Not Quite Alive

by Lyla Payne

  I jump about as high as Lucy did in my bedroom yesterday morning, my palm flying to my chest in a vain attempt to slow my heart. “Cripes, you scared me,” I pant.

  “You were obviously deep into whatever you’re reading.” She tries to lean over the desk to get a peek at my screen, but the bags and her belly thwart her progress. “Working on your story about Henry?”

  “Not today. I already submitted my revisions. I was looking up something related to the first journal entry my friend sent back.” Mel has a confused look on her face, and I realize that maybe I haven’t even told her the books are written in French, let alone that I sent them to Clara to be translated.

  We don’t see each other as much as we did when she worked in town, not to mention that with so much going on, my family history isn’t usually at the forefront of our conversations. Maybe it should be. If Amelia’s right, something in that bag could be responsible for Frank’s death.

  “Will told me about the whole…Frank thing,” Mel says as she unloads styrofoam containers from the paper bags. Mine contains a burger, which, thankfully, doesn’t turn my stomach like the one the other night did. “And the drugs. And the FBI.”

  “Thanks for the recap,” I tell her, stuffing a fry in my mouth and desperately trying to hang on to my appetite.

  “Gracie, it’s going to be fine. You didn’t do anything wrong; you have to trust the system.” Mel stabs a piece of fried chicken with her fork, gathering a piece of lettuce and tomato onto it next before shoving it in her mouth.

  “I have a harder time doing that after all of the ways we’ve seen money and influence circumvent justice over the past six months.” In truth, I don’t trust the system. If there’s a way for me to figure out if Frank’s thieving lifestyle got him killed—or, somehow, his ghostly encounters—I feel like that would be in my best interest.

  Which means I need to press Travis about rescheduling our chat, regardless of how uncomfortable talking about ghosts makes my half-brother. If anyone can help him get over that feeling, it’s me. I think.

  “I don’t know. I kind of feel like we’ve used it to get justice, too.” She makes a face. “But I guess I can see your point.”

  “The FBI hasn’t even been back to talk to me, so maybe they found evidence at the house that points to someone else. Or maybe Frank just got stuck under there and died all on his own.” I don’t mean to sound hopeful, but Mel’s arched eyebrow is full of skepticism. “I’m just saying. That’s like, the best thing I can hope for at this point. I don’t want to think that someone killed him.”

  “Will also told me about Clete and the anonymous tip he got at work, so my suggestion would be for you to keep your eyes open, stay on your toes, and don’t count on this going away any time soon.”

  “You’re a real bundle of sunshine today. Any other advice?”

  “Not where that is concerned. What other problems you got for me to chew on?”

  Her expectant expression makes me laugh, and it feels good to relax, even if it’s just for the duration of a cheeseburger. I don’t feel like going into the whole Lucy thing, and there’s really not much else to tell where that’s concerned, anyway, so instead I backslide into an old standby for the two of us: gossip.

  I’m halfway through the story of Brick introducing Amelia to all of his lawyer friends and then spending the night at our house when the front doors of the library swing open. Story time lets out at the exact same moment, and if the FBI agents in the lobby weren’t most likely there to talk to me, I would have laughed at the panicked expressions on their faces as children stream out from their area toward the back of the building. Mothers chase them down, including LeighAnn, who looks as if she’s about to die from curiosity as she sidles out the door.

  Mel catches Grant, then shoves the extra to-go container toward Millie as she walks over to the table. All the while, she keeps a watchful eye on the feds making their way toward us. My cousin and my friend clearly have no intention of going anywhere. They’ve planted themselves in the chairs on either side of mine, and both of them stare at the agents as they come to a stop about a foot away from us. I recognize them from the other night, though their names escape me.

  “Miss Harper,” one of them, the one with dark hair and a sour face, greets me. “Agent Chaney.”

  “Right, I remember,” I lie. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Agent Warren,” his partner says, either overly attached to procedure or rightfully convinced I need the reminder.

