Leaving the door unlocked, I pull it shut. Outside, it still rains. The lightning and thunder has passed on. No lights come on and no neighbors rush outside to see what is going on. At my car, I fumble the keys, dropping them in the mud. Frantic, I brush them off, scraping the key against the plastic as I struggle to get it in the ignition. Finally the Jeep roars to life. As I drive out of the alley, I force myself not to speed.
CHAPTER 15
BLINDLY, I TURN DOWN STREETS, not knowing which way I’m going. Nausea overwhelms me and I pull the car to the curb, throwing open the door. Leaning over, hands on my knees, I heave, throwing up into the gutter. Over and over, until there is nothing left in my stomach.
How can I have been so careless? I didn’t wear gloves when I loaded the gun. Will the actual bullet have my fingerprints? I’ve never been arrested or fingerprinted, but I worry about the police being able to find me. Why didn’t I watch more police shows on TV? Give me a zombie apocalypse, make me a pirate, or send me back in time, and I’d be good to go. I can garden, know my history, and like boats. Fat lot of good any of that will do me now.
And my phone. I used the GPS with this destination and looked up information about good ole Skipper. Is it too late to get a burner phone?
The panic subsides enough for me to get my bearings. I’ll go home, rest, and then figure it out. No one saw me. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and turn to get back in the car. My knees buckle and I find myself sitting on a tiny strip of muddy grass next to the curb. It takes me three tries to stand up.
Back in the Jeep, I drive until I see an exit sign with lots of food choices. No fast food, some are open twenty-four hours a day. I keep going until I see a strip mall. Behind the buildings is a large dumpster. The car rolls to a stop and I sit there, gripping the steering wheel.
Thoughts bounce around in my head. Lists. Like getting the car washed tomorrow. Buying another phone, wondering if the police will bang on my door before nightfall.
A thousand miles a minute, all the things I probably did wrong run through my mind. The plastic comes out of the front seat. I yank the back door open and climb in, stripping off my clothes and shoes, all the way down to skin.
Using a container of wet wipes, I wipe off my arms and face. The wipes come away red. I try not to look as I pile everything together on the ground. Quickly pulling clothes out of the bag, I dress. The bright colors look garish under the light from a nearby streetlight. It’s sprinkling. Will the rain wash away what I’ve done?
The gold sandals look wrong. Cheerful. No, they won’t do. So I toss them in the bag. Barefoot it will be.
Last, I gather everything up, stuff it in a trash bag, and throw it in the dumpster. Then I peel off my gloves and toss them in as well.
The bag of evidence lands in the dumpster with a soft thud. Back in the cocoon of my car, I turn up the music. Anything to drown out the sound of gunshots.
People think they know how they’ll react in a situation. Trust me, they don’t. All the way home, I keep the car on cruise control, two miles over the speed limit. That’s all I remember about the drive. Emotionally disconnected is the best way to describe my state of mind. The memories are fragmented. Hazy. I read somewhere soldiers react this way after battle.
I don’t remember stopping at lights or taking the exit off the highway. The next thing I know, I find myself in the parking lot of the complex. Everything around me seems different. The asphalt blacker, the night darker, even the paint on the cars deeper. And me…I feel as if I could float away. Tethered to the earth by a fine thread, pulled taut and ready to snap at the slightest pressure.
Somehow I make it up the steps and into my apartment, my feet filthy from walking barefoot. The adrenaline has worn off and I’m exhausted. The clothes I was wearing go into the hamper. Steam from the shower fills the bathroom. As I stand under the spray, I hear the sound of gunshots, over and over again. See what I did unfold in slow motion before my eyes.
Huge, racking sobs fill the room. I slide down the wall, sitting in the tub, hugging my knees. Rocking back and forth, praying the water will wash away what I did.
