by Lyla Payne
“Custody. Defamation of character. Whatever they have to, Grace.” Millie sounds like the weight of all the elephants on Earth crouches on her, pressing her into the bed, and something tells me that this is the thing that’s going to break her. Has broken her.
“We’ll fight it, Millie. Whatever it takes.”
“Do you know how much money they have? Because the answer is too much to count.” Tears fill her eyes as she finally pulls them from the photograph on the wall and looks at me. “We can’t win. They’re going to bankrupt my family and take my baby, and you and I both know what happens to him then.”
I grab her shoulders. “We are not going to let any of that happen, no matter what. If we have to run away, if we have to sell this house and mortgage everything we own. We won’t.”
She rolls her head back to the side, tears slipping down her cheeks. “They’d be so disappointed in me.”
“Grams and Gramps?” I bark a rough laugh, stones filling my throat and pinching it painfully. “No, Amelia. If they’d be disappointed in anyone it would be me, but you and I both know they weren’t the type of grandparents to be disappointed in either of us. They’d want us to fight, and they’d know we’re going to win. So get up.”
“No.”
“Amelia, so help me God, if you do not get out of this bed, take a shower, and come with me to the library I’m going to ask your mom to come stay.” I close my eyes, wanting more than anything to not have to follow through. But she doesn’t budge.
Aunt Karen drives me nuts, and she might have the wackiest priorities of about anyone I know, but she loves her daughter. If Amelia’s going off the deep end, I need her help.
We both do.
My cousin doesn’t respond. Maybe she wants me to do it, maybe she just doesn’t care about anything now that she believes she’s going to lose her son, but whatever the reason, the result is the same. I have to make that phone call.
“Fine. It’s your funeral, Amelia Anne.” Even the use of her full name, an echo of what her mother calls her, doesn’t budge her from under that pile of covers. I wait another fifteen or twenty seconds, remember Travis is waiting downstairs, and go out into the hall.
I take a moment to lean against the wall, sucking in a couple of deep breaths and letting this house hold me up the way it’s done since I was a child. Now that Grams and Gramps are gone, their home is one of the only things that soothes me and makes me sure that I’m not alone in this world, in this fight.
Which is silly, coming from a girl who is almost literally never alone. But having ghosts and friends and a town full of people peering into my business isn’t the same as people who know every single thing about you and think you’re okay, anyway.
The tiniest smidge of strength courses through me on the way down the stairs. Travis is where I left him, in the living room examining family photos on the bookshelves. He turns at the sound of my footsteps and points to one of my favorites, a snapshot of Amelia and me when we’re about ten years old. We’re in matching swimsuits sprawled across a giant inner tube by the dock, toothless grins on our tanned faces and our feet up in the air.
“You two look alike.”
I snort. “I don’t think so.”
“No, don’t get me wrong, there’s the obvious. She’s blond, you’re not. She’s shorter and more petite, but obviously y’all have those same eyes. There’s something more than that, though, and more than your faces. Can’t put my finger on it.”
The comment swells an unexpected tide of affection for the detective. If I’m being honest, the fact that he cares enough about my cousin to be here checking on her, despite his questionable long-term intentions, swells my itty-bitty heart a few sizes.
“I’m afraid Amelia’s not in any … state to receive visitors.”
He furrows his impressive black brows, gray eyes probing for additional information. “Why? Is she sick? Is she okay?”
“I don’t know.” Tears find my eyes without permission and do their part to make Detective Travis uncomfortable.
He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his dark-wash jeans, glancing toward the foyer as though hoping teleportation might have been invented in the past two minutes.
“Do you think it would help if I went up? Kind of snapped her out of it?” In the face of his slight blush, even I have to admit that he’s kind of adorable. “I mean, as long as she’s decent.”
