by Lyla Payne
I oblige, giving her an exaggerated tug with my hands to get her into a standing position and then leave her to her business in the bathroom. She’s been moaning about bad breath for weeks, ever since her heartburn got really bad, but as usual, she’s making a mountain out of a molehill. Nothing my cousin does could ever truly be described as disgusting.
Downstairs, I find the Draytons gathered around the kitchen table. Mallory’s wandering around the deck by herself. It’s dark and cold out there, but she’s staring into the trees that separate our house from the river and sipping her giant glass of chocolate milk like the secret to the universe is out there in the stars. What the hell—maybe it is. Plenty of people before her have thought so.
“Either of you want a drink? We’ve got soda and sweet tea, coffee, beer, and some wine, I think.” The latter offer is only for Birdie, of course. And me.
“I’ll just have water,” Brick says quickly.
“Wine,” Birdie requests, sounding almost desperate. She looks out of control, her face white and her eyes guarded, which is enough to alarm anyone who knows her.
I set down their drinks, then pour myself one more glass of wine so that Birdie doesn’t have to feel strange about drinking alone. “What’s she doing?” I ask, tipping my head toward the deck as I sit down at the table with them.
“Who knows?” Brick mutters. “Contemplating? Weirding everyone out?”
“She doesn’t do it on purpose,” Birdie snaps, and the defense is quick enough to sound well-worn.
“Hey, everyone,” Millie says, gliding into the kitchen and greeting everyone at once. She takes in our drinks and then heads for the fridge. A moment later she pulls out the empty carton of chocolate milk and shakes it at me. “Grace, what did I tell you about drinking my milk and not getting more?”
I hold up my hands, then use one finger to point out the sliding glass doors. “Wasn’t me.”
“Is that her?” Amelia whispers, still clutching her precious chocolate milk container.
“Yeah.”
“What’s she doing?”
“Getting some fresh air,” I say, because I don’t want Brick to step in with another tirade that clearly upsets his sister.
“Maybe we should talk about your predicament, Gracie, before Mallory comes back in and we get sidetracked by the whole other thing.” He clamps his jaw tight and it touches my heart how he can’t even bring himself to say Lucy’s name.
Even though she was Beau’s girlfriend, it’s Brick who has been tirelessly looking for her ever since we got our first clue about where she might have disappeared and why. I don’t know if that’s because Beau is with me, or because Brick’s job simply allows him more time off, but the way all of the Draytons feel about her has never been in question. It’s invested my heart in finding her, too, because somehow, through everything, I’ve come to care for all of them, not only Beau.
Well, not Cordelia or Brand. But these two. I don’t see myself ever becoming fond of their parents.
“Why don’t you start with what the FBI said today, okay?” Brick says.
I recount the short meeting, with Amelia piping up every few sentences with an addition or correction, and it only takes a minute or so to get through the whole thing. Brick and Birdie exchange a glance, then hold a quick discussion about whether or not the two of us should provide fingerprints and DNA samples to the feds.
When they’re done, Birdie looks me straight in the eye. “Did you kill your father, or steal those drugs?”
“What? No.” I glare at her. “If you’re going to be my lawyer, aren’t you supposed to believe in my innocence?”
For some reason, that cracks her up. Even Brick grins and can’t hold back a chuckle, and I cross my arms over my chest and display my lack of amusement with them both.
“We don’t have to believe you’re innocent to represent you, Graciela,” Birdie finally explains. “We have to know the truth, so we can best defend you.”
“Well, I didn’t kill anyone and I never saw those drugs until I crawled under the house the other day.”
“And you?” Birdie asks Amelia.
“Me? Why would I kill Frank?”
“We’ll worry about the why later. For now, just a yes or no.”
“No.” Amelia seems more surprised than angry.
“The second question is whether someone is setting you up, Gracie, and I know you think that might be the case.” Brick levels me with his sharp gaze. “If that’s true, we have reason to worry that your fingerprints might have somehow found their way onto those drugs, or your DNA could be discovered under the house with everything else.”
