I sit back in the chair and dig through my purse. I bring out the piece of paper with the Briggs family’s address and Lucy Davis’s address. With it being the Fourth of July, I wonder if Ms. Davis has company at her house too. Charli didn’t write down her phone number. So, I can’t call her to find out. I guess what I’ll do is drive by. If there are cars parked in front of her house, I’ll wait until tomorrow.
After I give Sarah a hug and thank her for looking out for Harlan, I make an amateur stealthy attempt at leaving the hospital. I take the hallway that leads to the emergency room exit, where I know I won’t run into the press or Harlan’s family. Terrence has gone to the cafeteria to get something to eat. Jackie went back to her house to wait on a ransom call, which I don’t think will happen. Not that I’m giving up. I just think the kidnappers would have called by now and made some kind of demand, and actually, now that I think about it, I wonder what that really means. If the kidnappers are not asking for money, does that indicate they’ve killed Davian? No, that’s not what it means. I refuse to accept that thought, and I shake it out of my head. My son is alive. My boy is going to come back home safe and sound.
When I finally get to my car, I decide to go to the mall and buy a new cell phone first. It’s along the way to Meldrim, Georgia, where Ms. Davis lives, and it won’t take that much time. At least, I hope it won’t. Detective Richardson made a valid point in the argument, which still rings like a fire alarm in my head. I love my son, and I am interested in what they know. So, I am getting a new cell phone, proving once again that he’s wrong about me.
It doesn’t take long to pick out one because I just want a regular phone. The sales associates hooks me up while I’m there by adding my contacts from my main email that’s attached to the account. Unfortunately, according to the sales guy, any calls that have been made since I lost my other phone will not show, but I’m not too worried. I have one now, and whoever needs to call me can.
With that situation corrected, I set off on my way to see Joshua Davis’s mother. The thirty minute drive according to my GPS from the mall to the woman’s house doesn’t work out that way. Once again, I’m stuck in traffic, this time on Interstate Highway 16. All I can see is the back of a Ford F-150 and red blaring lights. I want to drive on the shoulder so badly, but I won’t. I’ll get to Ms. Davis’s house today. Patience, Joslyn.
I turn on the radio to listen to music. While tapping the steering wheel to the beat, I try to focus on the questions I’m going to ask her. As I begin rehearsing, my cell phone rings. I didn’t hook it up to my car’s Bluetooth. So, I have to search for it in my purse. Finally with some persistence and tossing nearly everything on the seat, I find it.
“Hello,” I answer.
“It’s about time!” Charli screams. “I have been trying to reach you for a couple of hours. Where have you been?”
“At the hospital,” I answer calmly. “Did you forget the cops had my phone?”
“No. Yes. I mean I don’t know. Whatever. Anyway, have you seen the news, Joslyn? You are all over it.”
“No,” I reply nervously. “What are they saying?”
“They showed you and Terrence running out of Gia’s house, her parent’s house, and they interviewed some of the family members. They said that you tore up the place. Threw furniture around, demanding they hand over Davian.”
“That’s a bold face lie!” I check the rearview mirror, thinking I should go back to that house and make them take it all back. But what good would that do? Oh, God! What have I done? Have I made things worse? Will this affect what the kidnappers do to Davian? I have no idea what the real implications of my actions are.
“I would have loved to see you in action!” Charli starts laughing. “They said you were losing your mind in there.”
“It’s not funny. This could be real serious for me.” I can’t believe that she’s laughing it up at my expense.
My cheeks are burning from embarrassment. Dammit! What can I do to change what happened now? I can’t go back. Should I call? I don’t have their number. How much worse can my life get?
“They are thinking about pressing charges and suing you.” The way Charli says it makes me thinks she’s making fun of me.
Now, I’m highly upset at her. “I have to go.”
“Where are you right now?” She completely ignored what I said, which infuriates me more.
“I have to take care of something,” I reply hotly. “Good-bye, Charli.”
