Freeze Frame_a Snapshot novel

by Freya Barker

It’s a bit surreal, looking at an image of yourself when you know for a fact that isn’t you.

  “I’ve always questioned her story.” A defeated looking Geoffrey walks up behind me, taking the frame from my hands and placing it back on the mantel, behind the others. “At first I gave her the benefit of the doubt, even if her stories of you and what I knew about the military didn’t exactly mesh.” He walks heavily to the couch where he sits down, staring blankly out the window. “Dorothy was first diagnosed with cancer back in 2009. That’s when we moved here. She’d always wanted the mountains, and I’d been too stubborn to move, but I was desperate to give her everything she wanted. At least while I could. I never thought she’d beat the first round.” His red-rimmed eyes turn to me when I find my way back to the chair I was sitting in before. “This was a second marriage for both of us, and my children and Jahnee never mixed well,” he explains. “It was a relief at first, being away from the tension...” His voice trails off before he shakes his head lightly as if to clear it. “But you’re not here for that. It was probably 2014 when I knew something was up. Most of the troops stationed in Afghanistan at that time were brought home. Not that I believed all Jahnee’s reasons for never having met you in the years she claimed to have been married to you. But I never started openly questioning her about it until the clear evidence of her lies was on the news every day, as troops flew home. That’s when she gave her mother that picture.” He points at the large frame. “Dorothy had just found out her cancer had spread, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth; that the picture was a fake and that there was no husband.”

  “My name is Ben Gustafson and I’ve never been married.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to clarify that, but it feels right. The old man should know exactly who he’s spilling his guts to.

  “You were undercover,” he concludes appropriately.

  “I was. I’m not proud of using your stepdaughter to further my case.” I snort. “Hell, I’m not proud of a lot things I’ve done in the name of one investigation or another, but it was always with the greater good in mind.”

  “I understand,” he says, although I wonder if he really does, since I don’t myself half the time. Too many years undercover tends to start blurring the lines of morality, and I’m pretty sure mine were nearly nonexistent, which is why I needed to get out. Besides, it clearly had some long-lasting effects on this family. “You know she was diagnosed with schizophrenia a few years ago? Jahnee?” he asks. I clearly didn’t, but it doesn’t come as a surprise. Not with what I’ve learned today. It makes it even more important to share what I know with this man.

  “I have reason to believe that Jahnee may be behind some disturbing events that have occurred recently.” Geoffrey’s head lifts up, and he straightens his back like he’s bracing for impact.

  I spend the next fifteen minutes outlining the events as I know them and watch carefully for his reactions. He blinks a few times when I tell him about the first image she sent, before his eyes flick over to the wedding photo. He listens quietly through my recount of the white car, nodding every now and then.

  “Could be hers,” he volunteers.

  When I tell him of the break-in of our house with minimal detail, he flinches. It’s when I describe the ultrasound picture that I get the biggest reaction. A great sadness settles on his features.

  “It about killed Dorothy,” he mutters. “We were still living in Tulsa and she went with Jahnee to every damn doctor’s appointment. She was getting big as a house and at the end could barely fit behind the wheel.”

  I know what’s coming. I’m expecting it; I’m braced for it, but it still hits me with the hot power of a bullet.

  “Damn near broke my wife when she lost that baby, with one month left to go. I’m thinking that’s what broke Jahnee’s hold on reality.”

  Isla

  “I’m off to see that old coot, McCracken,” Uncle Al announces, walking into the kitchen where I’m cooking dinner.

  Ben came home earlier, all moody, and didn’t want to talk. “Later—I promise,” he said and I didn’t push. He took off down to the trailer on his four-wheeler after putting his work clothes on. I saw Uncle Al head over to the Deville a little later, and he stayed in there for a good hour before he made his way up here.

  I just killed my time with edits and checking in with Jen and Nate via email.

  “You’re not staying for dinner?”

  “Nope. I promised Phil a good steak, so that’s what I’m gonna get him. Heading over to Shiloh’s Steakhouse in Cortez. It’s his favorite restaurant, but he never goes there because the bastard is too cheap. He don’t seem to mind me payin’ for it, though.”

