“Hey, Mama,” I call from the front door when I finally come inside. I kick off my shoes and head for the living room, where the TV flickers against her sallow complexion. Credits roll on the screen. Another Lifetime movie. I swear she must have seen them all by now. “What’d you watch? Anything good?”
“Dancing with Danger,” she says. Her eyes light the way they always do when she’s no longer alone. “I’d give it an A minus.”
I take a seat beside her and she spreads her throw blanket out until it covers both of our laps. Sometimes I get sad thinking about her like this—sitting here watching TV all day like a zombie, barely able to get around. Living for those moments when my father or I come home so she has company again. Then I think about all the loss and misfortune that’s blanketed her life in her forty-odd years and how she still manages to smile through it, never once asking for pity or feeling sorry for herself.
I refuse to believe life’s going to rain on her like this forever.
It has to get better.
“Mama, aren’t you hot?” I ask, gently shoving it off my lap. “I’ve been inside less than a minute and I’m sweating already.”
She frowns. “No, actually. I was feeling a little chilly.”
“You’re not getting sick again, are you?” I don’t know how she could get sick—she never leaves the house. Daddy or I must’ve brought something back …
“I’m fine. Maybe I’m just a little too acclimated to this heat.” She sells me on a smile I desperately want to believe. But we both know this is exactly what happened last time she got sick. It started with chills and ended with her in the hospital with an immune system gone haywire.
Mama yawns, and I suggest she head to bed, but she flicks to the news instead. Lord help her if she doesn’t watch the nine o’clock news every night.
We sit in silence, listening to the weather and some interview with a local kindergarten teacher who donated a hundred knitted scarves to a school in Alaska. Then there’s the piece about the thirty-two car pile-up on the freeway at rush hour. No deaths, thank goodness. But it’s the next segment that sends a chill to the humid air.
“Local Meredith Hills man, Vincent Monreaux of Monreaux Corporation, has recently acquired Starfire Granite and Quarry in Emmetville in a record deal—” the handsome news anchor reports.
Mom lifts the remote to change the channel as an image of Vincent Monreaux, a silver fox of a man with the same wicked gray glint as August, fills the screen. Her hand trembles and her breath heaves.
“Mama …” I say, trying to calm her.
“Evil bastard,” she speaks through gritted teeth. She’s going to work herself into another episode if she isn’t careful. Her vagus nerve is finicky. Sometimes it takes the littlest upset to make her black out for a few seconds. Some people react to stress with a surge of adrenaline, but Mama’s brain has the power to make the whole operation shut down.
The segment ends almost as soon as it started. They’re on to discussing an upcoming career fair at the local community college.
“Don’t let him have this power over you.” I place a hand over hers.
She draws in a jagged breath, eyes fixated on the screen as if she’s watching but not paying attention. Lost in thought, maybe. It isn’t often we get an opportunity to discuss the Monreaux family, but with all my August run-ins lately, I’d have to be remiss not to seize the moment.
“Why didn’t you and Daddy leave Meredith Hills?” I ask. “After everything that happened?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead her gaze falls to her lap as she picks a thread in her blanket.
“Your father’s too prideful to be run out of town with his tail between his legs,” she says. “Plus, the public defender said running off would only make him look guilty. And we both know your father’s as innocent as the day he was born. He’d never hurt a soul.”
“Yeah, but don’t you guys feel like you’ve been living in this heartbreaking shadow the past twenty years?”
Turning to me, her eyes are filled with a spark of clarity. “No. This is our home. We grew up here, your grandparents grew up here. We wanted to raise our family here, and that’s exactly what we did. We live in no one’s shadow.”
I don’t bring up my aunt. Breathing her name is a surefire way to bring tears to Mama’s eyes, and she’s already worked up enough.
“Have you taken your night meds yet, Mama?” I change the subject.
“Not yet.”
I hop up and head to the kitchen, retrieving five pills from her organizer and a glass of tap water. A minute later, I’m helping her into bed.
“’Night, Mama.” I kiss her forehead and pull her blankets up. Her skin is cool beneath my lips and she shivers. “Get some rest, okay? We’ve got big plans for Saturday.”
She manages a smile before cupping my cheek. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetheart.”
Mama gets out of the house once, maybe twice a month. It’s always an exhausting endeavor, but seeing the smile it puts on her face makes it all worth it. Even if only for a few hours, we get to pretend we’re just a normal family doing the sorts of things most families take for granted.
I close her door behind me and head to my room, checking my phone as I stumble through the stuffy hall.
It’s been four days since I’ve heard from August. He came on so strong and then … crickets.
Maybe this is all a game to him.
Some guys get off on screwing with people’s heads.
Or maybe he realized I wasn’t going to be an easy lay and he found someone else to chase.
An hour later, I’m still wide awake, damp with a thin layer of sweat and staring at the ceiling. Vincent Monreaux’s ice-white smile lingers in my head along with those familiar piercing gray eyes. And the way she reacted—with potent and virulent anxiety. It only created more questions—questions I couldn’t ask her for fear of making things worse.
