by Nora Flite
- Chapter Twenty-Four -
Georgia Mary King
Emily had been starved so severely that she needed medical care for a week.
Conway was with her every day, and I was grateful he let me join him. Neither of us pushed her for details about her ordeal. When the police came to collect information, we chased them off, insisting she wasn't ready yet.
The truth was... she'd never be ready. But she did want to tell Conway and myself first.
Alone.
“Lonnie reached out to me a few months ago,” she said, staring at the ceiling. She looked so small in the hospital bed. “I was shocked. I was... happy.” Her hands crushed together in her lap. “I was living in an apartment off of my campus in Pennsylvania. Lonnie said he'd been looking for me forever. He had no clue that our uncle—mom's brother—had whisked me out of the country.”
“What?” Conway asked, stunned.
Her smile was apologetic. “I wanted you to come with me. I was too young to have any say. Uncle Mett, he was scared of Dad. I think Mom must have told him some stuff, and I think she was planning to run with all of us kids.” She shrugged weakly. “I'm the only one he could get out of there, and then Dad went off the grid. He must have known the authorities would take all of his kids if they got in contact.”
“But how did Lonnie find you?” I asked.
Her cheeks went crimson. “It was my fault. When I heard on the news about you, Georgia, I had to know if Conway and Lonnie were okay. I needed to know how bad it was.” She rocked side to side. “Uncle Mett was afraid of Dad locating me. Still, I convinced him to arrange for a postal box here. I said I missed my old friends terribly, that I'd be careful not to tell them where I was while writing them letters. Reluctantly, he helped me set everything up. He had no idea who I was really talking to.”
A spike of venomous guilt attacked my body. I hugged myself tighter.
“Lonnie found your old address,” she said. “The current owners had some of my letters you'd never received. They gave them to him, I guess, because he used them to find my campus. I'd gotten bold and said where I'd be attending college when I returned to the states.”
I shivered and struggled to stop. “That's how he knew about the book I liked.” And the damn lemonade.
Her eyes were shining with unshed tears. “Yes. It's all my fault. I'd asked for those details, but I never thought someone else would read my letters. I'm so sorry.”
“You couldn't have known,” I said quickly. I ached to soothe her guilt.
Conway reached over, grasping her hands in one of his. “Lonnie would have found another way to hurt us all. You're not responsible for his actions. I'm just grateful you're alive, Emily.” He hung his head, fighting down a wave of emotion. “He tricked all of us.”
“What will you do now?” I asked her.
Emily looked out the window. The sun made her light skin glow. “I'll go back to college in Pennsylvania. I was close to finishing my last semester. I'm going to become a social worker, help families that really need it before they end up like ours.” She looked fondly at her brother. “And you?”
“If you're living in Pennsylvania, then so am I. After all this time apart, I'm not losing another day.”
She laughed—it was the sweetest sound. “Georgia, do you mind living in Pennsylvania?” she asked it knowingly.
“No. Not if that's where he's going,” I said, sitting closer to Conway. “I'll figure the rest out as it comes.”
He stared at me for a long minute. I was ready for him to argue against my plan. Conway was the type to deny we could be together, or to try and make me think it over twenty times because it was too rash.
His hands wrapped around mine firmly as two trees that had grown together. “We'll figure it out together.”
****
“They're calling you the ‘Lightning Strikes Twice Girl’,” Chelsea said, showing me the website on her phone.
The news was having a field day with my story. One girl kidnapped twice by the same family. It was messed up—people loved messed up stuff. “Isn't lightning striking twice supposed to be a good thing?” I asked, clicking my tongue.
“Why would it be? It's lightning! That stuff kills!” The second she said “kills” she went pale. “I'm sorry. Oh, that was insensitive.” Jumping on me, she gave me a huge hug. I'd gotten used to this treatment. Chelsea hadn't stopped tiptoeing around me since I'd returned.
Apparently, she blamed herself. I'd assured her multiple times that none of what happened was her fault. But she still felt responsible since she'd been the one to coerce me into going to the party.
I didn't point out that Conway would have found me wherever I was. Part of my campaign was convincing everyone that he wasn't involved in any of the crimes. Lonnie had tried to pin some of it on him—another act of vengeance. But every woman in the house confirmed they'd never seen Conway. Not once.
Lonnie had thrown them in the white van, transported them to the island he'd been squatting in then hid them inside. His first victim had been there for a year.
Watching them getting helped into the ambulances that had arrived on the mainland was both reassuring and unsettling. Conway had made the phone call for help. The police had sent boats. It was a mess as they tried to make sense of what had gone down on our little island.
