“I know it’ll be weird for you.” Graham looks down and taps his pen on a notepad. “But it could make all the difference in getting your kids back.”
“If Harris isn’t there, I can go talk to neighbors.” I run a finger along my lip, trying to imagine Mitchell’s former world.
“Definitely. Mitchell and Karen had to have some social life. They didn’t live in a bubble.” He cups his chin in one hand. “You’d be surprised how much people love to gossip. Remember—Karen was big news, even though it’s been a few years. And if anyone’s going to get people to talk, it’s going to be you, not me.”
My heartbeat quickens. “Thanks.”
He gestures to a stack of paper on his desk. “I’ve got lots of work to do while you’re gone. Mitchell’s attorney’s lighting fires faster than I can put them out. We have to turn that around. Put them on the defensive for a change.”
“Definitely,” I agree.
Point made, Graham grabs his mug, takes a drink, and makes a sour face. “Ava, now my coffee’s cold.”
“Sorry.” I smile and gather my bag.
“Get out of here,” Graham barks, feigning annoyance. “I’ve got at least one other client who needs me.” He pauses. “And for the love of God, find something.”
The roads are clear and dry, so I make it to the outskirts of Birmingham in just over three hours. As I navigate along I-65, I click on the radio—no Baroque—and admire the long, green mountain ridges rising on either side of the blacktop.
Birmingham itself sits in the Jones Valley, just over the prominent ridge of Red Mountain, named for the ribbons of iron ore discovered on the layers of shale and sandstone. At the highest point, the sprawl of the cityscape comes into view, a stretch of tall, mirrored buildings rising in unison to greet the midday sunlight.
I exit the interstate, taking Palisades Drive to Oxmoor Road, where I pass the bricked edges of the Homewood Library, nestled in a grove of thick pines and towering magnolias. Several miles later, I reach my destination and park on the street near Will Harris’s office. At the curb, I cut the Jeep’s engine, confirm the address, and sit for a moment, summoning the courage to feign nonchalance with his office staff.
The area is clean and well-landscaped, with careful signage to blend in with the white lace of flowering dogwoods, the deep greenery of southern sugar maples, and budding camellias.
The building itself is funky, dressed in rustic clapboard siding. There’s a Caribbean restaurant downstairs, accounting for the Bermuda-blue shutters and yellow door. Bougainvillea, lipstick-pink, spills from hanging baskets. Below them, jaunty daisies beckon from ivy-filled window boxes. Upstairs, two wrought-iron chairs and a patio table rest up against a small balcony outside the office doors.
I take the stairs to the second floor, where I’m greeted by a young, freckled receptionist. She checks her computer screen, purses her lips, and adjusts her glasses. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No.” I smile. “I’m just a friend, hoping to see Will. Is he around?”
This story seems to satisfy her. “Ah, Mr. Harris stepped out for lunch. You may want to check downstairs.”
I thank her and head back outside, then realize I’ve only seen a black-and-white photo of Harris, taken several years ago. How will I know what he looks like now?
The restaurant downstairs bustles with customers. I scan the faces as Bob Marley’s voice floats from the speakers and a bamboo wind chime clinks happily in the breeze. A cute couple, arm-in-arm, steps away from one of the few empty tables. I claim one and sit down before I can change my mind. The air smells heavenly, warm and spicy sweet. In a flash, a smiling waiter with spiky dark hair grabs the empty dishes, greets me, wipes down the table, and slides a menu under my nose.
“Can I suggest the jerk-chicken wrap with mango chutney on the side?” he asks.
“Sounds great.” I agree. “And sweet tea?”
“Perfect,” the server praises and jots down my choices. “Anyone else joining you?” He sticks his pen behind his ear, reaches back to grab a pitcher.
I shake my head. “No. I was actually hoping to run into someone.”
“Been here ten years.” My waiter fills my glass, the ice tumbling and clinking from the container. “I know everyone. Hit me.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard. He works upstairs.” I raise my glass and take a sip of sweet tea. “Will Harris?”
“Sure.” The server’s eyes sweep the room. “But nope. Not today.”