“Are you going to see Lucy Davis? Or have you already been there?”
“Charli, didn’t you hear what I said?”
“You don’t have to get snappy with me, Joslyn.”
“I have to go. The police is trying to call me on my other line right now.” She is getting on my frayed nerves, and I can’t stand to hear her voice.
“Call me right back. Don’t-”
I hang up on her. I just know if I say anything else, it’ll be real nasty, and I won’t hold back. I call Jackie, hoping to find some sanity and get some answers about this bad news. She answers before the first ring is over.
“Finally, you bought a new phone,” she replies. “I see Detective Richardson got to you.”
“You didn’t tell me that those people claimed I messed up their house.”
Jackie sighs heavily and remarks, “I didn’t tell you because the house wasn’t messed up at all. The guy on television wasn’t even there. He was just some fool that saw the cameras and claimed he was family.”
I breathe easier and rub at my forehead.
“But that doesn’t mean you’ll be escaping charges,” Jackie adds.
“Are they pressing charges?”
“Don’t know. I guess we’ll eventually see.”
Now, I’m really nervous.
“Where are you right now?”
I curse under my breath. Now, she’s going to make me lie to her.
“Joslyn, where are you going?”
“I’m still in the hospital.” I bite my lower lip.
“Oh, is everything okay with Harlan? Do you need for me to come back by with anything?”
“No, I’m good. I’ll call you if anything changes.”
“Alright, Sis, and one more thing. Detective Sawyer still wants to talk to you.”
“She had her chance. Not doing that showdown again.”
“Joslyn, as a sister, not a lawyer, I recommend you make yourself available to her when she needs to talk.”
“Alright, I’ll call her after I finish spending time with Harlan. Let her know I’ll be calling soon.”
“You have a phone. You tell her yourself.”
“Fine. I will. Look, Jackie, I have to get going. Thank you for everything. I really appreciate your help in all this.”
“No problem, and one more thing, call Kristina. She’s been calling me all morning looking for you.”
“I will. Love you.”
Quickly, I hang up. I sure hope that Jackie doesn’t call the hospital or go by there. I’ll have to explain my absence with another lie.
Just as I’m about to look for Kristina’s number, the traffic starts moving. I’ll call my sweet girl after the meeting with Ms. Davis. I’m sure she wants updates on her father and brother. But before I do either one, I’ll call Detective Sawyer and find out what she knows. I hope that discussion will go better than the one I had with Detective Richardson. Or maybe my hope is for nothing, and it’ll be worse. Eventually, I will see.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lucy Davis lives right at the town border in a poor residential neighborhood west of Savannah in Meldrim, Georgia. Her house is a decrepit trailer on a cement slab foundation with a tin skirt falling off on one side. The white siding has mud spots, like it was catapulted with dirtballs, and the single pane windows have no shutters. The porch is merely steps ending at the front entry with wooden railing on each side. A rickety glass front door is crooked on its frame. Completing the roadside presentation is the front yard with yellow gr
ass and little ponds of mud puddles. For some reason, out of everything I see on the property, the mud puddles really bother me. That would never fly in Tudor Estates. I’d write her up and fine her the highest penalty for such a travesty. But thank goodness, Lucy Davis doesn’t live in Tudor, and I might as well get it out of my head about the front yard. The mud puddles are not the reason why I’m here.
There is a dirt inlet for a driveway, and a large red car takes up most of the spot. There is another blue vehicle parked beside the road, right behind that one, but a woman is running out to it with a plastic cap over her head. I park behind her. Whoever the woman is, she gets inside. She starts up the vehicle, looks back at me through her rearview mirror, and she’s gone within a few seconds. I can only hope that wasn’t Lucy Davis that just left.
I decide not to follow her, but I am going to stay at the trailer. During my wait for the downpour of rain to stop, a woman comes to the trailer front door a couple of times. I really can’t make out how she looks through my window, her glass door, and the rain, but I hope she isn’t too bothered by me parking in front of her home.