  I smile, because despite the complaining and the bickering, it’s clear my uncle cares for his buddy.

  “Also, you need to be patient with your man. Have a mind. He’ll tell ya, but don’t you go throwing that temper of yours around,” he says, his finger almost poking my eye as he’s waving it in front of my face.

  “Better stop pointing that thing at me then,” I grit out. “Cause I’m this close to biting it off.”

  Wisely, my uncle tucks the offensive finger, and the rest of his hand, quickly in his pocket.

  “And for your information, I don’t lose my temper, I’m simply...spirited.” I lift my chin as high as I can get it, while trying to look down my nose at him. He shakes his head, and with his big paw, grabs me by the back of the head, tagging me closer.

  “Sweet girl,” he says in that voice that makes me feel twelve years old again and believing in fairy tales and magic. “Do me a favor and just let the man talk.”

  I’m still grumbling quietly when Ben comes in twenty minutes later.

  “Where’s Al?” he asks, looking around.

  “Off for a night on the town with Phil. Promises to be a rockin’ time.” I’m glad to see a grin break through the stoic mask he’s been wearing today.

  “As long as we’re not called to come pick them up from the hospital because one of them breaks a hip line-dancing, I’m good with that,” he shoots back, and now it’s my turn to grin. “What’s for dinner?” His expression straightens out, but his eyes are still smiling, so I smile back, with full-face involvement.

  “Tamale pie. With ground elk instead of beef.” I turn around to open the oven door. The cornbread topping on the meat is nice and golden, and I carefully lift the dish from the oven with a towel. “Al loves elk, I thought he’d enjoy.”

  “So do I, and I know I’ll love it.”

  The pleasantries continue through dinner, which we enjoy at the new dining table we picked up right here in Dolores. “Temporary,” Ben had said, since he still wants to build his own with wood from the property, but with his current project list already long enough to last him through to the spring, I wasn’t going to wait. We’ve got Stacie and Mak coming, and we need a table for the holidays, something Ben wasn’t going to argue with.

  “I’ll do dishes,” Ben offers when I’ve put the leftovers away.

  It’s a rare treat, since he’s not one for cooking or cleaning, but he makes up for it in many other ways. I pull out a stool and sit at the counter where I can watch him and enjoy.

  “Decaf?” he asks grabbing a mug from the cupboard. He usually has a beer during or after dinner and I like a coffee. I just don’t like the caffeine this time of day, since it has me up at three or four in the morning, wide-awake.

  “Please.”

  I get the sense he’s building up to talking about what he found out today, so I try not to chatter like I normally might. Have a mind. I can hear my uncle’s voice in my head. And I keep having a mind, when Ben starts to tell me about his meeting with Mr. And Mrs. Banks.

  Oh, there are times that I want express my anger at that sick bitch, with copious amounts of creativity, but I’m reeling it in. Mostly because I can see that however upset this has made Ben, it’s not what upset him most.

  It takes everything out of me to keep my mouth shut when I
finally discover what really cut him today.

  “I’m so much more responsible for this whole situation than I could’ve imagined,” he says, with no small amount of defeat in his voice. That’s what finally has me let go.

  “That’s crap,” I spit, immediately defensive. I ignore his raised eyebrow and forge ahead. “Well, it is. Did you make any promises of any kind to her, while you were...intimately involved?” I flick my hand back and forth with a distaste I can’t hide. One that Ben apparently finds amusing.

  “Babe, it’s not like we talked much.”

  “Alright, I could’ve done without that,” I point out, even more worked up now. “My point is; how can you be held accountable for anything other than flawed judgment?”

  “Flawed judgment?” he parrots back at me, his eyebrows still up in his hairline.

  “Clearly. She wasn’t wearing a sign that said, ‘off my rocker, back away,’ now did she?” Ben closes his eyes, drops his head and shakes it slowly, but he does it grinning. “No way you could know she had a mental illness, if she didn’t even know. And don’t even get me started on the way she lied and manipulated her parents, her mom. That’s just wrong. Afghanistan? Does she know they generally behead their prisoners, not keep them fed for fucking years, and then send them home with a pat on the back, and a ‘Please, come again’?”

