by L. G. Davis
No matter what, I would never change my son’s hair or eye color. I don’t want him to develop a complex, to think that I don’t love him the way he is and feel the need to change him. But sometimes I give him disguises like sunglasses, reminding him that we are undercover.
“Can you have red hair again next time?” he asks innocently.
“Maybe, but you need to go to bed, Superboy. Should I read you another story?”
“No, Mommy.” He draws closer to me on the bed. “Can you make up one?”
I don’t know how I will be able to make up a story with my head filled with fear. But to my surprise, I manage. By the time I’m done, Clark is sleeping again.
I switch off the light, but I can’t sleep. I continue to search the darkness for all the dangers hiding there.
My ears are so trained to listen to every sound that I catch that of a dog barking from a distance, and the river that runs past the cabin.
The loudest sound is that of my heart thudding inside my chest.
I lie down on my pillow and try to make sense of everything that happened. After all this time, I still don’t understand why Cole would kill Janella.
Something from the article slips into my mind and makes me sit up again. They said Janella was killed with the same poison that is suspected to have killed Brett.
My eyes grow wide. What if it was him? What if it was Cole who killed Brett? I don’t know how he could’ve done it, but the fact that Janella was killed with the same poison that killed him means that they were murdered by the same person.
Janella wanted to speak to me that day. I can’t help feeling that if I had taken the time to listen, she would still be alive.
Something else hits me. Brett promised me that the medication that would kill him would be undetectable. He didn’t want to get me into trouble. And yet, they found it.
After running it over in my head, I now believe without a doubt that Brett did not kill himself. Whoever injected the poison into his veins must have come with another poison and used both on him.
He was too weak and in too much pain to pick up the syringe from the floor and inject the poison into his veins.
Plus, I was away for no longer than fifteen minutes. I know from experience that when pain struck him and he refused to take painkillers, it lasted at least half an hour, if not longer. On the night of his death he didn’t have an ounce of strength in him, and he couldn’t have regained it in the short time that I was out of the room.
It was Cole. But I can’t prove it. I can’t go to the cops and risk being the one behind bars. Cole is a powerful man and I’m pretty sure he engineered evidence to prove that I am guilty. He also had such close relationships to the local officials and law enforcement that I wouldn’t have a chance. He would probably pay them all off to put me in jail forever, or worse.
Maybe if I didn’t have Clark, I would try, but if I take this risk and fail, Cole will take my son. I need to protect Clark. For a few days, I need to keep him close to me. If Cole ever finds us, I don’t know what he will do.
11
My heart sinks as I listen to Tasha on the other side of the line.
“I’m sorry, Zoe. I know I said you should take some days off if you need to, but it’s not a good time right now. I really need you for the next two days. Sandy is going to a funeral out of town and we have two birthday parties. We might also need you in the kitchen.”
I sent her a text message last night before I fell asleep, telling her I needed the next two days off. She did not respond until this morning.
“Zoe, are you there? Is everything all right?”
“Yes.” I glance at Clark, who is playing with Legos on the kitchen table. Mrs. Foster bought them for him. “I’m not feeling well. I was hoping you could manage without me.”
“I’m really sorry. I want to give you today and tomorrow off, but there’s so much going on. I promise you that after things calm down, you can take a couple weeks.”
I have two options. I can refuse to go to work and possibly lose my job, or I can go and hope nobody recognizes me. Even though I look completely different from the woman I used to be, my paranoia will continue to taunt me.
“I don’t know.” I watch the clock on the wall. I want to help Tasha, but I’m terrified of stepping out of the cabin.
“How about you come for only two or three hours today? Please, Zoe. I need you. We are really short-staffed.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and tighten my hand around the phone. Tasha has always been good to me and I feel terrible for even thinking of letting her down. And I need the money, especially the tips.
Maybe it will be fine. The chances of anyone recognizing me are slim.
“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “I can do that. I’ll be there within the hour.”
“Thank you so much,” Tasha says, and we hang up.
The next person I call is Mrs. Foster.
I called her a few minutes ago to let her know I have the day off and will be spending my free time with Clark. She had sounded disappointed because she’s so used to seeing him almost every day during the week. When I now tell her that my plans have changed and he will be going to her, after all, she’s unable to hide her delight.
After I hang up the phone, I tell Clark that I need to work. His little face crumples.
“But you promised to stay with me today. We were going to make cookies.”
“I’m sorry, baby, but Tasha needs me to come in. And you always have so much fun with Mrs. Foster. I’m sure she’ll be very happy to see you.”
Clark only shrugs as I get him ready.
“You need to make it up to me,” he says on the way to drop him off. It’s amazing how kids use the words they hear us repeating often. I don’t know how many times I have told him that I will make it up to him, how many times I’ve disappointed him.
“Yes.” I’m relieved he’s talking to me again. “How should I do that?”
“Ice cream,” he says and I shake my head.
“You had too much ice cream the past few days.”
“But Mommy, you owe me.” I want to laugh because it’s hilarious to hear him speak like an adult, but my body is too stressed.
