As I scanned the room, I was overwhelmed by the scent of stale cigarette smoke. The furniture was mismatched and clearly several years old, with worn cushions and mysterious stains. Knowing this was all Abigail could afford, I was embarrassed for her. He couldn’t possibly be the best in the borough.
“What exactly can I help you with?” the man asked.
“I found that card on a friend of mine. Abigail Martin. I need to find her.”
He arched a brow.
“What do you know about her?”
He grinned. “Sorry. Client privilege.”
I groaned. I didn’t have time for games. I needed answers, and I needed them now. I was on the brink of no return, and the slightest of breezes would push me over the edge. “Fine. I’d like to hire you to find my friend, Abigail Martin. Two down enough?”
“Two thousand?” he asked.
I nodded and pulled out a worn, thin checkbook from my jacket’s inner pocket. Even though I never wrote checks, I always knew it’d come in handy to keep a few checks on me. “I can write you a check now or get you cash tomorrow. Either way, I expect work to begin immediately.”
“Cash only.”
“I have one thousand on me now,” I said, withdrawing ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from my wallet’s security pocket. I handed him the money. “I’ll be back in a couple days for the information.”
He nodded, and I turned to leave.
“You sure you want to find this girl?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” I said without looking back.
Chapter Eighteen
Then
We walked in silence to the meeting house. It wasn’t Sunday, when we normally held meetings, but Mother said there were important things to discuss with the community. I kicked the stones at my feet, annoyed I had to go with them. Normally, children didn’t have to go. For every other meeting, I played outside after sermon. Sunday was the only day I didn’t have chores, and this meeting was cutting into my play time.
I watched my friends playing kickball in the distance. Bobby waved me over, but I shook my head. I knew Mother wouldn’t let me. No other kids were going to the meeting, but she said she didn’t trust leaving me alone. I didn’t understand what I’d done to make her not trust me anymore.
The meeting house looked just like all the other houses, except it was only one story and it was completely open on the main level. Instead of separate rooms, like a living room, kitchen, and dining area, it was a big, open space with rows of benches.
We walked inside, and I smiled at everyone I walked past. They were probably wondering what I was doing here. Maybe they could convince Mother to let me play outside. I considered asking someone to talk to her, but I decided against it. That would only upset Mother more, and she and Father were already angry all the time. Almost every day, I was told to go to my room. When they weren’t looking, I’d sneak down a few stairs to listen to them, but they’d talk late into the night, and I’d get too sleepy to stay up with them until they went to bed.
The pastor stood at the front altar, busily trying to answer everyone’s questions. So many were standing to shout, waving their arms at the pastor in anger. I wondered what we looked like to God in that moment. Would God be upset with us for yelling at His prophet?
My parents and I sat in the back row. I was thankful because our seats were closest to the open door. I hated the meeting house. After spending an hour listening to things I didn’t understand, I was always drenched in sweat. Sometimes, the meetings ended too late in the day for a swim at the lake.
The windows were open, but the breeze never seemed to enter. I glanced over my shoulder, watching the long branches of a weeper blow in the distance. I whimpered, wishing I was outside.
“Why did you have us sign away our shares of the land and money?” someone yelled.
I slumped in my chair, listening as the pastor was compared to my parents. I crossed my arms over my chest, hoping I could just nap until the meeting was over.
“Maybe the Blakelys should take back control,” another person said.
“Or maybe we should leave with them!”
I opened my eyes, looking around. Were we all leaving? Maybe we weren’t leaving Living Light. Maybe we were relocating. I pulled on Mother’s sleeve, trying to get her attention.
“Mother, are we moving Living Light? Are we going somewhere that’s not so warm all the time?” I asked. I couldn’t hide the giddiness in my voice. I’d prayed that was what we were doing. I loved it here, but it got too warm in the summer and too cold in the winter. If we all moved, we could start over somewhere else. We could bring Abi with us, too. I smiled at the idea.
“Hush, James,” Mother said, wiggling her arm until I released her sleeve.
“But Momma,” I said.
“James,” Father said. It was enough to strike fear in my heart. Father was a gentle soul, but when he wanted to, he could scare the daylights out of me. I slouched in my chair, scanning the room. Maybe someone else would ask Mother if we were relocating.
My gaze landed on the pastor. I watched him as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a small piece of cloth he kept in his pocket. His eyes were wide, fearful. He swallowed hard, and the lump in his throat bobbed. I’d never seen him look scared before. He looked mean sometimes and always calm but never afraid of what was to come. He was a prophet, after all. God guided him, telling him what the future held. Prophets were rarely terrified, I thought.
“No, no. No one has to leave. Everything will be fine. Just let me explain. Please.”
He spent the next several hours trying to convince people not to leave. I didn’t understand why he didn’t want us to move where the weather was better, and every time I asked, Mother shushed me. Eventually, as the sun set, I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep, dreaming of nicer temperatures.