I’m about to say no but reconsider. Unless she’s gotten up and into the shower in the past two minutes all he’s going to see is a messy head of hair, a slight stink, and a pile of covers. The old Millie would be pissed beyond belief at me for letting a guy up to her room without warning her first, but this Millie might not even notice. A tear slips loose and I wipe at it, angry at this entire situation. “Okay.”
“Is there anything I should know?”
The question almost makes me laugh. There’s a ton he should know before stepping into the center of the shitstorm my cousin and I call a life, but she’s the one who should tell him.
“All I’m going to say is that she’s not overreacting or wallowing over nothing, and we’re not dealing with clinical depression. She has been through a pile of horrible shit the past several months and this morning she got probably the worst news possible. So go easy on her.”
“It would never enter my mind to go hard on her.”
“That’s what she said,” I joke, the words out of my mouth before I can stop to wonder what in the hell is the matter with me. If there’s a scale of inappropriateness that goes from Britney Spears cheating on Justin Timberlake to Hilary Clinton being the first female candidate for president, I live somewhere around the bottom. “Sorry.”
If Travis’s cheeks were pink before, they’re flaming red now. He bites his lower lip, and the fact that he’s trying hard to come up with something—anything—to say is written in the panic all over his face. In the end, he reacts in the way I least expect, which is to crack up.
He’s got a nice laugh, even if it is as halting and rusty as his voice, and I find myself giggling along with him.
“You know, Miss Harper, I am rarely wrong in my first impressions about people.”
“But you were wrong about me?”
“Oh, no. You’re definitely a handful.” He winks and heads for the stairs, not bothering to ask which room is Amelia’s. I guess it’s not that hard to figure out.
I’m still chuckling as I dial the Charleston number, but as always, the sound of Aunt Karen’s voice on the other end of the line kills all the joy in the world.
Chapter Twelve
A while later, something startles me out of a half-sleep on the couch. The damp cloth on my head and the heating pad across my lower back are doing very little to alleviate the aches and pains brought by my monthly visitor, and the sight of Henry Woodward reclined in the La-Z-Boy makes me frown. He frowns back, looking more annoyed with me sleeping than he has any right to.
It’s another moment before I realize the sound of my phone ringing woke me, not the irritated stares of the undead, and I reach for my cell.
The sight of Beau’s number speeds up my heart, and for the first time in days it’s not because I’m worried. Recent events considered, it seems like a bigger pipe dream than ever to hope that that will never change. “Hello?”
“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice is tired and thin, but my toes curl into the couch cushions all the same.
“How are you?” I ask, struggling into a sitting position.
He gives a short laugh that’s anything but happy. “About as well as can be expected. How are you?”
“Worried about you. Terrified for Amelia.” I stop and smile. “Crampy.”
“I’m sorry.”
The apology has depth to it, as though there’s a bucket I can use to dip into a well and bring to light all the things he’s sorry for, which are plentiful and much more than my current physical ailments or Amelia’s tough day—string of days, rather.
The brief hap
piness over his call, over hearing his voice, dissipates in the face of reality. “Why didn’t you tell me about the bribery charge?”
“I don’t know, Graciela. I’m embarrassed. I’m horrified. I feel like less than nothing, certainly not like a man who deserves a woman like you, and I guess I wanted … I don’t know. To hold off on your thinking I’m scum for another couple of days.” He pauses. “That letter looks bad, but I swear, I’ve never seen it before in my life. No one was more surprised than me when the cops pulled it out of a file cabinet.”
“You are not scum, Beau. I never believed it, not from the moment you told me about the letter the other night.” The relief over being able to say that and mean it after everything that was said in the courtroom is so palpable it smells sweet, like honeysuckle on a warm spring morning. I have moonshining outlaws to thank for my certainty, but now isn’t the time to think too hard on how I feel about that.
Henry Woodward’s expression turns skeptical as he eavesdrops. I give him the finger and wonder if he knows what it means. The offense on his face suggests he’s figured it out.
“How can you be so sure? You barely know me.” Beau’s voice breaks.