  “This is my friend Melanie Gayle, and I guess you remember Amelia.”

  They nod at my friends before returning their focus to me. A quick, silent conversation takes place between the two of them, and then Agent Chaney sits in the fourth chair at our table. Warren hovers behind him, and suddenly the whole situation makes me impatient. Maybe it’s a sad statement on my life, but I’ve been through too many choreographed interrogations with the police at this point not to recognize this for what it is—they’re not going to arrest me or they would have done it, but they are going to give me some information, then make some rude insinuations designed to root out a confession.

  “We’ve got some news for you about your father, Frank Fournier.”

  “Okay.”

  He glances at Amelia, then at Mel, before coming back to me. “Okay with you to talk in front of your friends?”

  “Yes, it’s fine.”

  “Frank sustained blunt force trauma to the back of his head. A single blow that would have been enough to kill him,” Chaney starts. “We found a shovel in the crawl space, along with his body and the missing drugs from the local hospital, and forensic tests have proven it to be the murder weapon.”

  “It’s your shovel, Miss Harper,” Agent Warren adds, glowering at me. “It matches trace evidence from the garage attached to your house.”

  Amelia snorts. “Like Grace has ever used a shovel. Did you find her fingerprints on it?”

  The question, and the disbelieving manner in which it’s delivered, seems to give both agents a moment’s pause. Warren recovers first. “There are fingerprints on it, but in order to determine whose they are, we’ll need samples from everyone who had access to the garage. All we know for sure is that they don’t belong to Frank, since his prints are in the database.”

  “Well, unless you can get prints off dead people, you probably aren’t going to find a match,” my cousin replies. “That was our grandparents’ shovel, and as you can see from my current condition, I haven’t been using a shovel lately. Grace hates yard work.”

  I bite my lip, wishing I could tell her to shut up. Because what if our prints do turn up on it because they’ve been planted? And really, we should be hoping that prints show up—prints from the person who actually killed Frank.

  “Then I’m sure you won’t mind giving us the fingerprint and other genetic samples we’ll need in order to rule both of you out.”

  “They’ll have to speak to their attorney first,” Mel interrupts when it looks as if Amelia is going to agree. “Brick Drayton? Maybe you’ve heard of him.”

  “That’s your option, of course,” Chaney replies, ignoring the question. “Either way, we’ll need to talk to you down at the station sometime this week, Miss Harper. You can call to make an appointment.”

  He hands over his card, the two of them mumble insincere-sounding nice to meet yous to Mel, and then they’re gone. The whole thing happened so fast it’s almost as if they were never here, and for me, a woman who has found herself on the wrong side of the police a little too often lately, the interaction was surprisingly tame and painless.

  It makes me suspicious. I’ve never dealt with the feds before—maybe I’m not as seasoned of a potential criminal as I think I am. Which should be a good thing, but I don’t need less confidence in this particular situation.

  “Well, that was fun,” Amelia comments, her tone dry as she opens her lunch. It’s a salad, like Mel’s, and my cousin
heaves a tortured sigh before picking up her fork.

  “You have to talk to the Draytons before you give them anything,” Mel reiterates, giving both of us her serious Mom look.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, knowing that she’s right. Besides, I made Beau the same promise. Amelia looks less than pleased, but she nods anyway.

  She probably doesn’t like the idea of clouding her friendship—or whatever—with Brick with business, but hell, he and Birdie are both damn good lawyers. More than that, we can trust them to have our best interests at heart.

  Not to mention that we can’t afford to pay anyone half as good as they are.

  The feds didn’t say anything about the drugs, whether there were fingerprints on those, but Will can probably bring us up to speed as far as that’s concerned. The whole rest of the day, the thought that sticks with me is that Frank was murdered. My father was killed with my grandparents’ shovel and left under their house.

  Repeating it to myself again and again doesn’t make it seem any more real.