  By now Ben is full out laughing, and the sight of it unravels the knot of tension I’ve had since last night when he told me his plans.

  “Honey,” I softly say, drawing his attention. “I know you like to take responsibility for all the wrongs in the world, make yourself accountable for every flaw and fail, but dammit—not everything is yours to carry.”

  I slip down the stool and walk around the island where he is perched on his own. I slip my hips between his legs and lay my hands along his jaw before I continue.

  “And that baby? That little boy? I’m sorry that she lost it, and I’m sorry it may well have cracked her mind. I’m especially sorry that all of that is painful for you, but not even that is yours to carry. Truth is, knowing what you know now about her mental state, there’s no way for you to be sure it was your child she was pregnant with.”

  “The timing fits,” he counters, as his hands come up and circle my wrists.

  “It may well,” I’m quick to concede, before putting my point across. “But do you know for sure you were the only one? Did you vow to be exclusive?”

  “None of that,” he admits. “It was just a handful of hookups.”

  “Did you ever fuck her without a condom?”

  “Fuck no. I’d never go unprotected, not until you anyway,” he says with a cocky smile, before realization sets in.

  I don’t need to say anything else, I just watch his facial expressions while he processes.

  CHAPTER 21

  Isla

  Not sure why I’m so nervous. It’s not like I didn’t just spend Thanksgiving with Stacie and her daughter. I think it’s the idea of blending the families, as it were. It makes everything so much more...official?

  I also can’t deny that Stacie, in all her perfection—her immaculate home, her successful career, her flawless appearance—intimidated the shit out of me.

  It’s ridiculous, but I want everything to be perfect. Which is why I may have gone a little overboard on the cleaning, the decorating, and the Christmas baking. According to Uncle Al, it’s not all I went overboard on; he’s the one I dragged into Cortez to pick up a few necessities and ended up loaded down like a pack mule.

  We’d agreed no gifts; we’d focus on having some quality family time, but I couldn’t have an eight-year-old wake up Christmas morning without at least a few gifts under the tree. As for the rest of the stuff, that was just for their comfort: some nice bedding for the spare room, a few knick-knacks, and fresh towels for their bathroom. Those don’t count as gifts.

  “You know the dog was supposed to be the big surprise for Mak, right?” Ben pointed out last night, when he caught me wrapping gifts in the bedroom.

  “Yes, but it’s not like she can take Atsa home with her. He’ll stay here and she can come visit anytime she wants, but she needs something to take home,” I plead my case, which didn’t go very far with Ben, who just raised an eyebrow.

  This morning, I’m even nervous about the dog. What if Mak doesn’t like Atsa? Or he reacts weird to them? I mean; he’s been fine with Uncle Al, and even Jen, who came for a visit this week, but what if he doesn’t like kids?

  “You worry too much,” Ben whispers in my ear as he stalks up behind me.

  “She has that from her mother,” Uncle Al volunteers, having clearly overheard. I turn my head to where he is deftly unwrapping Hershey’s Kisses and pressing them into the balls of dough I’m rolling. At least that’s what he’s supposed to be doing, but I’ve already caught him popping a few in his mouth.

  “Better not be eating all those,” I threaten, but he just winks at Ben.

  “My sister always said: Worry often gives a small thing...”

  “...a big shadow,” I finish for him. A smile forms on my lips because I can clearly hear her say the words. I never understood the meaning until long after she’d passed away. I glance at my uncle again and find him gently smiling back.

  It’s funny how the loss of a loved one, although once gut-wrenchingly painful, can become a lingering ache that at times feels almost comforting. Even though they’re gone, you learn to feel blessed you had them in your life in the first place.

  So when Ben flexes his arms around me, and mumbles, “I’m sorry.” I turn so we are nose to nose before I answer.

  “I’m not sorry at all,” I tell him. “She left me loved.”