I want to feel justified. Righteous. We learn what is and isn’t acceptable from a young age. Right and wrong. My grandparents took me to church every Sunday. Thou shalt not kill. Tears mingle with the water. Growing up, I was never in a fight. Never hit anyone. The realization hits me like the sun coming out from the clouds after a storm. There can be no forgiveness for what I did.
I only know I slept because I wake to the sound of birds outside the window and light streaming across the bed. Another Friday the thirteenth come and gone. It’s a new day and a new beginning. And just as quickly, my good mood vanishes. The events of last night come back to assault me.
My entire body aches as if I spent days outside doing hard physical labor. Working in the garden or raking leaves. When I stretch, my shoulders and back protest. A hot shower doesn’t seem to make much difference.
My stomach feels hollow but I know I need to eat something. Pop-Tarts and a cup of chai tea are all I can stomach. While I eat, I scour the news on my iPad. Are the police rolling into the parking lot as I sit here eating? Will they take me away in handcuffs?
I look everywhere but there’s no mention of what I did. Where’s the wife I saw that first time? She wasn’t in the house when I…did what I did. Didn’t she come home and find him? Call the police? Maybe it happened too late to make the news. When they arrest me, I’ll explain why I did what I did. Or at least try to. It isn’t something I can explain to myself. All I know for certain is that I was compelled to act.
CHAPTER 16
“I NEED TO STOP AND get gas. I’m a little under half a tank.”
Jackson shifts in the seat, making a face at me. “Didn’t I just fill up the Jeep for you? How did you use so much gas this past week?”
“Beats me. Guess I had a lot of errands.” When I stop at the light, I risk a look at him. The frustration is clear on his face, and yet the corner of his mouth is tilting up. He’s trying not to laugh.
“Seriously. You can get gas later.” And he does laugh. “I don’t understand why you flip out if you’re below a half. Why not three-quarters of a tank?”
He puts a hand on my knee, patting it like a parent telling a child there is no tooth fairy. “We live in America. There are gas stations everywhere. It’s not like we’re driving across the desert.”
My hands grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white, yet my voice sounds calm.
“This way I don’t worry about getting stuck or something bad happening. I don’t like to go below a half, okay?”
The light turns green and I move forward. Jackson holds his hands up in mock surrender.
“Whatever the lady wants.”
“Ha ha. How about one of those new Teslas? Then I wouldn’t have to worry about gas at all.”
Somehow he convinced me to take a couple of days off. We are on our way to the beach. Usually Jackson would be driving. He always drives. Says the man should do the driving, let the lady relax. It’s part of his Southern gentlemen upbringing, even if it is annoying sometimes.
“When you finally agree to move in with me, I’ll buy you a Tesla to celebrate.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
He grins and leans over to kiss my cheek. On his way over to pick me up this morning, somebody was texting and driving and rear-ended him. The flatbed loaded up his car and was on the way to the Mercedes dealership before I finished getting ready to leave. So he’s stuck with me driving. Since I knew he wouldn’t ask to drive my car and I needed to keep my hands occupied, I purposely didn’t offer. When I asked about a rental, he said no, we’d be losing time and he wanted to play golf. Anyway, his mom would lend him one of their cars while his was at the dealer. Heaven forbid my boyfriend might have to drive a common rental.
Jackson doesn’t like to talk much during road trips. He says he likes to listen to the sound of the road. That also means no rad
io. Who doesn’t listen to the radio on a road trip? And he doesn’t like to stop. At all. When I drive somewhere, I love stopping at out-of-the-way quirky places. Anything that catches my eye if I’m not on a tight schedule. Stopping and exploring is part of the fun. Not him. He wants to get there as soon as possible. And bathroom stops? If he stops for gas, he’ll tell me to hurry. Otherwise, I have to beg him to stop. It isn’t like the golf course won’t be there when we arrive. But everyone has their quirks, I guess.
His parents’ place on the Isle of Palms is too far to go for just a couple of days. A friend of his offered up his place at Emerald Isle. It isn’t the Gulf of Mexico, but it’s as close as you can get living in North Carolina.
