’t blame my brother. Your mom.” Her voice cracked, and tears welled in her eyes. “I wasn’t the kind of person they’d want to have around.”
I rose and crossed to stand in front of her. “You are now.”
Her breath caught, and she stared up at me. “You think so?”
Leaning over, I hugged her. “For what it’s worth, you’re making a good parent already.” I chuckled. “You’re tighter with the rules than I’d like, but overall, you’re doing a decent job.”
“Thank you, Janie.” She patted my back. “I really appreciate you saying that.”
Stepping away, I smiled and aimed to lighten the mood. “I’m going to go upstairs to work on my homework.”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll just…” She lifted the remote. “Watch a little TV before bed.”
“Okay.” On light steps, I strode to toward the foyer but paused in the doorway and looked back.
In time to see my aunt draining her glass. My newly-found confidence in her drained along with the liquid.
I grumbled and climbed the stairs, rubbing my head that had started pounding all over again. Upstairs, I flopped on my bed.
On a TV show, someone said that when you lived with a person with an addictive personality, you took it one day at a time. Right now, it looked like we were living one second at a time. I hated feeling so unsettled about Aunt Kristy.
Sliding off my bed, I tiptoed downstairs and took the hall to the kitchen. When my mom was alive, there was something that used to cheer me up no matter what.
Had my aunt thrown it out? I opened the freezer.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Right before she died, my mom got us small containers of our favorite gourmet ice cream—butter pecan for her and pistachio for me. She’d tucked them away, saying she was saving them for a ‘special occasion’. We used to sneak into the kitchen together late at night sometimes and eat right from the carton. Dad would poke his head into the kitchen and laugh, but leave us alone while we did it.
Spending time with my mom was the true special occasion.
It hurt that I’d never get to sit with her and chat about boys and school and life while gobbling up the treat.
Spoon in hand, I ducked back upstairs and sat on my bed. I peeled back the lid and dug the spoon in, popping the bite into my mouth. Creamy, smooth, and beyond buttery, with chunks of praline pecans. Exactly the way Mom loved it.
My eyes stinging, I took another bite even though I felt like a big pile of rocks was crushing my chest. The ice cream melted on my tongue and slid down my throat. Icy cold, unlike the hot tears gliding down my face.
Dropping the container and spoon on the nightstand, I cupped my face in my hands. I couldn’t do it. It just didn’t work when I was by myself.
I wiped my cheeks with my blanket. Rising, I went downstairs and returned the treat to the fridge. Maybe I’d be able to enjoy it tomorrow. Or next week. Or never. Because nothing was the same without Mom.
Going back to my room, I sat at my desk. Because homework didn’t wait for you to find a way over the bumps in the road life threw at you. I turned on my computer, determined to finish my English paper, but ended up staring out the window with unfocused eyes instead.
And while the world outside was blurry, I did see something…
I stood on the yacht’s deck beside Mom, watching my dad talk with my aunt in the parking lot. Though I hadn’t seen her again since I was ten, I’d still recognized her. Aunt Kristy had rushed up to him when he got out of his car.
“What now?” Mom hissed. “He told her never again.”
My aunt’s voice rose, as did her arms. “It’s just this one last time. I promise.”
Dad shouted, too. “It’s never one last time. Because there’s always another.”
Mom clicked her tongue. “One of these days,” she said. “He truly will cut her off for good. Then, she’ll finally learn she has no choice but to take responsibility for her actions.”
The memory faded.
Sighing, I focused on a cluster of oak trees in our back yard.
Had my aunt been
truthful when she told me she was no longer gambling? Because, if not…
How desperate was she for money?
24
The next afternoon, I got a text from Alex. You up for a visitor?
I was so bored, I’d started acting out charades with the sofa cushions. The sad part was, they seemed to be playing along with me.
Sure! I replied.
“I brought you an iced coffee.” She handed it over when I let her in the front door. A biggie. Yay. “Extra sweet.”
I grinned. “And that’s very sweet of you.”
She dropped onto the sofa and tucked her legs underneath her butt while I sat beside her. “Ha, ha.”
Lifting my drink with two hands, I gulped down a number of long swallows, savoring the sugary-smoky flavor on the back of my tongue.
“How are you really, though?” she asked, peering at me through her tinted polka dot glasses.
I rubbed my head. “Sore. Still have a mild headache that I believe is going to hang with me until I’m seventy.”
“But otherwise, you’re…okay?”
“What else is there?” My shoulders sagged. “Oh, you mean—”
“Yeah.”
“That’s going to take a long time to heal, but you know that.” The pain from a loss never really went away.
“Yeah,” she said, even softer. “Speaking of which, will you be at Grief Group tomorrow?”
“I’m going to try.” If my aunt would let me leave the house. At least she hadn’t discovered I’d snuck out with Manuel. Since our talk, she’d hovered a bit less, too. That is, she even let me walk to the bathroom by myself. But she was still making soup…
Speak of the devil. Aunt Kristy bustled into the room, pausing in the middle of the oriental rug. “Hi, Alex.” And to me, “I made a ham soup and set a bowl out on the counter to cool.” She paused and glanced toward the hall. “That’s weird. Did you guys hear that?”
“No, what?” I said.
“It sounded like the back door.”
I shook my head. “Didn’t hear anything.”
She strode from the room and returned before I had a chance to say much of anything to Alex.