“So…what?” I ask, after a brief pause. “I give it to them, or I don’t?”
Brick and Birdie exchange another pregnant look. It makes me impatient, their silent communication, but it doesn’t take long for them to come to a consensus.
“I still think you should give it to them. We can have our in-house investigator look into who might be framing you and how in the meantime, but it’s only going to make the FBI more suspicious if you deny their request,” Birdie says.
“And if they think you did it, they’re less likely to look elsewhere,” Brick adds. “The trail could go cold while they flail around, following the wrong leads.”
Before anyone can respond, the sliding glass door opens and Mallory Flores steps back into the house. The first thing I noticed about her earlier was that she’s tall, but now that she’s facing me, I’m taken aback by how pretty she is—her last name and darkly tanned complexion hint at her Hispanic heritage, but there’s no way of knowing where she got the full lips and killer cheekbones, or those odd golden eyes.
“Are we talking about the missing girl yet?” she asks after taking us all in, one person at a time. Her intrusive gaze makes Amelia flinch, which is damn near impossible to do, but it’s not hard to guess why. The woman’s eyes slice into me like a knife, as if they can peel back every layer until she gets to the one that holds the answers she wants.
Answers to what? No idea, but Mallory Flores is one unnerving presence.
“Sure,” Brick says, recovering first and getting up to give Mallory his chair.
Birdie looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here, maybe even getting a cheap manicure or vacationing in Florida, two things I can’t imagine her ever volunteering to do. I’m dying to know what the deal is with the two of them, but the way her lips are pressed together tells me I’d be better off trying to get answers about the newest Apple product from the ghost of Steve Jobs.
I really hope that man never haunts me. He seems like he’s even harder to please than my normal spirits, and let’s face it, I don’t live up to their expectations all that quickly.
“Tell me what you know,” Mallory demands, sitting down and casting a woeful glance at her empty glass of chocolate milk.
When she looks hopefully up at me, my cousin answers, regaining some of her typical snark. “You drank it all. Remember?”
“Vaguely.” She pushes the cup away and flicks a glance toward Birdie. “Fill me in. You said there’s a missing woman, you have a general vicinity and someone who can brief me on what’s been done to find her so far. All I should need is something of hers to get started, but the more information I have about how she went missing, the faster I’ll be able to work.”
“How do you work, exactly?” Millie asks, her eyes wide and sharp. She’s over being intimidated by Mallory, it would seem.
“She doesn’t explain how she works,” Birdie interjects. “It’s one of her rules.”
Mallory nods, then faces Amelia again with a cocked head. “I don’t.”
“Okay then,” I say in the ensuing silence, struggling not to fidget amidst all of the awkward. Still fighting the sense of dread that attacked me on the edge of Amelia’s bed not so long ago. Who this woman is, how they know her, if she can find Lucy’s body…all of that is up in the air, but maybe it doesn’
t matter. She’s going to try, which is more than any of us can really do, at least effectively. “Lucy Winters disappeared in Iran almost four years ago, and we’re pretty sure it was because she was digging into the questionable practices of a pharmaceutical company doing research in the area.”
“Recently, we’ve gotten some…intel,” Brick says with a quick glance toward me, “that she may have been held captive in northern Pakistan.”
“I’m guessing you’re going to need me to use my civilian clearance to get in-country. Even you can’t manage to get a visa into Pakistan right now.” Mallory doesn’t say this like she’s teasing, or giving them a hard time for having money and influence. It’s merely a statement of fact. Birdie said she worked for the military, but all of this only raises more questions—like, what sort of clearance does she have, and why? What can this woman really do?
The fact that the government trusts her to use this talent on their behalf makes me believe in its reality a little bit more, though I don’t know why.
“Yes, that will be ideal,” Brick replies.