“How about something else? I could buy you a new book or a puzzle.”
“I’ll think about it.” This time I manage to smile through my heartache.
When we arrive at Mrs. Foster’s house, she’s already waiting for Clark on the porch. I hand my son over and she gives him a hug. Clark has finally cheered up and now looks forward to spending the day with his adopted grandmother.
“Zoe,” Mrs. Foster calls when I walk back to the car.
“Yes?” I brace myself for whatever is coming. Every time someone calls my name, I always expect something negative.
“I like the new hair.” She smiles. “It suits you.”
“I don’t like it,” Clark cuts in. “I like the other hair she had yesterday.”
I let the comment slide, thank her, and watch as she and Clark walk into the house hand in hand. One thing that makes it all better is knowing that we have Mrs. Foster and she’s always there for us. I appreciate the fact that I do not have to worry about getting a babysitter, who might start snooping around in our business.
On the way to Lemon, my mind is racing so much that I almost run a red light. I catch myself in time but still kick myself inwardly. I cannot make stupid mistakes like that.
Before I enter Lemon, I force myself to look as though I’m not feeling well, so Tasha doesn’t think I lied. I don’t have to try hard. In the rearview mirror, I see that my eyes are empty and have dark bags underneath them. The washed-out look I got from the new hair also helps my case.
Inside the restaurant, my body vibrates with anxiety. I feel as though everyone is watching me, seeing through me, figuring me out.
“Thank you so much for coming in.” Tasha is about to give me a hug, but she steps back. I have a feeling she thinks we are friends. She never treats me like an employee. “
We need you until 1:00. Is that okay?”
“Sure.” I glance at the clock. It’s 10:00 a.m. This will be the longest three hours of my life.
I get to work immediately, but this time I’m not giving my all. I want to, and I try my best, but I don’t have the strength.
The little voice inside my head refuses to shut up, warning me that I’m about to be exposed. At one point, that voice is so loud I come to a standstill in the middle of the restaurant, a full tray balanced on my hand.
“Are you all right?” one of the waitresses asks me as she walks by. I immediately snap out of it.
In a trance, I take orders and serve meals, all the while trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone.
“That’s not what I ordered,” a boy of about seven years old with thick hair sticking out from around his head looks up at me with a look of disgust. “I wanted potato wedges, not stupid French fries.”
I swallow hard and glance down at my notepad, which is resting on my tray. He’s right. I brought him the wrong order.
The woman, who is probably his mother, pushes the plate in my direction.
Tasha walks by, glancing at us.
I can’t afford to make mistakes. I can’t put my job on the line.
“I’m so sorry.” I pick up the plate of French fries.
At least I got the woman’s order right, roasted hake with a green salad. I place the food in front of her.
“What do you expect me to do?” she asks. “Do you want me to start eating without my son? By the time his food gets here, which could be forever, I’ll be done eating. And if I wait, my food will go cold.”
I inhale a frustrated breath, filling my lungs with fragrant coffee. “I’ll make sure it’s done quickly. I’m sorry again.”
I return to the kitchen.
“Hang in there, Zoe.” Tasha appears from behind me. “A few more hours and you’ll be done.” Her voice is understanding, but I feel terrible.
“I’m sorry.” I drag a palm down one side of my face. “I’m just not feeling too well... migraine.”
“Raphael keeps some Excedrin in the back. He probably wouldn’t mind if you took some,” she says. The look of concern she gives me makes me hate myself.
“I did. It didn’t help.”
“I’m sorry that I had to drag you out here. But as you can see, the place is bursting at the seams.”
She’s right. The restaurant is loud with silverware clinking against plates on the tables, the gurgle of water glasses being filled, and the voices mixing with the sound of the music from the radio.
I give her an apologetic smile. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”
Tasha squeezes my shoulder and gets back to work.
When I serve the boy his golden-brown potato wedges, he doesn’t bother to thank me.
When they finally finish their meals and are ready to leave, the woman bluntly informs me that I’ll not be getting a tip.
“The food was okay, but the service needs improvement.”
Tasha overhears the conversation and comes over to apologize to the woman on my behalf. She flat-out refuses to accept the apology and grabs her son’s hand. We watch them storm out of the restaurant.
“I don’t know why she’s making such a big fuss.” Tasha’s voice is on edge. “It’s not as if we tried to poison her son.”
Every time I hear the word poison, my throat starts to close up.
“I’m sorry I messed up,” I say.
I broke my own rule. Do not mess up at work. Today I failed myself and her.
“Stop that.” Tasha gives my arm a gentle slap. “Mistakes happen, and that wasn’t even a big one.”
For the rest of my shift, I make sure to do everything right. I deliver the right meals and hand back the right change. I don’t make anyone angry.
An hour before my shift ends, one of the customers gestures for me to come to the table. He’s an older man with a tweed jacket and hair swept from one side of his head to the other to cover up a bald patch.
“Sweetheart, would you mind turning up the volume?” He points at the TV bolted to the wall.
I nod with a smile and turn to go on the search for the remote control.
