Not Quite Alive

by Lyla Payne

  I tell myself all of this as I answer his call, not allowing myself to ponder how I would feel in his situation. It’s impossible to say. I’m a woman who knows from experience that knowing your parents isn’t always better than not knowing them, but that’s a hard truth to peddle to a man who never knew his biological parents.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi.” Travis clears his throat. He sounds tired. “I wanted to check in and see if you’ve managed to get ahold of either of the people on your list.”

  “I have. One of them was interesting, the other was just an old lover who hasn’t seen or heard from him in years.” It’s not a lie, but my tongue feels nasty all the same. Shana didn’t seem to know anything about Frank’s “business” or what he’s been doing all of these years. “You?”

  “I talked to one today. Best as I can figure, the other one is dead.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing major. He said that Frank’s been laying low for the past six months or so, but he’d heard of a big job coming up and thought Frank would be getting back into the game soon. Nothing much to say about any known associates or people who might want to hurt Frank.” He coughs. “What about you?”

  “The first guy, Virgil—the one who just got out of jail?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “He said kind of the same thing. That he’d heard Frank was going dark. The last thing Frank told him was that he was afraid his past was catching up with him and there was something he needed to do. But Virgil couldn’t think of a single person in the con game who would have had it out for him. Said Frank mostly worked alone.” I snort. “You can guess why. He didn’t want to share his ghostly secret with hardened criminals who would probably never work with him again if they knew.”

  “So, what did he think Frank meant about his past catching up with him?”

  “He wasn’t sure. Thought it could have been family-related, but he also always thought Frank was more than a little paranoid.”

  “Most successful crooks are,” Travis murmurs on the other end of the line. “Dillinger, Jesse James…legendary paranoia.”

  “Is it paranoia if everyone literally is trying to kill you?” I wonder aloud. I’d always thought that when people tried to argue that Jesse James and his ilk possessed some kind of sixth sense for danger. They probably did, but it was out of necessity, not unfounded suspicion.

  “Good point.” Travis coughs a second time. I wonder if he’s coming down with something. “But it does kind of jibe with another thing I found out.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Apparently Frank was in and out of treatment for about a decade. In his twenties.”

  “Treatment for what?”

  “Not sure. Psychotherapy facilities—in-patient ones.”

  That takes me a moment to digest. It’s upsetting, because if Frank struggled with some kind of mental illness, how can we trust anything he said? Anything he thought?

  “Did he commit himself, or did someone else do it?”

  “Both, it looks like. Once was after the one time he was arrested, for evaluation. He busted out.”

  “But he also committed himself?”

  I don’t like the answer. It would be easier to dismiss if someone else thought he was crazy, but if Frank suspected something was wrong with himself…what did that mean for everything he’d told me, ever? My stomach twisted at the thought.

  “Yes. More than once. He stopped around the time he turned thirty.”

  We’re both quiet for several seconds. I don’t know about Travis, but I’m digesting all of this information. There’s nothing to do with it except file it away, unless there’s a way to get the records and find out why he admitted himself and how many times.

  “You don’t know anyone with hacking skills, do you?”

  Travis snorts. “Um, I’ve spent my career defending the law, not breaking it.”

  “Sure, but I figured maybe you’ve had run-ins with someone like that. That you could leverage your resources and all of that.”

  “You know I want to find out what happened to Frank as much as you do, Gracie, but we have different philosophies on how to get things done. I won’t do anything illegal.”

  “Fine.”

  Fine for him, but I don’t have to play by his rules. Leo knows a lot of people, and Daria likely has an array of shady friends. I’m sure even the Draytons have more than a couple of ways to circumvent the legal system they’re a part of—one way or another, I’m going to find out what my father was treated for in those facilities.

  “What about the second one? The lover?”

  It takes me a minute to answer since my mind has wandered so far off track. He repeats the question, and I realize he’s talking about Shana. The hopeful tone in his voice sinks my belly into my butt.

  I clear my throat. “Nothing, except she did say that Frank was always leery about his family.”

  “It sounds like these people we come from might not be all that great of stock,” he admits after a minute.

  It’s the thing I haven’t wanted to confront—that it might not be Frank’s lifestyle that got him killed, but something more personal. Something that concerns me. And Travis.

  If another Fournier killed Frank…why? And why would he or she want to frame me?

  I mean, if there’s some crazy cousin out there who tracked down Frank just to kill him, why drag me into whatever beef the two of them had?

  “Not a whole lot of this adds up,” I say by way of response. “But I think you’re right. We haven’t found anything that connects Frank’s criminal life to his death, but pretty much everyone we’ve talked to has mentioned his family. But where do we start?”

  “You’ve got that family tree. I suppose our grandparents are as good a place as any.” He takes a deep breath. “But let’s not just call them up and tell them who we are, given what we’ve learned. Might be best to do some discreet digging first.”

  “Agreed.” Discreet should be my new middle name, though most people would say it doesn’t suit me, and never has.

  “Text me the names of the closest people on the tree and I’ll tackle them through the police database. You can check on the Internet or however you work your magic.”