It occurs to me then that, other than informing us of Mallory’s “rules,” Birdie hasn’t said a single word since her old…friend? came back inside.
“As soon as you can make the arrangements. Lucy’s mother gave us her favorite sweater,” Brick continues, grabbing a fluffy pink cardigan out of his briefcase and handing it over. “Abdul, the investigator who’s out there working on the case, is going to meet you and bring you up to speed, though it will have to be in Afghanistan. He’s not welcome across the border, either.”
“Few are,” Mallory murmurs, holding the sweater up to her nose and sucking in a deep breath. Then she licks it slightly, like a kid sticking out their tongue to taste a bite of food they’re sure they’re going to hate, before standing up and tying the piece of clothing around her waist. “Great. I’ll need to make a few phone calls to clear out some tape, but I should be able to leave in the morning.”
“That soon?” I can’t help but be impressed by her get up and go, even if the whole display with the sweater made me want to back up several paces. And people think I’m weird.
“Sure. Why wait?” Mallory shrugs, then wanders out of the kitchen. She doesn’t come back, and neither Drayton sibling moves.
I hear something that sounds suspiciously like the front door opening and then slamming shut a few seconds later. Brick shrugs at my raised eyebrows, and bends over to pull a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. I have no idea how they fit in there with Lucy’s sweater, and it occurs to me that he’s been a secret Mary Poppins this whole time.
He is stern, with an unexpected sweetness underneath, and he sort of does have a way of making shitty things the slightest bit better. Interesting. I can’t picture him dancing, though. Or having a tea party of any sort.
“I guess she’s done with us,” Amelia jokes, a small smile on her face like she’s trying to make Brick feel less awkward.
“Gracie, can you call Beau and let him know that we’re moving forward, and quickly?” Birdie asks as she rises from the table, her gaze drifting in the direction where Mallory disappeared. She takes two steps that way before realizing she hasn’t said goodnight.
And that I haven’t answered her.
When she swivels back and raises an eyebrow at me, I nod. “Yes, sure. I’ll call him right now.”
Birdie leaves the room without another word, and Brick slides two sets of papers across the table. One lands in front of me, the other in front of Amelia. They’re contracts to retain the legal services of the Drayton law firm.
“Sign these before you go to the field office in Charleston. If you want, one of us can go with you.” He purses his lips. “I would prefer it, to be honest, even if they’re saying it’s just a DNA draw, so I’ll clear my schedule, okay?” He’s looking at Amelia as he says it. “Just let me know when you want to go.”
Amelia nods, her cheeks slightly pink and one hand resting on her giant belly. Brick snaps his briefcase closed and nods, then follows his sister and the mysterious Mallory Flores out of the house. I follow them to lock the front door, thinking the entire time how it no longer seems as though a thick wooden door and a brass lock is enough to keep the person who wants to hurt me at bay.
Maybe it never has been.
I lay my head against the wood, trying to draw strength from the knowledge that my grandmother’s hands turned this lock. My grandfather planed the edges when it started to stick. It’s kept our family safely behind it for generations and maybe it can continue.
Maybe. There’s something disconcerting about not being able to put a face to the boogeyman lurking out there beyond the trees. Not having a name to call him, or her, or any way to understand why they seem intent on tearing down the little bit of peace I’ve found in Heron Creek.
“Grace?” Amelia calls from the kitchen.
I take a deep breath and then let her presence, her voice, pull me back from a tumble into despair that I can’t afford to take. This place and the people here mean everything to me. I have no idea what I’m up against this time, but I’m not giving up my life here without a fight.
“Yes?” I answer my cousin, heading back toward the kitchen.
“Beau’s on the phone,” she hollers back.
Weird. I didn’t even hear it ring.
Chapter Fifteen
Travis wanted to meet at the diner instead of the coffee shop, which I agreed to without a second thought. Westies is where the old women hang out in the morning, and they would definitely be turning up their hearing aids to try and listen to our conversation. The old men of Heron Creek prefer the diner. Their hearing is even worse than their wives’, but they’re marginally less interested in other people’s business. At least, I’ve always assumed that was the case, but considering how quickly word got around about my lunch with Clete, maybe it doesn’t make much of a difference.