  I can’t help but wonder how long a person can survive with the deck stacked against them, because it seems like, sooner or later, I’m going to find myself buried underneath the half-truths and suspicions and outright lies in my life. And once that happens, the truth of things won’t even matter anymore.

  I half-expect to be arrested, but both Amelia and I make it to the dinner table without being hauled off in handcuffs. Score one for Team Harper. When Travis texts me that we can have coffee in the morning—my day off, but still—I count it as another win.

  Not only that, but Brick and Birdie agreed to come over a little bit later and discuss what’s happening with the FBI and the investigation into Frank’s death. They’re going to have us sign official representation requests so we’re covered for all future interactions with Warren, Chaney, or anyone else they throw at us. I doubt Amelia is in any kind of danger—they suspect me, and they only want her DNA so they can rule her out—but my suspicious nature has gotten the better of me. Not to mention that, according to Will and Clete, I’m the one someone’s trying to frame for the whole thing.

  When the doorbell rings a little after six, we look at each other in surprise. The Draytons aren’t supposed to stop by until closer to eight, and my stomach clenches with the fear that it’s going to be too late. That the next time I talk to Brick will be from an FBI holding cell.

  It’s better than having to call Beau from there, I reason as I walk toward the front door like a pig shuffling toward the butcher’s block. I’m ready to play the indignant innocent victim of circumstance, but my performance is cut short by the sight of Leo on the porch, not the cops.

  He holds up his hands, displaying a DVD of Spaceballs in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. “Thought you could use a night off from the crazy to enjoy some mindless entertainment.”

  My face breaks out in a grin. “You have no idea. Mel Brooks and booze is just what the doctor ordered, and it just so happens I have a two-hour break scheduled before the next segment of stress.”

  “I always did have amazing timing.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true,” I muse, taking his coat and hanging it in the front closet. “But I’m willing to go with it because you’re right about one thing. This is exactly how I want to spend my evening.”

  Leo beams and tugs me into the living room, where we find Amelia on her way to the stairs.

  “Hey, where are you going? Leo brought wine and satirical comedy.”

  “I’m tired. I think I’ll take a bubble bath before our meeting later.”

  “Okay.”

  “Meeting?” Leo asks, his one eyebrow raised as he pops the DVD into the player and grabs the remote from the arm of the recliner.

  “Yeah, with the Draytons. Melanie and Beau and…probably anyone with common sense thinks that having a lawyer the next time I talk to the FBI is a good idea.”

  “The next time?”

  “Hold on.” I go grab a couple of wine glasses and a corkscrew from the kitchen, then set them on the coffee table and flop onto the couch.

  The DVD begins to play and Leo settles in beside me, picking up the corkscrew and laughing. “It’s a screw top. I know how you like to do it up classy.”

  “You sure know how to charm a woman, Leo Boone. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “On occasion.”

  I shake my head and snicker, holding out my glass while Leo pours and then settling back into the cushions as the movie starts playing on the television. He wisely senses that my “hold on” request is still in effect, and as we sit together during the opening scenes of the movie, tension unwinds from my stomach and the back of my neck. But even the booze, friendship, and laughs can’t banish my stress entirely. It hovers in my peripheral vision, ready to reattach itself to my limbs at any moment.

  “So what did the feds say?” Leo asks once my wine is half gone.

  “That Frank was murdered with the shovel from our garage, and they want us to give them DNA and fingerprints so they can rule us out as suspects.” I snort. “Or rule us in, I’m guessing, which is why we’re talking to Brick and Birdie before I make an appointment to talk with them this week.”

  “Yikes. I’m sorry, Gracie. I know you didn’t know him for very long, but he was your father. That sort of thing can’t be easy to hear.”

  “It’s definitely not,” I say with a sigh, well aware that I’m talking to a man who has also lost his father and doesn’t talk about it. “It would be easier if someone wasn’t trying to frame me for his murder, or stealing those drugs, or whatever else they have planned.”