  “Deal.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I feel obligated to find Clete and tell him thanks for bailing me out of the whole drug-theft situation.

  Okay, obligated and suspicious, and also full of more questions than answers. Maybe I should have learned a long time ago that seeking out the criminal element only leads to more trouble, but for now, I have an excuse to traipse back out into the woods and it seems silly not to take advantage of it.

  I go after work on Friday, since I’m leaving the next day for D.C. and—surprise, surprise—haven’t packed one single thing. Shopping probably would have been a good idea since it’s bound to be colder up there than down here, but maybe it’ll give me an excuse to talk Beau into staying in the apartment.

  D.C. is a trip I’ve been meaning to take for a while, and it’s hard to believe a history nerd like me has never been there, but sightseeing can wait. I’d rather see my boyfriend, preferably in an environment where layers of clothes aren’t necessary.

  It’s warmer today, and my light jacket sticks slightly to my skin by the time I step out into the clearing where Clete’s trailer waits underneath the last golden rays of the day. To my surprise, Big Ern doesn’t approach me at the edge of the woods like he usually does—in fact, I make it all the way to the porch, where I stand with one hand hovering in front of the door.

  I’ve paused because I’ve never had to knock on Clete’s door before now. He’s always known I’m coming. The unexpectedness of it has me wondering what’s on the other side of that door. Does Clete have a wife? Kids? Giant, slathering hell beasts ready to gnaw off my limbs?

  “He ain’t here.”

  Big Ern’s unmistakable drawl comes fro
m behind me and I whirl around, heart in my throat. Being out here alone makes me jumpy, no doubt, but there’s no one except Leo I could ask to come with me at this point. And he hates it.

  Ern, for his part, looks out of sorts. His straw hat is between his meaty palms, the edges crinkled inside his fists. He’s twisting it in a way that makes me wonder if the whole thing isn’t going to tear in half, and the bits and pieces of hair that remains on his head are stuck to his scalp with sweat. Worry and suspicion well in his beady eyes.

  The whole picture pulls my belly tight with dread. “What do you mean? Where is he?”

  Ern shakes his head, gaze darting all over the clearing. “Don’t know. S’posed mebbe you did.”

  “Me? Why would I know?”

  “Been gone ’bout since you were here last.”

  It’s the most I’ve ever heard Ern speak at one time, never mind to me. He’s more of a talk-right-to-Clete-or-not-at-all type of guy. For that reason, and a couple of others, it takes me a moment to gather my thoughts enough to process what he’s saying. “You mean he’s missing?”

  “Yep. Missing. That’s it.”

  Dumbfounded is the only word that comes close to describing how I feel at the moment. Clete’s supposed to be here. This is where he lives, both in my mind and in the reality that makes sense to me, and to find him gone…it’s not right.

  “Since I was here the last time?”

  “Close to, yep.”

  My brain struggles to catch up, and one thing spits out. “But he called the police two days ago to tell them I had nothing to do with the stolen drugs. And that he was going to send them proof.”

  Ern gives me the most incredulous look anyone has ever given me, and that’s saying something. It’s like he thinks what’s left of my mind has completely run off. It’s so convincing that I have to stop myself from turning around to check if he’s right.

  “Clete ain’t called no cops, not ever. And he din’t say nothin’ ta me ’bout helping you, neither.” Ern grunts. “Said we would wait ’till you had come up with somethin’ good fer us.”

  That sounds more like Clete, to be honest. He’s not the sort who would call Will to clear my name out of the goodness of his heart. “And he’s been gone since then.”

  “Yep. I’m worried, to tell the truth. I was gonna come ask you ’bout it tomorrow.”

  We stare at each other for a good minute before he offers to walk me back to my little Honda through the dark woods. Even Ern can clearly see that I’m no good to him in my current, shell-shocked state. The whole way, the dread in my blood grows, morphed into undiluted fear. Fear that I’m not going to be able to figure this out, that someone else is going to die in the meantime. That I’m missing a giant piece of the puzzle.

  Maybe Clete’s out of town because he’s tracking down the proof he claimed to have about Frank stealing the drugs solo—but did he actually tell me that he had proof? Or did he only intimate it? My memory is short-circuiting at the worst possible time, but if Clete’s not the one who called the police station to clear my name, anyway, then maybe it doesn’t matter.

  Except that means there’s someone else out there who knows Frank took the drugs. Someone who claims to have proof. And if that’s the case…there’s a good chance they’re also the one who killed him. Or they know who did.

  I come home to another email from Clara, this one with a note attached that leads me to believe that the plot has once again thickened. The news about Clete’s disappearance remains on my mind, and it’s probably bad form not to let Will or Amelia know, just to be safe, but the entry tugs at my attention, so I slip out of my shoes and jeans, tug on my favorite pair of gray Iowa sweatpants, and flop onto the bed. Amelia was in her room when I got home, so I sent a text message asking about dinner, figuring she’ll come find me if she needs anything before I’m finished.