Oh, well. We’ll keep our voices down so we can keep them guessing. I’m not sure whether it’s public knowledge yet that Heron Creek’s newest resident and I are related, but in this town, it’s safest to assume that everyone has heard some version of the truth. They’ll most likely guess that he belonged to my mother, not Frank. After all, Felicia got knocked up with one illegitimate child; it’s not a stretch to think there could have been a second.
Travis is waiting for me in the same back booth where Clete and I sat last week. I suppose he chose it because it’s in the back, but that also means it’s next to a windowsill that hasn’t seen the broad side of a washrag for the better part of a year. Or so I assume from the dust and dead bugs gathered across it. Most of the old men choose the square, formica tables so they have somewhere to lean their canes. The nearest occupied seats are a good ten feet away, which definitely works in our favor.
“Morning,” I tell him as I slide in, the rips in the vinyl snagging on my yoga pants. I didn’t see any reason to get dressed in real clothes, seeing as it’s my day off. And it’s just Travis on the other side of the booth, not Zac Efron.
“Morning,” he replies, sipping from his steaming mug of coffee.
Thankfully, there’s already one waiting in front of my place setting, too. I doctor it with a half a creamer and a bit of sugar before wrapping my chilly fingers around the porcelain and inhaling a deep breath. “Thanks.”
“Welcome.” He shifts in his seat, eyes darting around the restaurant in a way that reminds me vaguely of Lucy’s ghost, though less intense. “I waited for you to order.”
“Because you don’t know what I want?”
“You want pancakes,” he says with a wry smile.
It irritates me beyond belief that even this newcomer to my life has picked up on my favorite things. I’ve gotten boring.
My lips pull down into a frown. “Maybe I’ll get French toast.”
I tell myself it’s not Travis’s fault that I’m predictable, but hear the defensiveness in my response all the same.
>
He smiles, which does nothing to help the situation. “Sure.”
Travis’s gray gaze shifts from my face to over my shoulder, and the waitress appears a moment later. She’s the same woman who waited on me the last time I was here, and while she doesn’t look nearly as concerned as she did when it was Clete sitting across from me, there’s definitely a glint of curiosity in her eyes. Perhaps she’s the source of the diner gossip and not the old men, though I still suspect they’re more than willing to pass on hearsay to their wives to get into their good graces for the day.
“You two ready to order? Pancakes for you, Graciela?”
“No. I’ll have two eggs, over easy, with bacon and sourdough toast.” I’m being ridiculous, I realize—the eggs don’t even sound good—but maybe this one small change will snowball into bigger ones.
Like ordering eggs instead of the sweet, pastry-like breakfast I want will help me figure out what’s going on with Frank, or find Lucy.
The waitress raises her eyebrows but doesn’t comment on my odd request. Odd for me, I suppose, not in general.
“I’ll have the same,” Travis says, still looking slightly amused.
We hand over our menus and she strides off to attend to old Mr. Bailey, who’s waving at her incessantly from a few tables over while not-so-quietly “whispering” to his companion that he needs to pay the bill and get home before he shits himself.
“You ordered my exact favorite breakfast,” Travis comments, his gaze heavy on mine. “Like brother, like sister?”
“I actually don’t love eggs. They mess with my stomach.” My response is blunt, a little too strong of a rebuff to his slightly hopeful assessment, and some of that old, familiar guilt stumbles through me. Across this table sits the only other person I know who lost a father this week. The only other person who understands—or could understand—what it’s like to be me. The reminders soften my heart around the edges. Not enough to turn it to mush, but enough for me to relax my posture. “But that’s probably TMI.”
Travis shrugs. “We’re family. From what I gather, TMI is kind of how you operate.”
