by Brenda Novak
“I realize that. But…I have things to do.” She looked around the six-by-eight office, with its wainscoting and custom cabinetry. This place was her refuge; she didn’t want to be at home.
“Dad, can I have a soda?” Jacob asked.
He’d been asking all day, but he always got the same answer.
“No, soda’s full of sugar,” Riley said, and sent him out to the Explorer to get a power saw.
Once his son was gone, Riley came closer and lowered his voice, which alarmed Cheyenne. For a second, she thought maybe he’d seen her with Joe yesterday, or he’d stopped by late to check on her, and found Dylan’s bike in the drive.
“You’ve never heard anything…strange here, have you?” he asked. “You don’t really believe the inn could be haunted.”
She’d heard plenty of strange noises. Some seemed to have no logical explanation. But they didn’t frighten her. When she was here alone, she talked to Mary like she had that night in the cemetery. She figured if Mary was around and could hear her, maybe it would bring the girl some peace to be acknowledged. And if Mary’s ghost wasn’t lingering, there wasn’t anyone around to take notice of her actions, anyway. “A few. Why?”
“It’s unnerving, don’t you think?”
“What have you heard?”
“A door at the end of the hall swung shut just after we arrived. I went to see who was there, assuming it was you, but the room was empty.”
“You might also see some billowing drapes.”
“You mean when the windows aren’t open.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s some crazy shit,” he said, shaking his head. “But…I guess both could be explained by the draftiness of an old building. You’ve never actually seen anything, an…apparition or…or something besides billowing drapes or a closing door, have you?”
“No. But I’ve heard a girl weeping.”
His eyes widened. “You kiddin’ me? Why haven’t you ever said so?”
She shrugged.
“Is it loud?”
“Loud enough. And sometimes Mary whispers to me.”
He crouched to get on an even level with her. “No…”
“Yes.”
“What does she say?”
She lowered her voice. “That anyone who stays here isn’t safe.”
He gaped at her for several seconds before he realized she was teasing him. Then he cocked his head to one side, slapped his leg and stood. “Very funny.”
She laughed as she checked behind him to be sure Jacob hadn’t returned. “How well do you know Dylan Amos?” she asked.
“Not well. But I’ve heard a few things.” He shook some dust from his hair. “Dude’s had a hard life. Why?”
“Does he do drugs?”
“No idea. His brother’s been busted for dealing meth, but I heard Dylan kicked his ass for it the last time.”
“Dylan gets into trouble, too, doesn’t he?”
“Mostly for fighting his brothers’ battles. He’s fiercely protective. Why?” he repeated. “Presley still hanging out with the Amoses?”
Cheyenne felt grateful that she could nod; she also felt a bit guilty, knowing her nod would be misleading.
“That can’t be good.”
“It’s not. But she claims Dylan is different from the others.”
“Could be.”
“If that’s the truth, why does he have such a bad reputation?”
“He’s all those boys have had by way of a parent. Could be he’s taking the blame for whatever goes on over there, whether he deserves it or not.”
She bit her lip as she considered this. “Ever been to one of their parties?”
“Years ago.”
“What was it like?”
“Their place isn’t bad. It could definitely use a woman’s touch, but it’s cleaner than you’d expect and functional. Somehow Dylan’s managed all these years.”
Jacob returned with the saw. “Got it, Dad!”
Riley hooked his kid around the neck and gave him a fatherly squeeze. “Good. Let’s get back to work, chief.”
Jacob headed upstairs but Riley hesitated. “What are you doing for Christmas?”
Cheyenne had already turned back to her computer. “Just taking care of my mother. Presley’s got to work. She agreed to a couple of extra shifts over the holidays to get time and a half.”
“That’ll make a nice paycheck.”
“I hope so.” The way her sister went through money, she needed all she could get. Chey still wasn’t sure how she’d be able to afford the funeral expenses once Anita passed away. Fortunately, the state was paying for her mother’s medical care.