  Ben opens his mouth to say something, but the low growl coming from the dog by the front door, has him snap it shut. We’re all frozen in suspended animation, listening for what Atsa might be reacting to.

  When the familiar sound of tires crunching on the snow becomes clearer, I jump into action. Or perhaps I should say, into panic.

  “They’re here,” I yell at no one in particular, since everyone already knows, as I move mixing bowls into the sink, grab a rag and start wiping the counter. Again.

  Which is why—when Ben calls from the hallway, “Pixie, get your ass over here and come say hello!”—I’m wearing my apron, covered in flour, and am holding a dishrag in my hand when he pulls the door open.

  It doesn’t even take a second before Mak squeals at seeing a nosey Atsa, who pushed his way past Ben’s long legs. There’s no time to caution, or even take in a breath, as she dives for the dog, landing on her knees on the floor, her lanky arms wrapping tightly around Atsa’s neck.

  “Mak!” Stacie scolds her daughter, who is blissed out with her face buried in the dog’s fur. Luckily, Atsa sinks down on his butt and with arrogant resignation, lets himself be cuddled.

  “Ben!” is Stacie’s next admonition, punching her grinning brother in the shoulder.

  “Chill, sis,” he rumbles, pulling her into a hug. “The dog stays here, but he’s Mak’s all the same.”

  I can’t hear what she mutters into his shirt, but whatever it is makes him chuckle. The moment she pushes out of her brother’s arms and turns to me, I realize the state I’m in, but it’s too late. Apparently unconcerned with the flour covering me, or the dirty dishrag still clasped in my hand, she wraps me in a bone-crushing hug.

  “It’s so beautiful here. The house is amazing! What is it I smell? Are you baking? I’m so jealous. I can’t bake for shit. Cookies? Please tell me they’re chocolate chip,” she chatters, as she tucks her arm in mine and drags me into the house. “Ben, grab our bags from the car, will ya? Mak, get up off the floor and leave that dog alone. Why don’t you give your uncle a hand?”

  Just like that, she has everything and everyone organized. I haven’t even formulated words yet.

  “I already know I like you,” Uncle Al says, when we walk into the kitchen, where he’s waiting. “Anyone who manages to leave my niece st
umped for words deserves my respect, at the very least.” He holds out his hand at Stacie.

  “You’re Uncle Al,” Stacie says, grinning as she pumps his hand a few times.

  “And you are Ben’s sister.”

  “Anastasia, but everyone calls me Stacie.”

  “Beautiful name for a lovely lady.” I swear Uncle Al is swooning, but Stacie laughs it off.

  “Heard lots about you already,” she informs him.

  “All good, I hope?”

  “Nothing but the best,” she confirms, making my uncle blush.

  “Well, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you,” Al says, and I brace myself for what might come out of his mouth. “But what I was told about you doesn’t even come close to doing you justice.” Then old coot winks at her, and I think I may have just groaned out loud.

  My God, they’re flirting. I don’t know whether to giggle or hurl. It’s equally funny and disturbing. I’ve never really seen my uncle so thrown off by anyone, but he clearly doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going now.

  “Yay! Cookies.”

  Clearly Stacie is unaffected as she dives for the cookie tray.

  As introductions go, these weren’t anything like I could’ve imagined...but the result is a comfortable, familiar atmosphere by the time Ben walks in, followed by Mak and Atsa. Clearly the dog has already claimed the girl, as much as the girl has claimed him; he follows her everywhere. Traitor.

  “Everything okay?” Ben asks a while later, when I slip his shepherd’s pie in the oven. I’d wanted to make some nice mushroom and asparagus risotto with stuffed veal, but was met with protest from both men.

  Uncle Al wanted chili, but I shivered at the thought of him lifting an ass cheek off his seat. His signal that those beans were making a return in gas form. I was well-trained to spot the signature move and make myself scarce before detonation. To my horror, Ben had discovered my uncle’s propensity, just a few days ago. Instead of being equally horrified, he thought it was hilarious, adding music of his own. I vowed then never to make chili again. Or anything else with beans for that matter. Grown men, for Christ’s sake.