  “Yeah, what do you make of that? Who would do such a thing?”

  “I honestly have no idea.” We sit in silence for another short bit, and the longer I think about it, the angrier I get. Who would do such a thing? And why?

  I’ve been so focused on other people’s problems—Lucy, mostly, but also Henry’s—that I’ve back-burnered what amounts to a threat on my own life. I can’t go to jail for killing Frank when I did no such thing, and maybe it’s past time I start trying to figure out who wants me to rot.

  That’s exactly what I’m going to do first thing in the morning. And Travis is going to help, whether he likes it or not.

  Making the decision to focus on the Frank debacle feels good, but even though I think about it for the rest of the movie—and shoot down every idea Leo has about who might be out to get me, because it’s all people we know, and I just don’t see why any of them would want me in jail—nothing comes to mind. I actually wish a ghost would show up and point me in the right direction. It may turn out that, without my spirits, I’m a pretty shitty detective.

  The doorbell rings a second time before Millie reappears from her bath. I probably should have checked on her to make sure she didn’t fall asleep and drown, but honestly, she displaces too much water for that to be physically possible.

  This time, I find not only Brick and Birdie on the porch, but a tall Hispanic-looking woman with jet-black hair and a pair of strange golden eyes.

  Leo walks up behind me and leans in to kiss my cheek before stepping over the threshold and parting the Drayton seas. “I’ll see you, Bugs.”

  He hadn’t said anything about leaving, but I don’t blame him for not wanting to hang around for the legal discussion. Of course, it’s just as likely he doesn’t want to hang out with the Draytons.

  There’s a lot of awkward nodding, and then the stranger speaks up, her arms folded over her chest. “It’s cold.”

  She steps into the house without waiting for an invitation or an introduction, which leaves me slightly immobilized by confusion.

  Birdie sighs. “That’s Mallory. I guess we’ll do formal introductions inside.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  We find Mallory in the kitchen with her head in the fridge. I’m not sure whether to give the woman mad props or be offended by her presence, but honestly, I’m too s
urprised to do either.

  “Where’s Amy?” Brick asks, the words tumbling out, like he’s trying not to be worried that she’s not in his immediate line of sight.

  “Taking a bath.” I cast another glance at Mallory, who has emerged with a half gallon of chocolate milk and now appears to be searching the cabinets for glasses. “I’ll go get her.”

  Amelia, it turns out, is not taking a bath after all, but asleep on the bed, curled up with her giant pregnancy pillow. As I look at her, listening to the murmured voices vibrating up from the kitchen, a wave of intuition hits me with so much force, it’s like Coyote getting flattened by the Roadrunner.

  That strange woman in our kitchen is going to change my life in ways that are unimaginable right now.

  Something underneath us has shifted. The earth, the plates underneath the surface… I can’t put my finger on it. I can’t understand why I feel that way or why the feeling is so strong and sure, all I know is that it makes my throat close up. I lower myself to the side of the bed and try to breathe with Amelia. Slow and steady.

  When my cousin wakes up a few minutes later, probably because I’ve been staring at her like a creeper, she sits up too fast and puts her hands on my forearms. “What’s wrong, Grace?”

  “Nothing.” I laugh and sniff, shaking my head. “I’m having a meltdown over a bad feeling, so business as usual.”

  “What sort of bad feeling? What time is it?” Her eyes are darting here and there as she tries to shake off sleep and make sense of reality.

  “It’s eight. Brick and Birdie are downstairs and they’ve brought a friend. That Mallory woman.” I make a face. “She’s at least as odd as billed. I don’t know.”

  “Really? Well, let me brush my teeth, and then I’ll be down, okay? Make sure and offer everyone a drink so they can catch up with you.” She whacks my arm. “Maybe the wine is the real reason for the emotional outburst, eh?”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “I usually am. Now help me up.”