After a few long minutes, the weather does let up enough for me to get out. I run up to her front glass door and knock on the metal frame. When the woman appears, I step down, giving the door enough room to swing open, just in case she decides to let me in.
The woman is wearing a striped shirt and blue jeans. She doesn’t have on make-up, but her inch long hair is curled and styled into a neat bowl shape. She has a dishtowel in her hand and an inquisitive look on her face. From what I can tell, she could be as old as fifty, but if that’s true, time has been good to her. She looks like she’s no more than thirty. She pushes open the door, but I don’t go inside.
“Ms. Davis?”
“Yeah,” she says with curiosity.
“May I come in, please?”
She steps back, still holding the door. I go inside and shift directly over to the right. To my utter surprise and disbelief, the interior is very nice and cozy. She has brand new furniture. Fresh flowers and plants are everywhere, and they’re perky, full in color and bloom. Burning candles on a decorative wrought iron stand and sympathy cards take up most of the space on top of a waist-high wall that separates the dining area from the living room. Every wooden surface is dusted, and there’s a hint of jasmine floating in the air. Her home is beautiful.
Ms. Davis lets the glass door go, and it slams shut, startling me. That’s when I notice she’s giving me a nasty glare. There’s no cordiality anywhere in her demeanor.
“I know who you are,” she says, throwing the towel over her shoulder.
I swallow hard. “You do?”
“Your husband killed my son,” she states with calm anger.
With that one statement, I realize right then and there that I made a huge mistake coming to her house. I didn’t forget that my husband killed her son, not even for an instance, but I should have known that my arrival wouldn’t be welcomed. How could I have been such an idiot? And yet, as I stand in her living room, I know I should be leaving. Probably, even apologizing for disturbing her, but no, I won’t do either because I’m hoping that she’ll understand why I’ve come and give me the information I need.
“What the fuck you want?” Her patience has diminished to fiery ashes.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but my son is missing.” My voice is shaky, and I’m close to sobbing. I just want her to feel sorry for me, but that cold-disgusted-she-can’t-stand-me expression gives no hint of empathy. I continue, talking very quickly, “He was taken yesterday morning by two people, a man with dreadlocks and a woman.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Searing hate emits with each word spoken.
“I’m hoping you can tell me who they are.”
“Are you crazy? I don’t know who took your son.”
“Just give me a name. Is it one of your son’s friends?”
“Are you trying to blame my dead son?” Anger creates harsh lines in her face as she takes a step towards me.
I back up to the wall. I open my mouth, meaning to tell her that I’m not blaming her son, but the words are stuck in my throat.
“Get out,” she says while pointing at the glass door.
“Ms. Dav-”
She hits the wall right beside my head, making me duck.
“WAIT!” I hold my trembling hands up, fully knowing that’s not enough protection between me and her. “Listen to me! Listen to me!”
“Get the fuck out!”
“Please,” I beg.
From out of nowhere, she slaps the side of my head. It doesn’t hurt, but just the act and the contact alone stuns me. I try to grab her hands, but she pushes me back hard and slaps me in the face. I cover my cheek, tears swelling in my eyes from the burn of the blow. We stare at one another. Me in disbelief. Her in complete anger. She grabs me and starts pushing me over to the front door. I trip on my own feet, down the steps, and there’s nothing for me to grab. Then suddenly my hands hit a semi-rough surface. It’s the wooden rail on the steps, but a stabbing splinter makes me release, and the ground comes at me quicker than I can react to break my fall. The wind is knocked out of me, and I’m blinded from the rain and my tears.
Moments later as I’m trying to figure out which way is up, a distinct sound echoes over me. I know what it is. A shotgun. That woman is really about to kill me. I can’t believe it. She’s really going to do it. I must get away. I roll on my side and try to stand. My footing betrays me, and I hit the ground once more. This time on my side. Now, I’m winded and hurting, but it’s trivial. That’s all I know is that I have to move. The ground is the only solid thing my body feels. So, I drag myself on my stomach, inch after painful inch. Then a shadow overtakes me, blocking the light and rain. I blink, looking up, trying to adjust my vision. The shotgun is pointing right at my face. Dear God, I wish I could sink into the ground and disappear, but that will not happen. There’s no place for me to hide. I’m going to die, and this is how it’s going to end. I was so stupid, so foolish to come to this woman’s house.