Chapter Nineteen
Now
The fan above me was spinning in circles, much like my life, each blade seemingly swiping toward me like a knife to the throat. The bed was hard, and it squeaked when I moved. The lumpy pillow had me lying at an awkward angle. I exhaled sharply as I tried to get comfortable. I hadn’t thought much about the hotel I’d be staying at, so I took a room at the first one I found. I could practically feel the bed bugs crawling on me.
I closed my eyes, thinking about the mess I’d managed to get myself into. I couldn’t understand why I didn’t trust Jezebel with knowing my secrets. When she asked, I told her I was protecting her after everything she’d been through, but was that true? It was a pointless question because I already knew the answer. Deep down, I knew I’d once again lied to her.
I wasn’t a dishonest man. In fact, I prided myself on my honesty. But I was ashamed of my past, of my behavior, and I hated the thought of disappointing her. Her judgment and disapproval of me seemed to fuel the fan above me. I closed my eyes, hoping the world around me would cease spinning out of control.
I woke with the sunlight hot on my face. Much to my surprise, I’d fallen asleep. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and sat up in bed, my feet planted firmly on the stained carpet of my hotel room. I grimaced at the thought of sleeping here, in this bed, another night and without Jezebel. I could handle the fact that this room had likely infected me with some incurable disease while I slept, but I couldn’t handle a life without Jezebel.
I checked out of the hotel as quickly as I could. The clerk asked if I’d enjoyed my stay, and I fought back the urge to be honest. The thought of brutal honesty made my throat run dry. I didn’t know this person, yet I was happy to honestly tell her how awful this hotel was, without regard to her feelings. Why couldn’t I be as honest with Jezebel?
I stared at the door of our apartment. I wasn’t sure how long it had taken to get here. I was a mindless drone, unthinking but never unmoving. I glanced down at the flowers in my hand. I barely remembered picking them up from a corner stand. Manhattan was a great city for buyers. It had everything from corporate stores to ma ‘n’ p
a shops to street stands selling stolen or counterfeit goods.
Running a hand through my hair and then down my jacket, I tried to smooth my frayed and frazzled appearance. With only a few hours rest, no shower, and nothing but yesterday’s alcohol in my system, I was sure I was one knock away from scaring the life from Jezebel.
She answered the door quickly, relief on her face. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t turn me away either.
“I was worried about you,” she said as she pulled me into a hug.
I hugged her back, burying my face in her hair. She always smelled so good. Today, she smelled of vanilla and sunshine. She always smelled like sunshine. I had no other way to describe it, but her natural musk should be bottled and sold to the masses. It was a happy, relaxing, somewhat fruity smell, and I reveled in it.
“I’m sorry. I just needed…time.”
She nodded against me, pulled me inside the apartment, and closed the door behind me.
“I’m so sorry, Jezebel,” I said as I handed her the wildflowers I’d grabbed from the stand.
She smiled, smelled the flowers, and grabbed my hand. “They’re beautiful,” she said as we walked to the kitchen.
I watched her put them in a vase and rearrange them on the counter. The vase of roses I’d brought her only a few days ago was in the living room. I glanced at them. Their initial vibrancy had faded, and soon, they’d die.
I swallowed hard, fearing what I might say next. “Some things from my past have come back. I never meant to keep them from you. I just wanted to resolve them before involving you.”
She nodded, her eyes still on the flowers I’d given her. She ran a thumb over a delicate petal, a frown sagging her beautiful features.
“I’m ashamed of myself for lying to you.”
Her gaze met mine. “It’s okay.”
When it came to our pasts, Jezebel had always been forgiving. She had also buried her past, lying to everyone around her. I still remembered the haunting look on her face when she confessed her past sins to me.
When she was an undergrad in college, she had decided to attend a party to let off some steam. It wasn’t in her nature, but final exams were stressful. She’d had too much to drink and had called her parents for a ride home. During the ride home, while nursing what she was sure would be a wicked hangover, she’d gotten into a fight with her parents. A drunk driver had crossed the median and crashed into their car. Her final words to her parents had been spoken in anger. She’d never forgiven herself for that moment.
She may not have driven the car that collided with and ultimately killed her parents, but she was the driver behind her hateful words and the cause for her parents to leave the house on that fateful night. I understood her pain, and deep down, I knew she understood why I had to deal with my past on my own terms.
“Come home,” she whispered, threading her fingers with mine.
I looked down at our hands. Hers were small, soft, fragile in my own. That was our curse. She was delicate, while I was the beast.
“I can’t. Not until I end this.” It hurt to speak the truth, but separating from Jezebel while I tracked down Abigail was the right thing to do. It was the only way I could keep her safe, stop lying to her, and remove myself from the clutches of my past mistakes.
With tears threatening to spill, she looked at me, nodding. “I’ll wait.”
I kissed her with everything I had, hoping the kiss would speak for my silence.
Chapter Twenty
Now
Before I’d left Jezebel, I’d given her the address to the hotel I’d be staying at until this mess was cleaned up. It wasn’t as disgusting or embarrassing as the place I’d stayed the night before. Rather than a one-star dive, this place was a four-star resort and much closer to our apartment. I could run to her place in fifteen minutes if she needed me.
A knock startled me as I unpacked the small bag I’d brought with me.