Under the table, my hands shake. My palms are damp with sweat. “Did you happen to know Karen Carson?”
His face clouds up and he scrunches his nose. “That was tragic. She did something with Will. Kids’ books, right?”
A shout comes from the kitchen. Order up!
He jabs a thumb toward the window. “Be right back.”
Someone else entirely brings my lunch plate. I take a small bite and revel in the taste, tropical, a bit of tang and sweetness.
“Good?” he asks when he comes by my table.
“Delicious.” I pry a little more. “So Karen and Will came in here a lot?”
The server hesitates, tapping his bottom lip with the cap of his pen. “Are you with E! News or something? USA Today?” He puts a hand on his hip.
“Gosh, no. Nothing like that.” I widen my eyes and smile. “It’s a long story. The dad and son moved to the school district where I work. I’m a school counselor.” Was a school counselor? “Just trying to get some background. To help the family.”
The waiter leans on the table and lowers his voice. “Well, you’ve met the kid’s dad, then.”
A chill threads up the side of my neck, where Mitchell used to touch me. “Of course.” I nod and inch closer.
“I only met the guy once.” He pauses and rolls his eyes. “That was enough. Believe me.”
I swallow hard and fight a wave of nausea. “So that said . . .” I struggle to force the words out. “Any chance she had a boyfriend?”
The server’s mouth twists to one side. “Karen? Nah.” He shakes his head. “Her husband might have been a jerk, but she wasn’t the type.”
The waiter lays my bill on the table and squints, looking past my shoulder. “You can ask Will. He’s right there.” He nods at the space behind me.
I whirl around. Through the open window, I catch a glimpse of someone in khakis, a lemon-yellow shirt, and a navy sport coat. Keys in hand, he walks with purpose to a white BMW convertible, where another man is waiting in the passenger’s seat. Harris checks his watch and tosses his briefcase into the backseat.
He’s leaving! My brain screams at me to run. I throw down a twenty, bound out of my seat, dart around tables, and push past the hostess. Once out the door, I dash helter-skelter in my heels across the parking lot and skid to a stop between the BMW’s headlights.
The two men, both immaculately dressed, stare at me through their Ray-Ban Aviators. Neither smiles.
Will Harris finally pulls down his sunglasses. His pale blue eyes are chilly and flat. “Please tell me you’re not a budding author in desperate need of an agent because you’re the next female James Patterson?”
I finally catch my breath. “No.”
“Good.” He sighs. “I get lots of that.” He glances at me up and down. “So you are . . .?”
“Ava Carson. I’m married to Mitchell Carson. And I need help.”
He puts the car in reverse and begins to inch away.
“Mr. Harris, please,” I plead and restrain myself from lying on the hood. “I have two young boys. Mitchell filed for custody of my children and got it. I didn’t even know he’d done it until it was over.”
Harris’s eyes drop away from mine.
I suck in a breath, stringing the facts together before I lose him. “Now I have supervised visitation. I see my children one hour a week. One hour. I don’t have a job, Mitchell’s bad-mouthed me to the entire community, turned my family against me—”
The other man heaves a dramati
c sigh. “Soap opera . . .” he drawls.
“Look, my dear.” Harris lifts his chin. “Sorry. I’m a literary agent, not an attorney,” he snaps. “And we’re late for a meeting.”
My heart thumps. “It’s just a few questions about Karen,” I persist, raising my voice. “What her relationship was like. Her state of mind. Before the accident.”
When I don’t budge from the bumper, Harris puts the car in park.
“I know I must sound crazy. And paranoid. But please . . .” I yank the purse off my shoulder, dig through my bag, and pull out a picture of me, Jack, and Sam. Last Christmas, in front of our tree. I jut out my arm, ramrod straight, holding the photograph.
He frowns, purses his lips, and rests his fingers on the steering wheel. “Two minutes.”
“Thank you,” I breathe.
Harris presses his fingers to his temples, rubbing at the skin. He motions me closer.
My heels crunch on the uneven gravel. When I stop next to the driver’s side door, Harris turns his head.