I roll on my back and hold my hands up to show she’s won, and with no shame and with all of my heart, I start begging for mercy. I beg for her to let me live. I apologize for her son getting killed in my home, and I beg for her forgiveness. But she never waivers in her aim.
Then I hear the sounds of sirens, squealing tires, yelling, flashing of blue lights, but it’s all warped into one drowning whirlpool disappearing into a tunnel. But it all suddenly comes back loud, separated, and distinct. My senses are heightened as to who’s here. The police, a lot of them. Thank God.
But Lucy Davis hasn’t reconsidered her aim. It’s too late. No amount of begging nor the police can save me now. I turn my head sideways, covering my face, squeezing my eyes shut. My ear and the side of my face is in a warm mud puddle. Any second now, Lucy Davis is going to send me away from this world like Harlan sent her son from this world. I’m not ready. Tears spill fast and heavy as I feel my life on the edge of slipping away.
Then I utter, not to her but to Him, “Dear God, save me.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lucy Davis drops the shotgun and backs away under the thunderous commands of police. An army of cops run up to her. Two handcuff and yank her away so hard that I swear they’re trying to break her arms. Two more officers roll me over on my stomach, which takes me by surprise. One of them places his knee on my back, and I’m handcuffed, as well. What he’s doing hurts so badly, and I scream for him to stop. He ignores my pleas and continues to manhandle me until I’m placed inside the back of the police car.
Never have I imagined being arrested. I’m a Lady of Tudor Estates Society. We don’t get arrested. We are above reproach, but here I am in the back of this stink-filled leather backseat in complete disbelief of where I am. My chest heaves as I try so hard not to cry. I can’t even wipe my tears because my hands are still handcuffed behind my back.
When I get to the sheriff
’s office, I’m greeted by the press. They follow me with lights flashing and a chorus of questions as the deputies march me right through the front entrance of the sheriff’s office. My face is hot with embarrassment. I’m going to be all over the news, shown in the worse light ever.
Once inside, I’m taken through a lobby, a squad room, a hallway, where my jailbird walk end in a small room with a metal table and two chairs. No windows or mirrors, but the room is clean and neat. The deputy points at a chair, and I sit down and lean forward because it’s more comfortable with my hands behind my back. She leaves without saying another word.
I sit in the room for what seems like forever, but eventually, a white man walks in. He’s tall, robust, but not really fat. He’s bald-headed with a bright face and blue eyes. His badge is hooked onto his leather belt, and he’s wearing a plaid shirt, blue jeans, and silver tipped cowboy boots. He takes a key from his pocket and takes off my handcuffs. I squeeze each wrist at a time, wincing from the splinter in my hand. That’s when I notice they’re filthy with dried-on mud. Then I see a cut on my right forearm. The cop clears his throat, bringing me back to my surroundings. For a second there, I totally forgot about him.
My heart beats hard in my chest just thinking that he’s there to make my arrest really official. He’s going to read me my rights and toss me in a jail cell. I try to come up with something that will get me out of this situation, but my mind is blank. Why didn’t I just stay with Harlan? Why didn’t I just go see Kristina and the kids? No, I had to make the dumbest decision ever.
Brilliant, Joslyn. Just brilliant!
The robust man sits down across the table from me and places packaged wet towelettes on the table. I look at him like he’s crazy. I shake my head and blow out my frustration, but I take one, anyway. At least, I can clean my fingers.
“Joslyn Montgomery?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“You’ve been on the news. Your son was kidnapped. I’m sorry to hear about that.”
Joslyn (Women of Privilege Book 3) Page 11
