Assignment Austin

by Lucey Phillips

  “She thinks she’s coming to visit me.”

  “Oh, barf,” Quinn said. “You told her no, didn’t you?”

  “Um, yeah. I think so,” I said. That conversation had been a blur. “Wait, I don’t know.”

  “Jae! You have to stand up for yourself.”

  “I know. I will.”

  Quinn blew out a sigh. “So, on this Neil thing, I have good news and bad news.”

  “Okay?”

  “The bad news is that I can’t find his phone anywhere. If it’s with him, it’s not turned on, or the battery is dead.”

  “Good news?”

  “Okay, the good news is I traced a bunch of his Facebook contacts and I might have a lead for you.”

  “Oh, is he with his brother?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “But there’s a cousin who works for an outfitter over at Canyon Lake. I guess they take people out on fishing trips. He had a huge spike in contact with this cousin over the past forty-eight hours. Then, at about 2 a.m. today, it just stopped. My guess is the online communication stopped because they got together in person.”

  “Canyon Lake isn’t very far from here, is it? If Neil wanted to hide, why would he stay so close?”

  “It is close,” Quinn said. “Probably just over an hour’s drive from Austin. But, think about it. The best way to hide these days is to go off the grid, you know? Hanging out on recreational fishing boats all day isn’t a bad way to hide.”

  She was right. But Neil couldn’t hide forever.

  “Kara’s friends think that if we find him and tell him that Kara’s in jail, we could probably convince him to come back,” I said. “Maybe he thought that he was somehow protecting her by running away.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Jae, but that doesn’t seem at all realistic. I know you’ve gotten kind of attached to these people, but don’t let your loyalty override your common sense.”

  “I’m not doing that,” I said. “There’s just no evidence. And Rocky Kruger is a bad detective.”

  “From my point of view, Neil already looked suspicious. Then he ran, which makes him look even worse,” Quinn said. “I say you just give them the tip about Canyon Lake and let the cops sort this one out.”

  “You might be right. But if he really is an hour away, at that lake, maybe I should just go and try to talk to him. I could be back by this evening.”

  “You can’t see my face right now, so I’ll just tell you—I’m rolling my eyes at that ridiculous idea,” Quinn said. “You just had a gun pulled on you in Vegas, and now you’re ready to venture off into the Texas wilderness to confront a possible murderer?”

  She had a perfectly reasonable point, but I was feeling stubborn.

  “So what?” I challenged her. “Journalists do stuff like that all the time.”

  “Jae, you’re a travel writer. That’s different.”

  A small, petty part of me felt insulted by that remark. I didn’t know how to reply, so I let the conversation lapse into silence.

  Quinn started to backpedal. “I didn’t mean—I’m not saying you’re less of a reporter.”

  “I know.”

  And I did understand that she wasn’t trying to diminish my work. Maybe she was just worried about me.

  I continued, “But even if I do write fluff most of the time, I still care about justice. And what’s happening here in Austin—it doesn’t seem like justice.”

  “Okay, I get it,” Quinn said. “But the things you write about—they’re not fluff. You tell people’s stories. You make their voices heard. That is important.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Now I’m rolling my eyes.”

  “Shut up,” she said with a laugh. “You know I’m not good at being sentimental.”

  “That wasn’t sentimental,” I said. “It was sincere.”

  “It was gross.”

  “Speaking of gross, what am I going to do about my mom?” I asked. “She just called me. It sounds like she’s got her bags packed, all ready to come out here.”

  “You know what to do,” Quinn said, her voice infused with confidence. “You say ‘no.’ N. O.”

  “That’s easier said than done.”

  “Of course it’s hard, Jae,” she said, a new seriousness in her voice. “It’s got to be incredibly difficult to say ‘no’ to your own mother—especially when she’s a manipulative alcoholic.”

  I looked down at Seymour, who was stepping back into my lap.