“Why don’t you come to dinner at my folks’?” he asked. “No one can cook a turkey like my mom.”
She smiled to show her gratitude, but she doubted she could get anyone to stay with Anita on Christmas Day. Marcy Mostats-Passuello would want to be with her own family.
Cheyenne would feel too guilty leaving, anyway. “I’ll make myself something to eat. No worries.”
“The invitation stands, in case you change your mind.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
He turned back again. “Are you sure you’re okay? There’s nothing wrong?”
Cheyenne felt as if she had a scarlet S for slut tattooed on her forehead. But she denied feeling anything out of the ordinary. “No. Why?”
He didn’t explain. He scowled as he said, “You’d let me know if you needed me?”
“Of course.”
With a nod, he left and she released her breath. But then her cell phone rang. She expected it to be her sister, asking Cheyenne to pick up some food on her way home. It couldn’t be Eve or any of her friends. Their cell phones didn’t work out of country.
But it wasn’t Presley; it was Joe.
12
He was back. Presley couldn’t believe it, but as she peered out the peephole she saw Eugene Crouch. He’d found their home! What a way to start the week....
Feeling slightly drugged from sleep—it was his knock that had awakened her—she leaned against the front door, wondering what to do. Her first inclination was to act as if she wasn’t home so he’d go away. But she was afraid that would only make him come back at a time when he might run into Cheyenne.
If that ever happened, Cheyenne would never forgive Anita. And she’d never forgive Presley for lying. Now that Presley had made the decision to keep her mother’s filthy secret, she had no choice but to stick to what she’d already said.
Heart pounding, she hurried to Anita’s room. Her mother was asleep so Presley couldn’t warn her to stay quiet. She could only pray that Anita wouldn’t choose the next five minutes to wake up and start shouting for one thing or another.
“God help me,” she muttered as she returned, without so much as a robe, to the living room. She didn’t care if Mr. Crouch saw her in the sweatshirt and boxers she’d slept in. She wanted to get rid of him as fast as possible.
Cracking open the door, she squinted against the blinding sunshine as she peered out. “You again?”
He didn’t seem pleased to see her, either. Obviously, he’d hoped for better results than what he’d gotten at the casino. “I’m sorry. I’m still trying to locate—”
“Someone I don’t know. I remember.” She rested her head against the doorjamb. “What was her name?”
“Anita. Anita Christensen. Although that’s not her only name.”
She scratched her head. “Right. There were others. None of which I recognized. I got that, but apparently you didn’t.”
He studied her closely. “I have a court document giving this as her address.”
A fresh wave of fear swept through Presley. “What kind of court document?” she asked, but was still pretending it couldn’t apply to them, still playing her role.
He pulled a file out of his briefcase and showed her a Summons and Complaint from a bill collector who’d sued her mother for nonpayment of a credit card three yea
rs ago. It wasn’t dissimilar to others Presley had seen through the years.
Her mind raced as she pretended to read it. He wouldn’t believe her if she said that document was in error. In trying to track down Anita, he’d bumped into her twice. Obviously, they had some connection.
So what now? She couldn’t let him in—or could she? Presley wasn’t sure how he seemed to know Anita had taken Cheyenne, but would it be possible to convince him she no longer had any association with the child in that picture? It had been a long time. They could’ve parted years ago, when Cheyenne turned eighteen and became an adult, if not sooner.
“Well?” he said.
Presley cleared her throat. “Fine.” She used a grudging tone. “I’m sorry I lied to you. Anita is my mother. But…she’s dying of cancer. I didn’t see any point in letting another bill collector come after her when she’s on her deathbed. I’m sure you can understand why I’d feel protective.”
His expression didn’t say he understood; it said he didn’t believe her. “She’s dying.” He might as well have added, “Yeah, right.”
“Yes.”
“Of cancer.”
She nodded. “Any day now.”