  With nothing else in my life requiring immediate attention, I flip open my laptop and open the attachment in Clara’s email, hoping against hope that, if nothing else, it will help me forget the fear still tickling my veins. For a little bit, anyway.

  Washington, D.C., 1915

  It’s been a hard day, made harder by the fact that I’m nearly forty years old and eight months pregnant with my sixth child. The others are all boys, and even though I’ve been told by my mother not to want a girl, I’m hoping this one might finally be a healthy little daughter.

  But she (or he) has little to do with the fatigue that’s weakening my bones, for once. It’s my mother. She’s been one of the strongest women I know—the strongest people, really—for the whole of my life. My father died of the fever before I was born, but my mother took care of me. Loved me, provided for me, raised me to be the sort of mixed-race woman who could hold her head up high, speak and write with flourish, and expect to have the things usually promised only to whites.

  Today, I had to commit her to a hospital for the insane.

  Saint Elizabeth’s is a nice place, as these things go. That’s what everyone told me, and my mother didn’t fight us. Her eyes were sad, but she seems resigned to the idea that the ghosts from her past, from her mother’s past and her grandmother’s, exist only in her head.

  The doctors have diagnosed her with dementia praecox (note: this is known as paranoid schizophrenia now). She’s scared of things no one else believes exists, of things that make no rational sense. For a long time, she tried to suggest that we were the ones who didn’t understand, but not any longer.

  I would have thought the same thing of her real ghosts—the spirits who arrive asking for help—if I didn’t see them, too. I have, ever since my twentieth birthday, which was late, according to my mother.

  She cried that day. And she told me that she saw them too, and so did our whole family, and it’s a curse and a blessing, neither of which will ever set me free.

  I’m unsure, even now, what frightened her so much. Sometimes the spirits are demanding, and they have frightened me on occasion. Some are not lingering for the right reasons but for the wrong ones, and their anger can be powerful enough to transfer to me. To make me snap at my husband or babies, to think of running away and never coming back. But then they move on, because of my help, and so do I.

  None of my sons have seen them. My husband knows nothing of this strange connection my mother and I share. Now, more than ever, it’s important that I keep the secret tucked away safely. What if he learned of the trait we share, only to wonder if it’s a sign that my mother and I suffer from the same illness? I couldn’t bear for him to look at me through different eyes—worried that one day I would become like her, incapable of caring for myself because of debilitating, unfounded fears.

  I would be lying if I said these things didn’t worry me, too. Whether I haven’t wondered over the past days and weeks if the legacy of my mother’s family from France might be something other than communing with spirits. Whether it might not be a mind being slowly eaten away by madness, the ghosts a precursor of what’s to come. I suppose the only way to know is to wait.

  With one hand on my belly, praying that the little girl inside me—I’m sure it’s a girl—won’t be the next in line to accept the same fate.

  The entry, unsurprisingly, does nothing to make me feel better. It only reminds me of my own father, who sits in that same line of Fourniers from France. Just like this Carlotta’s mother, he could see into the world beyond this one—and he, too, underwent psychological treatment. It fits the theory I’ve been kicking around. Perhaps this Carlotta’s right, and seeing ghosts means there’s something wrong with us, after all. It’s more than a little strange, though, how much the mother described in this entry must have changed from the young woman who’d written the journal before—how sure that woman had been that her mother was paranoid due to the sort of life she’d been forced to live.

  I sit for a while longer, trying to make sense of it, before struggling into a sitting position.

  Amelia hasn’t been in to
see me even though it’s nearly eight p.m. She’s probably napping, but I swing heavy, tired legs over the side of the bed to go check on her. After everything that’s happened, I doubt I’ll ever let myself assume she’s fine and asleep.

  On the way down the hall, my brain argues with itself—perhaps another sign of mental illness—but some of the facts it brings up are incontestable. Amelia saw Anne’s ghost, and so did my Aunt Karen. Mama Lottie was a real person. All of my ghosts and their stories have been verified by history, so they, at least, are not figments of my imagination.

  My cousin is exactly where I expect her to be—curled up under her quilt, breathing steadily even though there’s a wrinkle on her forehead that suggests her dreams aren’t exactly carefree. It’s late enough that I need to wake her, even though I’m pretty sure you’re no more supposed to wake up a heavily pregnant woman than you are a sleeping baby. Still, she needs to eat, or at least get changed before bed.

  “Millie,” I say softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. She stirs but doesn’t open her eyes, so I put a hand on her shoulder and shake her slightly. “Millie?”

  “This had better be good, Grace. Like the house is on fire.” When I don’t answer, her eyes fly open and find mine. “The house isn’t on fire, right?”

  “Not today,” I inform her, conjuring a smile. “It’s late. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t want food, or a glass of water or a foot rub or anything.”

  “All of those things would be fabulous,” she informs me, sitting up with a few winces and one long groan. “Will you throw something together while I hop in the shower?”

  “Sure. I’ll meet you in the kitchen, but if you’re not there in twenty minutes I’m coming back for you.”