“You barely knew me when you saw me through Gramps’ death. And you believed me about Anne Bonny and Mrs. LaBadie.”
“Yeah, and made your life difficult while you were trying to figure out the truth about Glinda’s death.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself and I think you know it. We’re going to figure this out. The truth will set you free and all that.”
He laughs again, his bitterness so potent it oozes through the phone and tastes tangy on the back of my tongue. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but neither of us is naive enough to believe that works in our justice system even most of the time.”
We’re silent for a moment, letting the sounds of our breathing mingle. It fills my head like static, putting up a barrier between my brain and my mouth, which is probably a good thing. My heart hurts at his tone, at his words, because together they say he’s giving up.
On himself, maybe on us. On his beliefs, his passion.
I can’t let that happen. Making a deal with Clete might be the answer, at least it will if he really knows something important, but I can’t tell Beau about it. Not until I know for sure.
I clear my throat, watching Henry stand up and walk through the wall to the sitting room and wishing my period wouldn’t have started today so I’d have other means of distracting Beau at hand. My charms and wit will have to do. “Do you want me to come over?”
“Yes, but you should stay put. If I know you, you’re settled on the couch with at least two different comfort devices and you’re probably about to make yourself a hot toddy and call it a night.” The smile in his voice is real this time. “I don’t want to be selfish.”
“You’re allowed to be selfish.” It’s true, but part of me pouts that he didn’t ask about Amelia. There’s no way he could know how much worse things got today, but still.
He’s got more than enough on his own plate, Gracie. Give the guy a break.
“Maybe, but I still feel like shit.”
I rack my brain for a way to ask him about liquor manufacturing permits without it coming out of the blue but come up with zilch. Maybe Will would be the better way to go.
More guilt crashes in on me at that thought. One more thing I’ll go to Will for instead of my boyfriend. I want to help Beau, I want to be there for him like he needs me to, but the best way to do that seems to be to go behind his back. To promise Clete what he wants so he’ll give me a name—probably of a person Beau trusts, one of his employees who’s making sure he gets off scot-free while my boyfriend loses everything that matters to him: his dreams, his future, his self-respect.
No. No matter what kind of deals I have to cut, I’m not going to let that happen.
“I would do anything for you, Beauregard Drayton, and I’m not the only one. Do you know that?”
There’s a pause, and I want to grab his face and force him to look at me. “I know. And I appreciate it. I’ll be in a better place tomorrow, I promise.”
“Can we have lunch? Come by the library?”
“Sure. I’ll force Brick to give me a break. I can’t stand looking at him over every single meal for the next two weeks. And who knows how many months of trial after that.” He pauses again, and for some reason I hold my breath. “As horrible as I feel right now, I think you’re right about not hiding, about holding my head up. Give me tonight to wallow, Graciela, and tomorrow will be business as usual.”
We sign off, a tickle of pride in my chest. I spend the last two full minutes of the conversation swallowing the words I love you, Mayor Beau.
I do. Love him.
The realization comes swiftly, but I know two things for sure: one, Beau doesn’t need any more complications in his life, and two, even though I feel it, I’m nowhere near ready to say it.
Henry Woodward comes back through the wall and flops onto the ottoman. He gives me a despondent stare, one eyebrow raised in a question about heaven knows what.
“Oh, shut up,” I tell him, stretching out the rest of my kinks and heading for bed.
Dr. Joseph Ladd is standing at the foot of the bed at 7:00 a.m., apparently tired of waiting on me to solve the rest of the problems in my life before getting to his. He hovers while I shower and get dressed, giving me a fair amount of privacy but not leaving the room. He’s picked up Anne’s and Glinda’s habit of pointing, a trick I do wish he would share with Henry Woodward, especially after his all of Henry’s judgmental shlumping around last night.
Henry doesn’t seem to enjoy the company of the Whistling Doctor. At least, they never appear to me at the same time.