“Listen, I’m not a bill collector. I’m looking for a little girl named Jewel who was—” he tempered his voice as if he was unwilling to make an actual accusation “—seen in your mother’s company twenty-seven years ago.”
Jewel. Was that Cheyenne’s real name? Jewel what? Presley wondered, but she tried to appear unaffected by this information. Although she’d initially felt some sorrow for Chey’s other family, her first family, she felt nothing but anger and panic now. If they didn’t back off, she’d lose her only sister. And she certainly needed Chey more than they did. They’d lived without her this long....
“I was six then,” she said. “I don’t remember any little girl suddenly appearing. But…I’m not lying about my mother’s health. You can see for yourself if you want.”
He straightened. “I can?”
“Why not?”
“When?”
Gripping the doorknob so hard she couldn’t feel her fingers, she glanced behind her, into the house to take a quick survey of what he might see. “Right now.”
His eagerness was as apparent as his surprise. “That’d be wonderful. I’d very much appreciate the chance to talk to her. Thank you.”
Presley motioned toward her bare legs. “Give me a minute to get dressed.”
“No problem. Take your time.”
Forever polite, she thought, and shut the door. Then she hurried from room to room, looking for pictures of Cheyenne. They didn’t have many. Just one on the mantel of Chey with her friends and a few in Chey’s bedroom, which he wasn’t going to see.
She dropped and broke the picture frame on the mantel as she took it down, but she didn’t have time to clean up the glass. Leaving it, she shoved that photograph and all the others under Cheyenne’s bed before closing off that part of the house.
After pulling on a pair of sweat bottoms, she ran to her mother’s bedside. “Mom, wake up,” she said, jiggling her arm.
Anita moaned but didn’t open her eyes. “What? Ow! Don’t shake me. Are you here with my meds? I need morphine. I think you missed my last dosage. The pain’s terrible....”
Presley had slept through her alarm over an hour, but she counted that as a blessing. Now Anita might be coherent enough to convince this man that they no longer had any contact with the child he was searching for.
Maybe his appearance at this particular moment wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe it was a golden opportunity to put this frightening issue behind them for good.
“Listen to me.” Presley squeezed her hand. “I’ll get you all the morphine you want. You’ll soon be high as a kite. But first you have to help me.”
Anita’s eyes opened. They were glazed with pain, but she seemed to understand the urgency in Presley’s voice and manner. “Wh-what can I do? You see me here…good for nothin’…”
There was no time to waste. She didn’t want Mr. Crouch to get suspicious while waiting on their doorstep, not after she’d gained a bit of trust by offering to prove her words. “That P.I.—Eugene Crouch—he’s at our door.”
“Now?”
Thank God she was lucid. “Yes! I told him you didn’t live here but he had proof. So this is what we’re going to do. I’ll show him in, and you’ll tell him that Cheyenne ran away when she was sixteen and you’ve never seen or heard from her since. Only you’re not going to call her Cheyenne. Cheyenne is now my best friend, a roommate who helps me take care of you and pay the rent, if that name comes up. Do you understand?”
When she didn’t seem to be tracking what Presley was saying, Presley’s panic leaped to a whole new level. “Mom! I need you to think straight. Please do your best. Five minutes. Can you give me five minutes? Can you fight the pain? Tell the man I bring in here that the girl you stole ran away years ago. Will you do that?”
Her tongue wet cracked, dry lips. “I’ll…try,” she said, and groaned as she closed her eyes.
“Try. She’ll try,” Presley muttered to herself, and hoped to hell trying would be enough.
When she returned to collect Mr. Crouch, she found him sitting patiently on the porch in the old kitchen chair she used to smoke. He picked up his briefcase and stood, smoothing the wrinkles from his slacks before following her inside.
“If your mother is as sick as you say, I’m sorry to intrude,” he said.
She didn’t respond. Her heart was in her throat. She shut the door and waved for him to cross the living room.