“Mitchell would drive by the office.” He lowers his voice. “He’d call Karen a dozen times a day. Follow her sometimes.” He shakes his head. “Karen was a mess, but she did a good job hiding it.” Harris splays his fingers, pressing them to his chest. “I was sure Mitchell was just going through a phase.”
I bite my lip.
Harris adjusts his sunglasses. “Any of that sound familiar, dear?”
“Yes.” My brain spins in circles.
“I wanted to tell Karen to see someone, a shrink or a lawyer, but in the end, I stayed out of it. It was her life, after all . . .” He flicks his wrist. Despite Will Harris’s annoyed attitude and ruffled demeanor, it’s clear he cared about Karen. But it’s also obvious I’ve overstayed my welcome. The man next to Harris checks his manicured fingernails.
I scribble down my address and number, hold it out. “Would you call in case you remember anything else?”
Harris frowns and wrinkles his nose. A doubtful look crosses his face. He hesitates, then takes the paper gingerly with two fingers.
“Look, dear,” he says and cocks his head. “Why don’t you just talk to Frank? He always seemed like a good guy. Frank was close to Karen. They adored each other.”
“Frank?”
Harris shoots me a funny look. “You know. Mitchell’s father.”
Open-mouthed, I step away from the BMW.
I thought he was dead.
CHAPTER 38
JACK
FRIDAY, APRIL 23
“Psst. Jack-ass.”
I ignore my new nickname. Hilarious. The school bully, Taylor, dreamed it up in his massive spare time. Somehow, he’s decided I’m his next target. And it’s obvious he’s spent every waking minute designing ultimate ways to drive me crazy. Five minutes, I remind myself. Take five minutes. Calm down.
“Jack-ass,” I hear again.
I wait for the right moment. Just like Wolverine would do. As leader of the X-Men, a band of mutants, Wolverine’s trained in martial arts, so he’s a superfighter. His claws, which come out of his hands, cut through metal, stone, and wood. He’s strong and has the power to heal in minutes from about any cut, wound, or disease.
“Baby.”
Eyes forward on the board, I don’t move a muscle. Just like Wolverine. In control, deciding on his options. He hides it at first, but then you can tell he’s about to explode. His muscles start to bulge, and he goes into these all-out rages. When that happens, the claws come out, and look out bad guys. Villains try to blow him up, poison him, and shoot him. He’s unstoppable because he can heal himself; even bullet holes disappear on his body. Everyone’s afraid of him. And they should be.
Taylor’s right behind me, so I jerk back hard and sudden, sending his desk into his fat gut.
“Hey, ugh, you idiot. Why’d you do that?” Taylor yells at the top of his lungs. He’s the tallest, biggest kid in the class, but the first to act like he’s being murdered when he stubs a toe. To make matters worse, his mom works at the college for my dad. Taylor dropped that bomb the other day. He says she’s in charge of a lot of stuff.
Our teacher spins around, pushes her glasses up her nose, and stares at Taylor, then me. We are clearly on her last nerve, and she’s not about to take any crap from anyone.
“Jack did it,” Taylor bellows like a water buffalo. “He pushed his desk back on purpose. Ow, my stomach. It hurts.”
“Taylor, that’s enough. Jack?” She clearly doesn’t believe I did anything.
“It was an accident,” I plead, wide-eyed at the lie I am telling. “I was stretching.”
“Don’t let it happen again.” She narrows her eyes and turns back to the board.
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply.
“Loser.”
I heave a sigh.
“Jack-ass.”
A spit-wad splats the back of my head. Gross. Ugh. I want to puke.
“Faggot.”
A finger finds my back and pokes hard. Again.
“Hands off,” I hiss.
“Make me.”
Another poke. Another spitball, this time behind the ear. It’s drippy wet. The paper slides to my shoulder where it sits like a target.
The class titters. Our teacher glares.
The clock creeps forward another minute. Not nearly fast enough. Taylor reaches his foot forward and snags my backpack with the toe of his tennis shoe. I watch from the corner of my eye as the navy sack slides farther away. Jerk.
“I wonder what’s in here.” Taylor starts on the zipper.
“Leave it,” I murmur under my breath.