Much like the baby they lost all those years ago, I can’t help but wonder what other things they’ve neglected to tell me over the years. What else has been glossed over and rewritten for the sake of leaving the painful past buried deep in the ground?
Sitting straight up, it hits me … there’s an album in the living room.
Mama calls it a memento mori—a reminder of death and mortality. A shrine, of sorts, to my aunt Cynthia. Though she’s always asked me not to touch it. But that was before, though, when I was too young to understand.
Tiptoeing to the living room, I dig the faded peach photobook from the TV cabinet and flick on the lamp by the side table.
The number of times my parents have discussed Cynthia’s death in front of me, I can count on one hand. At first, it was because I was too little to understand. Later, it was because it was too painful to unbox those memories. I never pried. I didn’t once feel the need go digging. I knew what I needed to know—that Vincent Monreaux killed my aunt and the local authorities helped cover it up because his daddy paid them off.
I don’t blame my parents for tabling that kind of talk. They’d already lived it once. They didn’t need to go through it all over again for my sake. But there are gaps in what I know. In all my life, I’ve never been given the full picture.
Settling into the sofa, I flip open the album, immediately greeted with the soft, sweet image of Aunt Cynthia’s school portrait. It’s faded, and the colors are a little off, like someone put an Instagram filter over it, though it’s nothing but age.
I stare at her features, memorizing them and trying to determine if we really do look alike. I’ve seen this picture before at my grandparents’ house. Daddy says I’m her spitting image. Though I’ve always favored the Rose side. We share the same blonde waves. The same deep set ocean-blue eyes. The same pointy chin and slightly-upturned nose.
I wish I could’ve had the chance to meet her.
Mama said Aunt Cynthia had the kind of personality that entered the room before she did. And the most contagious belly laugh. L
ong legs too. She said all the boys wanted to date Cynthia, but she had her heart set on Vincent—her brother’s best friend.
Inhaling, I turn the page, only to be met with a clipped newspaper obituary.
CYNTHIA GLADYS ROSE. AGE 17.
Cynthia Gladys Rose passed away unexpectedly Thursday, October 18th. A junior at Clark High School, Cynthia excelled in the dramatic arts, with a particular affinity for theater and debate club. Her favorite pastimes included summers at her grandparents’ cottage in Vermont and annual family camping trips in the South Dakota badlands. Cynthia had recently toured Great Western State University, with future plans to apply to their pre-law program.
She leaves behind her parents, Lorelai and Conrad, her brother, Rich. Her paternal and maternal grandparents. Fifteen cousins, a host of close friends, and her beloved rescue terrier-mix, Winnie.
My eyes prick with tears that I swipe away the second they slide down my cheeks.
My poor sweet aunt. It isn’t fair that she wasn’t able to live long enough to see adulthood. Or that her life was summarized in two brief paragraphs.
My heart tightens and aches for my parents, for my grandparents, for Cynthia.
Drawing in a deeper breath, I page ahead to another clipped article. Brief and vague.
The body of a local female resident was discovered at the Monreaux Quarry late Saturday night. Police have determined her cause of death to be strangulation. An investigation is underway and no suspects have been officially named.
The next article is wrinkled and blotted in parts. Tears, maybe?
Police have identified the victim in last week’s homicide as seventeen-year-old Cynthia Rose, a local junior at Clark High School. The county coroner has confirmed her cause of death as strangulation. Police Chief Rod Holbach states, “We have narrowed our list of suspects tremendously in the past week, and I’m confident that Cynthia’s killer will soon be brought to justice.”
My stomach drops when I get to the fourth page in the album—a mug shot of my father along with the headline: LOCAL MAN ARRESTED IN MURDER OF MEREDITH HILLS TEEN.
Meredith Hills Police have made an arrest in the murder of seventeen year old Cynthia Rose. After a thorough investigation, they have determined Ms. Rose was lured to the quarry by her older brother, Rich, where a physical altercation ensued and she was then strangled. A witness confirmed the two had not been on speaking terms and had been disputing over ownership of a personal property item. Multiple witnesses also said the night of the homicide, Rich Rose had been using illegal substances at a local party. Surveillance footage from Monreaux Quarry shows the blue and white 1986 Ford pickup belonging to Rich Rose at the scene of the crime.
All these years, not once did my parents tell me my father was actually arrested for Cynthia’s murder …
Knowing my father and the kind of man he is—and I have no doubts about how much he loved his little sister—there’s no way he’d be capable of doing something like that.
I don’t need to read another clipped article to know that my father is innocent, that he was set up.
Still, I’m ravenous for information. To piece together and make sense of all the things I never knew until now. But as I flip to the next page, my father’s headlights fill the living room window.
He’s home early.
My stomach flips, and I scramble out of my comfortable spot.
Closing the album, I return it to the TV cabinet, turn out the light, and head to my room.
It makes sense now—their over-protectiveness through the years. They must have been terrified of losing me the way they lost my aunt. And, knowing what the Monreauxs were capable of doing and the power they held over local law enforcement, I understand their intentions.
All of those exchanged glances that I could never quite interpret, finally make sense. Their hushed tones any time they vaguely discussed that dark period of their lives is now understandable. The reasons I was warned to stay away from that family at all costs...