  “But you can do it,” Quinn continued. “And you need to do it. So what if it’s difficult and it sucks? It can’t possibly be worse than this quasi-enabling resentful situation you got going now, right?”

  “You’re really dishing out the tough love today,” I said with a giggle—and a sniffle.

  “Look—you asked for my advice, and I’m saying the same thing I’ve always said about you and your mom: you have got to stand up to her,” Quinn said. “And if you need to, like, cut off contact with her for a while, then do it.”

  “I just can’t believe I managed to get 1500 miles away from my mom and she’s still being a huge pain. Whenever I hear her voice on the phone… my head actually throbs.”

  “You can’t run away from this, Jae. You need to face it,” Quinn said.

  “I know, I know,” I said. “I’ve tried to set boundaries. And she trounces all over them. Did I tell you she kept calling work? I told her a million times not to do that.”

  “Yeah, you did. You’ve given her so many chances to act decent and respectful. Even if she can’t quit drinking, she could still try to respect you—even a little.”

  “Yeah, sometimes I wonder if it would really be much better if she quit drinking,” I said. “Maybe she just has a crappy personality.”

  “Ha. Really,” Quinn agreed. “Look, I can’t tell you what to do—but I will say I hate seeing her use you.”

  “I don’t think she does it on purpose.”

  “Do you hear yourself?”

  “Oh.”

  There was a pause.

  Then I finally found the words to express the sentiment that had been playing at the back of my mind for years.

  “But what if I tell her to leave me alone for a while and she, like, you know, hates me?”

  “That’s a real possibility,” Quinn said, her voice calm and steady. “She’s someone who never takes responsibility for her own actions. She won’t react well. If you don’t think you can handle that—then it’s not time.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Quinn.”

  I barely paid attention while we said goodbye. I was too busy imagining a scenario where my mom was so upset with me that she never called, never spoke to me again. I didn’t feel pure fear or sadness. Instead, it was a mix of emotions. The only one I could name, though, was relief.

  I walked into the cottage and smiled to myself at the cheery, colorful patterns on the quilts and curtains. The room looked like it had been cleaned while I was gone.

  I sat in the kitchen and opened my laptop. My hands shook when I moved my fingers across the trackpad, trying to find the letter I’d saved. My trembling wasn’t from nervousness or anxiety. It was more like an adrenaline rush—knowing that it was finally time for me to do something important.

  I found the letter. It was the one I’d written when I was in Vegas. I wrote it after another tense phone call from my mom.

  Hi, Mom. I hope treatment is going well. I’m writing to you because when I was talking to my supervisor today, he mentioned that you had called my work a few times. I’ve asked you not to do that. It made me realize I think we need some space from each other. I’d like you to stop calling me, asking me to help you with your finances, and stop calling my work. I know this is hard, but you need to focus on your recovery, and I have things going on too. I need space and time alone. I love you.

  I knew I wouldn’t be mailing anything to her. That would make it too easy for her to just ignore what I was saying. And, I had to admit, it was letting me off the hook
from doing the hard thing I needed to do.

  I tried to pick up my phone, but my hand was slippery with sweat. I bobbled it from one hand to the other, managing to clasp it against my chest. While that was happening, I felt something brush against my ankle.

  Letting out a startled yelp, I looked down to find Seymour winding his body between my feet.

  “How’d you get in here, buddy?”

  I looked back at the door, wondering if I’d left it open, but it was closed. He must have slipped in when I came inside.

  The cat hopped onto the chair beside me and sat motionless, watching me.

  I skimmed over the letter one more time. Even though most people would interpret the message as being straightforward, my mom would find it easy to ignore. I told myself to be strong—to get my point across no matter how badly she responded.

  I looked up the number my mom had used to call me. Before I pressed “call,” I glanced over at Seymour, still sitting primly on the chair beside me. He gave me a slow blink.

  I pressed the button.