During the entire drive I keep checking the mirrors, looking for flashing lights in my rearview. The two times I see cops approaching I think my heart will burst out of my chest. But they pass us and keep going. Each time, I heave a sigh of relief. By the time we get to the condo, my nerves are stretched thin.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come? You could drive the cart and monitor the cooler. You know my uncle steals all the good beer.”
“I didn’t sleep very well last night, so you go ahead. Tell your uncle I said hello and to keep his grubby paws off your beer.”
He grins. “Go get a massage. You’ll feel better.”
Jackson looks adorable dressed to play golf. He’s so good-looking I’m always amazed we’re together. Women always do a double take, then look me over as if wondering how on earth I caught a guy like him. The perplexed looks always make me smirk. While I might be average in the looks and body departments, I do know there’s something about me that men seem to like. An ex told me once it was sex appeal. But I don’t think so. When you go through something awful it leaves a mark, a vulnerability you can’t hide. Men respond. It triggers their whole “let me take care of you” gene. Don’t worry, I want to tell the women, I know how you feel. I wonder all the time why he chose me.
I smile at him and lightly kiss him on the lips. “That’s a great idea. Maybe after my nap.”
Jackson’s uncle is visiting his son for the week. They had a new baby. I figure he’ll be ready to get away from the baby mania. They’ll spend the afternoon playing golf. I don’t want to spend my afternoon with them. The kinder Jackson is, the more I feel myself unraveling. It’s only a matter of time before my happy-go-lucky guy notices something is wrong. The only reason he hasn’t noticed yet is he had to spend most of the drive on his phone with a client. Otherwise he’d know I’m not myself. How can I be?
CHAPTER 17
THAT NIGHT WE EAT DINNER outside overlooking the ocean. When we go to bed, I try to let his touch wash away the fear and guilt. But it doesn’t work. The next morning after breakfast, Jackson puts his hands on my shoulders and kisses my neck as I stare out at the water. “Let’s go for a walk on the beach.”
“Sure. Let me grab my hat.”
There are a few early-morning folks out. Joggers and people walking along the beach. But the crowds haven’t shown up yet. Though “crowd” is relative. By the end of May there will be lots more people, though with this stretch of condos and houses, it doesn’t get too crowded. It would be nice to have my own spot of sand and water. With no one else around. Maybe someday.
There’s nothing I love more than the feel of sand under my feet and the water rushing over my toes. The tang of salt in the air. How you can lick your skin and taste it. And seagulls. I adore the little monsters. So many people think they’re basically rats with wings, but I’ve always had a soft spot for the birds.
As we walk, something up ahead makes me pause. It looks like a huge piece of driftwood washed ashore.
I stop. Water rushes around my feet as they sink into the sand, ready to swallow me whole.
“Jackson. That’s an alligator.”
He raises his sunglasses, peering at the shape. “I think you’re right. We should go back.”
But I grab his hand and pull him closer. “I won’t get too close. Let’s get a better look.”
The alligator looks like he’s sleeping. He isn’t big, nothing like the one from before. This one is about four feet long and looks perfectly content, basking in the sun as the waves come in, covering his tail. Sometimes after a storm they end up at the beaches. One of Mama’s friends had a houseboat and told me a story about scuba diving one morning only to come face to face with a gator in the ocean. They can’t stay in the saltwater long but I think he was curious, just taking a look around.
Jackson takes out his phone. “It’s too noisy to hear. I need to move away from the water to make the call. It won’t be safe for the kids with an alligator out here. Someone can come and move him. Hope?”
“I know. Stay back.”
He moves away from me, talking in a calm voice to someone on the other end. The deep, calm voice is one of the things I love about him. The alligator turns his head, opening an eye, looking at me.
“You’re awfully far from home, aren’t you?” I whisper. My gram’s words about alligators ring in my head. Alligators are the harbingers of violent change.
I need to call her. But I hesitate. What will I say? How are you? Four days ago I killed a man and today I saw an alligator. What does it all mean?