But the moment I raise my gaze to the TV, I freeze. My face is in a corner of the screen. Instead of doing what the man requested, I head to the tiny staff room and yank off my apron. My hands are trembling and I’m so dizzy, I need to get out in the fresh air before I faint.
When I’m about to leave the staff room, I almost collide with Tasha.
“I’m so sorry,” I croak. “I need... I need to go now. I’m really sorry, Tasha.”
Before she can respond, I head for the door.
12
As I’m rummaging inside my bag for my car keys, I bump into someone. Without lifting my head to see who it is, I mumble an apology and push past.
“That’s all right.” The familiar male voice makes me turn, but only for a brief second before avoiding eye contact again.
It’s Officer Tim Roland. He’s wearing a uniform this time and looks even more handsome than the first time I saw him.
“You all right?” he calls out.
“Yes, thanks,” I respond and speed up, sweat trickling down my spine. It’s a good thing I’m leaving now. The last person I need to make any kind of contact with is a police officer. If I didn’t leave when I did, I would probably have done so when he walked into the restaurant.
When I get into the car, I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding and sink into the warm leather seat.
I drive carefully even though I’m dying to push the car to its limit.
I’m approaching a red traffic light opposite the White Cross Baptist Church when I glance in the rearview mirror and my chest stutters.
A police car is trailing me. My instinct tells me it’s Officer Roland.
What if he’s investigating me? What if that’s the reason why he struck up a conversation with me the other day? What if by colliding with him, I raised some flags?
After the light turns green, he flashes his lights and I pull over.
He’s a cop, and I have to obey.
Feeling sick to my stomach, I listen to the thud of his boots on the pavement, counting each step until he reaches my car.
Maybe it’s nothing. I could have a broken taillight I didn’t notice.
Stop kidding yourself, the little voice scoffs.
I take several deep breaths, forcing myself to stay calm.
When he reaches my car, he plants a gloved hand on the roof. It is, indeed, Officer Roland.
Sweat is pouring from every pore of my body.
“Looks like you need this.” He reaches into his pocket and hands me a bone-white handkerchief.
“Thanks.” The word comes out in a whisper.
I keep my eyes averted as I dab at my face, careful not to remove the heavy makeup I wear to disguise myself.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks again.
“Did I do something wrong, Officer?” I ask and instantly wonder if that was the wrong thing to say. “I mean...yes, I’m fine.” My lips tremble into a fake smile.
“Good to hear.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Now, why would you think you’ve done something wrong?”
When I don’t respond because I can’t find the right words, he clears his throat and continues. “You did nothing wrong, Zoe, right? You looked unwell at the restaurant. I thought you might need some help.”
“Yeah, I’m Zoe. Umm...you don’t need to be concerned. I’m fine.”
He lowers himself to the level of my car window and scrutinizes me with his piercing eyes. “Why don’t I believe you?” He straightens up again. “You still don’t look well.”
That’s because I’m nearing the verge of fainting, I want to say, but I keep the words inside my head.
“You’re right. I’m not feeling too well today. I have a terrible migraine.”
“Then it might not be a good idea for y
ou to drive. Migraines can be a pain.” He chuckles.
“I’m good enough to drive,” I say quickly.
“How far do you live?”
Wrong question. I don’t want him to know where I live. I’m sure he’s already heard about the widow from the cabin, but he probably doesn’t know yet that it’s me.
“Not far.” I let out a nervous giggle. “I’ll be home soon.”
“Good, I’ll drive behind you. I want to make sure you arrive safely.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure you have more important work to do.”
“I’m on a break. I was actually looking forward to a cup of coffee at Lemon, but I prefer to help folks out when I can.”
I clutch my hands in my lap, unsure what more to tell him. I’m not allowed to say the things I really want to say because he’s a police officer and I’m a wanted woman.
“That’s very kind. Thank you.” I have no choice but to accept the offer, but I’m freaking out. I’m almost hyperventilating as I watch him walking back to his car.
This is bad, a train wreck waiting to happen, but I can’t stop it.
He drives behind me as he promised he would.
My plan was to go to Mrs. Foster’s to pick up Clark, but it might not be a good idea anymore. I don’t want Officer Roland to know that I have a son.
Afraid to arrive at my cabin, I drive slowly. But eventually, the distance closes between me and my borrowed home. Before long, we’re both turning into a dirt road that leads to the cabin.
I’m aware of everything, the tall trees on either side of my car, the dusty sand beneath my car’s wheels, the hot air that makes my clothes stick to my skin.
I pull up in front of the cabin and get out of my car. The police officer does the same.
Instead of coming up to me, he slams the door of his car and stands next to it. A finger is on his lips as he gazes at the cabin. “This is where you live?” he asks in a tone that gives nothing away.
“Yep. That’s my home.”
“A pretty damaged home.” He looks it up and down. Outside, the paint is peeling, and a portion of the wall is water stained. Some of the other defects are not immediately noticeable to him. It’s a pretty cabin, but it needs a lot of work.