  My mom answered on the first ring. “Jae!”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “So I was just looking at flights…”

  A burning tightness spiraled in my throat. “Mom, no, you can’t visit me.”

  “Oh, but honey,” Angela began to whine.

  “I have something to say.” My voice was so shaky now, the word say sounded as if it had two syllables.

  There was silence. I looked at the letter glowing on my computer screen.

  “I think we need some space from each other—”

  She cut me off. “Space? What do you mean? You’re across the country.” She sounded haughty and whiny and hurt.

  “But you call me all the time. You call my work. You ask for money. And now you’re trying to come stay with me.”

  My voice had stopped shaking; it was getting louder now.

  “You take and take from me, and I just need a break. A break from worrying about you, a break from supporting you, and from, from everything,” I said, nearly shouting now.

  “Okay,” she hissed. In typical Angela style, she turned, like the flip of a switch, from a pouty victim to a hateful, bitter aggressor.

  My stomach turned, but I went on. I knew my mother well enough to expect this reaction. She wasn’t asking if I was okay. She wasn’t asking what she could do differently. She wasn’t sorry.

  “Don’t call me anymore. Don’t call my work. And don’t call this number,” I said. My voice, a traitor, had turned shaky again. “I won’t answer and I won’t call you back.”

  There was silence.

  I took a shaky breath.

  “I think it’s what’s best for both of us,” I said. And I meant it.

  “Fine, Jae,” Angela said. Her voice was cool and sharp.

  Another beat of silence passed.

  Seymour was watching me.

  After a few more seconds, my phone emitted three staccato beeps. My mom had hung up.

  | Eighteen

  For a long time after the call with my mom had ended, I just sat there, looking at my phone. During the first minute or two, I stared at the blank screen.

  Seymour hopped off of his chair, circled my ankles, and jumped up onto my lap. I scrolled over to my phone’s call details. That call with my mom had only lasted four minutes and two seconds.

  I expected to feel some relief—a sense that I’d really moved on, that I’d done something that wouldn’t be undone. But that’s not what I felt. I knew that, as much as I’d like to be totally free of my mom and all her issues, that could only happen if I stayed strong. My mom would only leave me alone if I kept my word and refused to answer her calls, refused to read her letters, and refused to see her.

  “I can do it,” I whispered to myself, and maybe to Seymour, too.

  The most difficult part would be keeping my word the next time she got hurt or sick or landed in rehab. It was time to force her to rely on herself, instead of me.

  I absently petted the cat’s head and neck. He began to purr, and I started to feel better too.

  My real dream was for my mom to recover from her alcoholism and become the mother, or now, maybe just friend, I’d always needed. But that was never going to be my reality. I’d accepted it a long time ago.

  I looked around the room, not sure what to do with myself. I could call Quinn and tell her how the conversation with Angela had gone. She was probably curious. Plus, I could use the support.

  But I just wasn’t ready to explain things to my friend. I needed to let that conversation settle in my mind for a while before I could really articulate what was going on.

  “You probably shouldn’t be in here,” I said softly to Seymour.

  I picked him up, cradling him like a teddy bear. I didn’t have much experience with pets, and definitely felt awkward carrying a cat around.

  I walked outside, closed the door behind me, and sat on the first step to the cottage.

  A few minutes later, I was still sitting there, petting the cat and listening to the brook splashing beside the cottage, when my text alert chimed. It was Colin.

  “Hungry?”

  I smiled to myself. We’d only parted ways forty minutes ago. I guess I should be glad he wasn’t sick of my company.

  I wasn’t hungry at all, but I wanted to find Neil, and it would be better if I didn’t go alone.

  I replied to Colin with a winkey-face emoji and the comment, “I hear they have good restaurants over by Canyon Lake.”

  He wrote back, “Huh?” So I called Colin and explained what Quinn had told me—her theory that Neil was hiding out with his cousin, an outfitter based at Canyon Lake.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Colin said. “I’ll go with you to Canyon Lake, but only if we drive through a burger place and get some greasy food and milkshakes on the way.”