“Oh, lookee here, a baby bottle. Some diapers.”
Everyone around me erupts into a volcano of laughter. The sound singes my pride, burns at my brain. The noise sears my skull. My blood pumps like crazy.
“Class,” the teacher yells. “Quiet, please!”
“Oh, and here’s a photo of your mom kissing her new boyfriend.” Taylor chortles.
I am out of my seat then and launch myself on top of Taylor. He’s surprised at first and doesn’t fight back. Chairs fly; desks overturn. We’re a mass of flailing legs and arms. Taylor struggles, but my fists pummel his face until a geyser of blood spurts from his nose. He’s crying, for real this time with snot and tears mixed into the bright red.
Everyone is screaming. My teacher’s in shock, mouth covered with manicured fingernails. The guys don’t know who to cheer for, because they’re not used to anyone standing up to Taylor. A few people pull me off him, drag me across the room and into the hallway. It takes three kids in the classroom to hold him down from coming after me. From five feet away, through the glass, Taylor looks like a jungle warrior—face bruised and purple, black eye, chest heaving.
When the door opens, the bell rings and drowns out the noise from inside the room. “Both of you, principal’s office. Now,” our teacher shouts over the din.
Taylor bursts into the hallway and nearly runs down Mo. But my best friend, dressed in his hoodie and plaid uniform pants, stands his ground. He’s almost eye-level with my enemy and pats him on the head like a puppy.
“Easy dude. Watch where you’re going, little guy.” Mo smiles. They had their “come to Jesus” meeting last summer. Mo painted Taylor’s bike hot pink after Taylor made the huge mistake of stealing Mo’s skateboard. Oh, and Mo disconnected the bike’s brakes. Needless to say, Taylor doesn’t mess with Mo. Ever.
Taylor steps aside, breathing hard and glaring at me. Muttering, he throws his backpack over one shoulder and lumbers down the hall.
When he turns the corner, Mo flips me a quiet high five. “You mess him up?” he hisses, glancing both ways to make sure we’re not heard.
“Yup, but didn’t start it,” I say back in a whisper.
“Nice, dude.” Mo nudges me.
My shoulders droop in spite of my victory. “My dad’s going to lose it.”
Mo nods. “That he will.”
I groan. “See ya.” I start w
alking past the lockers, letting my fingers brush the cool, smooth metal. My loafers scuff the tiled floor. My knee starts to ache, and with each step, my legs feel heavier.
Outside the glass windows of the administrative office, I pause and listen. Phones ring, copy machines whirr, and there’s a rush of muffled chatter. When I turn the knob and open the door, I can smell pencil shavings.
Taylor’s already in his conference with the principal, so I take my place at the end of a row of padded red metal chairs. It squishes when I plop down. When I glance down at my hands, I draw a sharp breath.
In my lap, my knuckles are raw and bloody. My shirt’s torn at one of the buttonholes and my pants are dirt streaked. I lean to my right, catching my reflection in the big mirror behind the counter. It doesn’t show much better. A fat lip, red cheeks, and a sweaty face.
“Jack?”
I jump and look up.
“Head on in there.” One of the ladies points me toward Mr. McReed’s office, our assistant principal. He’s much younger, new to the school this year, and I’ve heard he’s a lot nicer to first-timers in detention.
When I limp in, he puts down his Coke and settles his round belly behind his desk with a sigh. He rubs his red face with his chubby hand, as if trying to rid it of the stress of the day.
“Jack.”
“Sir?”
“Looks like you’re in some trouble.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We need to talk about this. And just so you know, I’ve called your dad.”
I was afraid of that.
CHAPTER 39
GRAHAM
FRIDAY, APRIL 23
“It’s an emergency,” my brother’s wife pleads. “It would be a huge, huge favor. And I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t life or death.”
I swivel back and forth in my office chair, listening. As it turns out, the crisis involves my nephew, a book report on The Red Kayak, and a deadline by the end of school today. Thanks to a sprained ankle, my sister-in-law can’t drive; my brother’s out of town. So that leaves me. The lovable family degenerate who will seize any opportunity to redeem himself.
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