My stomach in knots, I lie on top of my hot covers, warm air blowing in my face from the fan on my dresser.
I never should have snuck into his pool.
I never should have gone to that party.
And I sure as hell never should’ve given him my number.
My parents were right—Monreauxs are not to be trusted.
Chapter Nine
August
* * *
“Morning, August,” the white-haired receptionist in the front lobby greets me Thursday morning. She doesn’t point out the fact that I’m ninety minutes late or that my father would shit a brick of he saw me with my shirt untucked. He loves to remind me I’m a “practicing professional,” whatever the fuck that means.
“Morning, Rhonda.” I head to the elevator, sunglasses still covering my eyes. I find it helps with avoiding eye contact and uncomfortable small talk.
I fucking loathe small talk.
I arrive at my corner office with the generic mahogany desk and the stiff leather chair and the company-issued iMac and tug the wooden blinds shut.
I’m not here by choice.
My father requires that I show my face a minimum of twenty hours a week so he can write off my “internship” on his corporate taxes, but on the plus side, I earn a handful of college credits for literally doing nothing, so it’s not the worst thing in the world.
Double checking the lock on the door, I return to my assigned seat and pull up a private browser on my phone. I’ve been on the hunt this week for a Sheridan-looking cam girl, but every site I’ve found has been a dead-end.
I tap on the image of a full-lipped blonde with natural tear-drop tits when a message pops up on my screen.
ROSE GIRL—Your shirt is ready. It’s at the Budget Cleaners on Broadway. I already paid. You can pick up whenever. Thanks again for letting me borrow it.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
ME—I was hoping for an in-person delivery.
ROSE GIRL—Sorry to disappoint you. Been a busy week. Take care!
I chuff, rotating in my chair, knee bouncing as I ponder my next move. A rush of adrenaline passes through me, the way it used to when I’d storm out onto the football field before a big playoff game. Sheer determination. Plays mapping out in my head in real time.
ME—My brother’s band is in town Saturday. I have an extra ticket.
ROSE GIRL—How fun for you!
ME—Come with me.
ROSE GIRL—I told you the other day, I have plans.
ME—And I told you I don’t believe you. Be ready to go by 7. I’ll pick you up.
ROSE GIRL—Not lying. I do have plans. Family outing.
I exhale through clenched teeth.
ME—Surely you can work it out so you’re back in time for the show? I’d hate for you to miss out …
ME— Show is sold out.
ME—People are scalping tix for $3000.
ME— Front. Center. Backstage.
It’s not my style to shoot off this many texts in a row without getting a response, but this is for emphasis. I’ll blow up her fucking phone if it means getting her to say yes. Besides, I don’t know a single fucking soul who wouldn’t suck a train of dicks for a MUNRO ticket. They’re the hottest band in the world, their fans are insane, and their tours sell out within hours.
ROSE GIRL—Sounds amazing. But I told you, I can’t. Thanks anyway.
ME—Can’t or don’t want to?
I wait.
And wait.
Five minutes turn into fifteen. Fifteen turn into twenty. Twenty turns into a fucking hour.
She did not just ghost me …
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t do something this desperate, but I compose another text to her, this time taking a softer approach.
ME—I know I’m coming on strong. I’ve been called intense a time or two, and I’ll fucking own that until my dying day. But I’ve been curious about you for as long as I can remember, and then you just walked into my life out of nowhere the other day … an
d now I can’t get you out of my damn head.
ME—So yes, Sheridan. I’m curious about you. I want to get to know you.
ME—Seven o’clock Saturday. I can pick you up wherever you want. And I’ll make sure you get home safely. Let’s shed these heavy fucking last names for one night and just have fun. That’s all I’m asking of you.
She leaves me on ‘read.’
I’m a manipulative bastard, and I deserve it—just as my mother’s memory deserves justice.
This isn’t going to be easy, but it’s going to be so fucking worth it in the end.
Chapter Ten
Sheridan
* * *
“I think we should keep her overnight for observation,” Mama’s doctor says Saturday night.
We’d just topped off an afternoon of school shopping with dinner at Magnolia Lake when she collapsed on our way back to the car. It happened so fast—the color drained from her face, her hands trembled, and her knees gave out and her lower body quit working. Another Guillain-Barre episode, they’re thinking.
Luckily, my father caught her before she hit the concrete parking lot. It could’ve been much worse.
Things can always be much worse …
“We can run some more tests tomorrow,” Dr. Smithson adds. “I suspect it’s another flare, which we can treat with IVIG therapy while she’s here, but until we get bloodwork back and run some scans, we won’t know for sure.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Dad shakes her hand, and I give my mom a jug of ice water from her bedside tray.
“Don’t scare me like that, Mama.” I brush a messy strand of silver-blonde hair from her forehead. “You said you weren’t getting sick on us again …”
“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Guess I was in denial.” She exhales as she attempts to sit up, wires running beneath her gown and machines beeping. It’s a familiar scene. One that always serves to shock the appreciation of life back into me just when I need it.
Enemy Dearest Page 6