  “I’m buying,” I replied.

  That had become an inside joke for Colin and me, since our employer really paid for all of our meals.

  Half an hour later, we were southbound on I-35, eating our cheeseburgers and sipping chocolate shakes. The sun was out and I’d changed the radio from news to a station that played catchy pop songs.

  While I took a big gulp from my shake, I caught myself humming along to the music and bobbing my head from side to side.

  “What’s up with you?” Colin asked, giving me an amused smile.

  “What? I like this song.”

  “Okay,” he said, drawing out the word.

  I could feel Colin watching me from the corner of his eyes.

  I ignored him and gazed out the window at the open miles of rolling green-brown scrub and trees, still occasionally humming along to the parts of the song I knew.

  “No,” he said. “Something’s different. Like, in your eyes. I noticed it as soon as we got in the car.”

  I shrugged, but kept my gaze on the landscape. I suddenly felt exposed. Part of me wanted to tell Colin that I’d finally decided to end contact with my mom. I was pleased with myself for doing it the adult way—telling her on the phone—instead of just avoiding her and trying to fade away.

  But another part of me wasn’t ready to talk about it.

  “Well, you don’t have to tell me. I’m not trying to pry or anything,” Colin said. “It’s just that I’m a photographer. I’m good at noticing stuff.”

  I smiled. Then the words popped out of my mouth before I’d truly decided to tell him.

  “I gave my mom the heave-ho,” I blurted.

  He raised his eyebrows at me, then went back to looking at the road.

  “So. How did that go?” he asked.

  “Not that bad. I mean, I didn’t know what to expect,” I said. “She got pretty snippy and then she hung up on me.”

  “Do you feel better now?” Colin asked. “I’ve never heard you hum.”

  I chuckled. “Yeah. I’m glad I did it. I’ll always worry about her, but staying in communication without enabling her was just impossible.�
��

  “Well, I’m happy for you,” he said.

  He reached his right hand across the console and rested it on my arm, giving me a gentle squeeze.

  His hand lingered there. But just as I was reaching my right hand over to touch his, he moved it back to the steering wheel.

  “So how are we going to do this?” Colin asked. “Please don’t tell me we’re going to pretend we want them to take us fishing. I’ve seen you turn green on a winding road. I don’t think you could handle a fishing boat.”

  “A: no, I don’t want to pretend to need their services. And B: how dare you speculate on my seafaring constitution? I did great on the stand-up paddle boards, remember?”

  He laughed. “Excuse me, matey.”

  “Here,” I said, looking at my phone. “Quinn gave me two addresses. The cousin’s residence, which I think is in a trailer park, and the marina where the outfitter is based. Which one should we go to?”

  “It depends,” Colin said. “Are we confronting him? Or are we just trying to locate him?”

  “I want to talk to him. If he knows that Kara’s in jail, maybe he’ll come back. Maybe we can tell him we’re close to solving the case—to proving his innocence.”

  “Are we close to solving the case, though?”

  “Well… I think we have some pretty solid leads,” I said. I bit my lip for a moment, then realized, “I guess we’re not ready to crack it wide open. But if he cooperates with us, maybe we could at least prove his innocence.”

  “Just for a second,” Colin said, his voice dropping into seriousness, “let’s say Neil really is guilty. I know the detective work has been sloppy, but nobody’s guilt or innocence has been proven yet—we need to remember that.”

  “Okay.”

  “If he’s guilty—if we and Mia and Kara and everyone is wrong—then we’re about to approach someone who’s dangerous,” he said. “What if we spook him, and he goes deeper into hiding? What if he gets away with murder because we tipped him off?”

  “Yeah.” I looked out the window, starting to regret this trip. Maybe Quinn was right, too. “Let’s just see if we can find him first. He might not even be there. We can always tip off the police if we’re really sure that’s the right thing to do.”