“You’re just pointing toward the door, you know,” I inform Dr. Ladd. “I’m already planning on leaving for the library soon the way it is, so you’ll have to give me more than that.”
Amelia’s still in bed, and not having her at the library is going to be a huge pain in the ass. I would have said she doesn’t really do much, considering she works my old job and I did nothing but dust the place top to bottom and reshelve the books Mrs. LaBadie unshelved every morning before I arrived.
I mean, other than snoop in the archives, of course.
But without help, I can’t go running off after Dr. Ladd. At least not for long.
“Fine, we’ll go now, but we still only have an hour before I have to open the library. Mister Freedman is going to shit an actual brick if we’re closed again for no reason. He raised his voice yesterday.”
I didn’t know the man even knew how to yell, but trust me, My boyfriend’s being arraigned and Amelia’s ex-in-laws are trying to steal her kid aren’t good enough excuses for missing work as far as he’s concerned. Dr. Ladd looks unimpressed and anxious at the same time. A hard combination to pull off, but I don’t think the latter is due to worry over my job security.
“One minute,” I tell him, a little disappointed that he’s turning out to be as pushy as my other ghosts but also not really blaming him. He’s been on the back burner for a while. Two hundred years is a long time to wait for someone to see you.
Amelia hasn’t moved an inch so far as I can tell, and Detective Travis came downstairs yesterday afternoon with a drawn expression, clearly more worried than when he went up. I’d assured him that my aunt would be here today.
“Millie?”
She doesn’t respond, her face turned away from me, but her shoulders tighten at the sound of my voice so I know she’s awake. I swallow a sigh. “Your mom will be here, probably soon.”
Aunt Karen gets up with the sun, so there’s no way she’ll be here later than nine. Even though it’s only a couple of hours away, something about leaving her alone, even for that short amount of time, twangs my nerves.
“I’m going to grab some cereal. Do you want breakfast?” Nothing. This time the sigh bubbles out of me. “Okay. See you tonight.”
I clos
e the door, grab my shoes, and head down to the kitchen. Joseph Ladd ignores my grumbling, repeatedly pointing toward the front door, annoying me enough that I slide behind the wheel before seven thirty.
The doctor’s ghost guides me through town the same way Glinda’s did—stabbing his finger in the direction I should turn at the last possible second—and by the time we pull up in front of the bank I’ve wrenched my neck a half a dozen times and dumped coffee on my lap.
He’s outside the car, looking back at me with excitement on his handsome features. At least he has the good sense to look apologetic when he catches me mopping the stain off my skirt.
I frown, my eyes following the direction of his finger. “The bank doesn’t open until eight.”
The ghost doesn’t appear to much care, standing in the middle of the sidewalk with his arms crossed over his chest. The day is overcast again, with thick, smoke-colored clouds blotting out the struggling rays of the sun, and the streets of Heron Creek’s business district are empty. There will be people over by Westies, by Suds and Rubs, and by the other stores opening soon or already serving breakfast, but on this end all is quiet.
Which means no one’s going to come along and rescue me from his growing impatience. He gets back in the car, frustration oozing from his ghostly pores, and I wait for more directions. The faint hope that he’ll guide us to Westies so I can replace my coffee tightens my hands on the wheel. “Well, where to? Or did not being able to hit the ATM ruin your morning plans?”
I snort at my own joke, at the idea of someone who’s been dead for two hundred years needing a cash machine, but then I remember that he’s trying to tell me something, trying to move this whole thing along. Maybe taking him more seriously would be a good idea.
But I really, really need some coffee.
Dr. Ladd frowns at me, rolling his eyes slightly as though he’s read my mind. Or perhaps to indicate that he didn’t appreciate my joke. He’s by far the most endearing spirit who has come asking for help. He’s intent, focused, and upset, but not as grouchy as Glinda or as desperate as Anne. After a moment, a thoughtful expression steals over his face, and then he points down the street toward Sonny and Shears.