He trailed after her, glancing around, taking note of everything he saw. She hoped she hadn’t missed some detail that would give her away, but she couldn’t imagine what that might be. It’d been at least twenty-seven years since the picture he’d shown her was taken. Chances were he could run right into Cheyenne and not recognize her.
When Presley ushered him into Anita’s room, he frowned to find her every bit as badly off as he’d been told. This type of illness could not be faked. Anita was so pale, so feeble, Presley wondered if he saw any similarity to the woman he’d been looking for, especially now that she had no teeth.
“Mom, this is Mr. Crouch, that P.I. I told you about.”
Anita opened her eyes but didn’t speak. Presley hoped she’d been saving her strength—and that she hadn’t already forgotten what she was supposed to say.
Clutching his briefcase with both hands, Mr. Crouch approached her bed. “Ms. Christensen?”
Again, Anita gave no response, but she didn’t deny her own name, and he must’ve recognized her, because there was a hint of satisfaction in his demeanor.
“I’ve been searching for you for a long, long time,” he said.
She showed no surprise.
“You’ve already guessed why,” he added.
Anita nodded.
“Where is she?”
“Gone.” Her mother’s voice, when she finally used it, shocked even Presley, it was so weak.
He froze. “Gone where?”
Presley dug her fingernails into her palms. There wasn’t much she could do now—except trust her mother to lie as well as she always had.
Anita struggled for breath. “Who can…say?”
Sensing Mr. Crouch’s disappointment, Presley almost applauded. Her mother deserved an Oscar for this performance.
“What happened to her?” he pressed. “Where I can find Jewel?”
Anita pulled the blankets higher. “I don’t…know.”
Shoulders slumping, he set his briefcase on the chair by the bed. “Why not?”
“She…ran away. Haven’t…heard from her since.”
Presley feigned distress. “Mom, what are you talking about? It was Connie who ran away just before we moved here, when we were in Bakersfield. Connie, remember? Not someone named Jewel.” She turned to him. “I’m afraid she’s not making any sense. My sister ran away. My mother must be confused. The meds
do that sometimes.”
“No.” He gripped his forehead, rubbing his temples. “I don’t think she’s confused.”
Presley stared at him. “Excuse me?”
He opened his mouth, then hesitated. The compassion that flickered in his eyes made her feel bad for misleading him. With her mother dying, he didn’t want to tell her that the person she’d always believed to be her sister really wasn’t.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “If you could just…tell me the name she was using when she left. Was it Connie Christensen?”
Anita spoke up. “Who knows? She had a—” gasp, rattle, breath “—boyfriend. A no-good loser named Ben. Ben Sumner. For all we know—” gasp, rattle, breath “—she married him. Or she picked a name out of a hat…so we wouldn’t…be able to find her.”
His lips thinned. “That’s unfortunate.”
When they didn’t comment, he tried asking a few more questions—the names of the cities where they’d been living before “Connie” left, if they had any idea where she might have gone, if she had any tattoos or piercings that could help identify her. He even asked about dental work and broken bones, as if he planned to check the morgues for every Jane Doe.
This guy was nothing if not thorough. But telling him part of the truth was making him believe they were telling him the whole of it. Presley knew from her mother’s example that it was the best way to lie.
They said she had a mermaid tattoo covering most of her midsection, and a scar on one arm from falling into a tub of scalding water when she was six. They said she’d pierced her nose and dyed her hair black, creating an image about as far from the real Cheyenne as they could get. And when he was finally satisfied that he’d obtained all the information he could, they lied again by accepting his card and promising to call if they ever heard from her.
* * *
Cheyenne didn’t answer her phone. It was Joe. Again. This was his second attempt in the past thirty minutes. According to his earlier message, he wanted to apologize for his inexplicable behavior yesterday. But she’d ignored his first call and intended to ignore this one. She had her own inexplicable behavior to worry about, preferred to forget that they’d ever played cards or shopped for a Christmas tree. She’d drifted into dangerous waters there, but now that she had her wits about her, she was going to be very careful not to make any more mistakes.