After what happened, I should be terrified of alligators. But they are what they are. They aren’t monsters. The real monsters are the ones who look just like you and me. They’re the ones who truly terrify me.
To this day I believe alligators are ghosts. Come to warn or to punish.
Late Tuesday afternoon I drop Jackson off at his house. There is a black Mercedes sedan in the drive. One of his parents’ many cars. Why anyone needs more cars than they can drive, I’ll never understand. Jackson Huntington III can’t understand why I refuse to buy a brand-new, expensive car. I try to tell him buying one three years old worked for me. It is still in good shape and I didn’t pay nearly as much, since it was used.
We’ve been together almost a year. Deep down in my heart I know we won’t make it long-term. We’re too different. Our backgrounds and beliefs. Not to mention he doesn’t know the real truth. I tell everyone the same story, that my parents were killed in a car accident. What really happened? I’ll never willingly tell. It’s why I go by my middle name, Hope. Katherine Hope Jones died the same night as my mama and Max.
It’s unlikely anyone will hear my name and connect me to that little girl all those years ago in Florida. Katherine Jones may ring a bell. But Hope Jones won’t. Jones is one of the most common last names around. I grew up in Kansas. No one will connect Kansas to Florida.
At work the next day there is still no mention of what I did online. Haven’t the police found him? Will that be me one day? Dying all alone with no friends or loved ones to check on me? My body left in my home for who knows how long before a neighbor smells something awful. A dead body left in the heat is a smell you never forget. Like throwing out the wrapper and tray from raw chicken on a hot day. Walking by the trash can will make you gag. Taste the decay in your throat. I imagine the folks who work in a slaughterhouse must always smell like death.
The next day at lunch, I walk several blocks to the library to use one of their computers. I know I’m being paranoid, but it’s not like it isn’t warranted. Clicking over to the daily police blotter for Wilmington, I check for any mentions of animal neglect. Then, without knowing why, I check other police blotters around the state. There are cases in every town I check. After compiling a list of links, I send it to the fake email I created at the Apple Store.
Is the man in Wilmington the exception or the rule? It’s imperative for me to know. During my search, I come across a website, pet–abuse.com. What I see there doesn’t make me feel any better. As my paranoia ratchets up, I click off and go back to work. The rest of my day is completely unproductive.
After work, I stop at a big-box store. Buy a prepaid phone and pay cash. From now on, I will use it to check my sites every day. To research the ca
ses I find. Once I have the person’s name, I can follow the court case through the system. Our justice system has to prove me wrong. Show me there are consequences for breaking the rules.
CHAPTER 18
SOME PART OF MY BRAIN knows I’m dreaming, but it’s kicked aside by the seven-year-old within. I know what’s coming and I can’t make myself wake. Can’t prevent reliving the horror.
Daddy’s always had a bad temper. But ever since he lost his job and started drinking more and more, it’s gotten really bad. I yank the covers over my head, burying my nose in a book. I’m halfway through Charlotte’s Web, but even Wilbur can’t drown out the war in the other room.
Mama screams at Daddy. “Be a man. Get a job. Any job. I work two jobs while all you do is sit around, drinking all day.”
He bellows back. It’s gonna be a bad one. Quiet as a mouse, I climb out of bed. Closet or bathroom? Or under the bed? These are my three preferred hiding places when Mama and Daddy fight. And lately it seems like they’re at war all the time.
The nightmare shifts and I’m sitting on the floor, drawing a picture of Max. He’s like the brother I always wanted. One of daddy’s friends has stopped by. They used to work together but now his friend has a job and Daddy doesn’t. Voices drift through the window. The two of them are hitting a ball back and forth in the backyard. The crack of the bat makes me look up every time I hear it.
After a while I don’t hear anything. Quiet is never a good sign at our house. Then the screen door slams. Daddy and his friend come in, beers in hand.
There Was a Little Girl Page 7