I peeked through the hole and exhaled sharply. Great. Just what I didn’t need right now.
I was greeted with a nod after I opened the door. “Mr. Blakely.”
“Detectives. How can I help you?”
“We stopped by your apartment, but Ms. Tate said you were staying here for a few days,” Detective Montemurro said.
I nodded, not speaking, and I watched as Price peered past me, assessing my open bag and clothes that were strewn about on my bed.
“It’s interesting that you’d stay in a hotel so close to your apartment,” Detective Price said.
So, he speaks!
“Jezebel and I had a fight. We’re taking some time apart.”
They nodded in unison, as if a single being controlled them both. I saw a hint of a smile on Price’s face and fought the urge to introduce his pearly whites to my fist.
“We’re fine,” I said, as if he even cared. I cleared my throat. “So, how can I help you, Detectives?”
“We’d like you to come with us,” Price said.
I suppressed the gnawing sense of fear that threatened to overpower me. “Am I under arrest?”
“Of course not, but we need to get an official statement from you,” Montemurro clarified.
“I thought this wasn’t your case.”
Price arched a brow in response. I was arousing suspicion. I knew that. But I didn’t want to go to the police station and have an official record in place of my fucked-up past.
“It isn’t, but we’re assisting,” Price said. “Since their time is better spent uncovering the truth at the scene—”
“And since you’ve been so cooperative up until this point—” Montemurro interrupted.
“We thought you’d be willing to help in any way you could. Is that a wrong assumption, Mr. Blakely?” Price finished.
He was trying to unnerve me, corner me into submission. Even though I wasn’t a submissive man, I knew the police could make my life hell if I didn’t cooperate, and since I had tried to illegally track Abigail with Reynolds’s help, I wanted as few eyes on me and my whereabouts as possible.
“Of course not. I’m happy to help the investigation.”
The problem with police station coffee, besides the fact that it tasted like shit, was that it was so dark it resembled tar. I imagined it coating my insides, taking years for the sludge-like substance to make its way through my system. If I was a conspiracy theorist, I’d think they’d made the coffee this way intentionally. The longer the caffeine took to work, the less alert I was during interrogation. The less alert I was, the more stupid shit came out of my mouth. It was simple mathematics, really.
“The DNA test confirmed your parents were among the dead.”
I arched a brow. “Among the dead? You speak as if there are more than the two bodies.”
They said nothing. This was an interrogation trick. Most people succumbed to silence, spilling their guts the moment things got awkward. But lately, my life was nothing but a sequence of awkward shit, so I was okay with the silence. I took a long, slow gulp of my tar.
“What can you tell us about the disappearance and death of your parents?” Montemurro asked.
I eyed the camera behind them. They’d asked if I was okay with them recording the interview. The detectives stuck miles away wanted a copy, since they couldn’t be here themselves. Denying them would only raise suspicion. Maybe that was the lack of caffeine thinking…
I didn’t answer their question, and I knew that looked bad, too. What could I say? Could I tell them the truth?
“Mr. Blakely?”
“I don’t remember much,” I lied.
“What do you remember?” Montemurro asked.
“My parents were good people.”
“So how did two good people end up buried in the woods in upstate New York?” Price asked.
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
That time, I told the truth. I didn’t know how they ended up buried, because they weren’t when I left. After I’d discovered their bodies, I’d run. I’d tried finding hel
p, but I’d ended up getting lost in the woods. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out there, but eventually, someone had found me and brought me to the police station at a small town. I never spoke of what happened. I’d just…left them there. I swallowed down the bile that threatened to spill at the thought of what I’d done. What kind of person would leave their family and friends to rot in the wilderness?
“What do you know?” Price countered.
“My parents packed up their lives, bought a bunch of land, and moved to the middle of nowhere long before they had me. I grew up there, in this self-sufficient community. It was peaceful, and I loved it.”
I took another gulp of my mud, and they waited for me to continue. I considered asking Price to fetch me a big-boy cup of coffee while the grownups talked this over, but I fought the urge.
“One day, a man came. He joined the community and took it to a…dark place.” I played with the rim of my Styrofoam cup, digging the short tip of my nail into the side. “I don’t remember much about him. He was a pastor, and that’s what we called him. I never even learned his real name.”
“Did this man hurt the people of the community?” Montemurro asked.
I glanced up, meeting the detective’s eyes. How could I answer this question and not incriminate myself? If I was honest, then I was aware of a crime and did not report it. If I lied, well… Lying always caused more problems.
“In many ways, yes, he did.”
“Tell us about him,” Montemurro said.
I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair. “Honest. I don’t know much about him. He was… He reminds me a lot of Charles Manson. In many ways, they’re one and the same. Manson was able to convince his following to complete horrific acts in the name of their belief. He was…manipulative yet beautiful to his people. Parents would turn over their teen daughters to Manson, knowing full well what he planned to do to their bodies hours after they were introduced. The pastor was similar to Manson in a lot of ways. They were both monsters with the face of an angel. They both believed they were doing God’s work.”
Truth We Bear Page 9