The prison Facile had been locked up in confirmed his death. He'd been booked in there under a false name, which was how he'd escaped detection for so long. Fake identities are cheap in Mexico.
The inmate who'd stabbed him had already taken a plea deal in exchange for revealing Lonnie had paid him to do it. That was the last thing I'd heard about the case—it wasn't going to trial. There was no need. Lonnie had quietly stated he was guilty. No one knew why, though I had a guess that it was his last rebellion against his own father.
Facile had run.
Lonnie had no intention of shrugging off the blame.
“Thank you for checking in on me,” I said, holding Chelsea by her arms. “And for the fruit basket.” She'd brought me one every single day since I'd been home. “But I need to go.”
Her face shifted. “Can I point out that I'm struggling with you spending so much time around him?”
I tried to laugh her worries off. It came out hollow. “I get it. Conway isn't exactly the shining knight you expect him to be. But Chelsea, please trust me. He's been through as much trauma as I have.”
“Is this where you say he's the only one who understands you?” Her comment took the wind from my sails. Sighing, she gave me one more hug. “You're a grown ass woman, you know what your heart and mind need more than I ever will.”
She tried to disengage but I gripped her tight.
“Georgia?” she whispered.
“Shh, shut up and keep hugging me.” Chelsea petted my hair, rocking me gently. “Thank you,” I said into her shirt. “You're the first person to say that. Ever.”
My friend guided my face up, rubbing away my tears with a half-smile. “Your mom would have.”
I started to disagree then stopped myself. I put my hand on the back of my neck. Chelsea had gotten to know my mother in her last two weeks at hospice. She'd been there as a volunteer, it was how we'd met. I was always grateful for the ridiculous hats she'd bring in to try and cheer Mom up.
My mother had loved it.
She would have loved Conway, too, if she'd gotten to know him.
“You're right,” I finally said. Sniffling, I danced backwards, grabbing a tissue to clear my nose. “If she could see me now, she'd know what I feel for him is real.”
Grabbing her hips, Chelsea pretended to roll her eyes. “Then get going. Mr. Real is waiting for you.”
****
“Are you sure this is the place?” The man who spoke was gruff, his thick body wrapped in a thicker black jacket.
Of course this is it, I thought, staring at Conway's profile. The sun had turned the sky into a melted sea of raspberries and egg yolks. A few clouds
dulled the colors. They lit Conway up on every hard corner of his face.
“Yes,” he said solemnly. “She's here.”
The officer grunted. He kept eyeballing Conway like he was a rabid dog. Most of the media had painted him as less of a hero, more of a slippery accomplice. They kept creating headlines like “Will the Horror Island's Brother Show his True Colors?” and “Freedom for the Guilty” with photos of him next to the white van.
I wanted to burn all the papers to the ground.
Waving his arm, the officer directed the men with their shovels to begin digging. While arranging the plans to excavate the site, Conway had made it clear he wanted to help dig. They'd said no. He'd stormed off, threatening to go out alone before everyone else and do it himself.
Talking him out of that had been... a challenge.
Sliding my hand in his, I traced the indent on his pinky. He gripped me back, tight and firm and never loosening. We stood with the sun at our backs as the men revealed the bones in the cold ground.
Anna.
In my hand his grip collapsed. All of his body's tension had centered in his face and his neck. I stared as he lived through the nightmarish memories that this poor girl's bones brought forth. She'd been dug free, and so had his heavy shame.
“Hey,” I said, tugging at him. He resisted me—I curled myself around his body, my arm around his shoulders, the other across his collarbones. “Hey, look at me.”
He did; his pupils were as empty as the newly dug grave. That rich pain wrapped around my lungs, my heart, until I felt dried out inside. “I know what you're going to say,” he whispered.
“It's not your fault. You have to know that.”
“You said it before, and even if you're right, this isn't fair.” He shut his eyes then he looked back at the men loading the bones onto a stretcher. Cameras flashed, and people with badges sipped their cups of coffee—for them, this was a job well done. “Anna deserved a better fate than this.”
Dagger after dagger cut off chunks of my spirit. It was incredibly hard to watch the man I loved suffer. But he was right—Anna deserved more. Over his shoulder, I saw movement. There was two people coming our way - a woman and a man.
I didn't recognize them, but for some reason, Conway squinted at her like he was seeing a ghost. “Hello,” she said, her hands wringing together. The man next to her was grabbing her elbow; they leaned together, two people who couldn't stay on their feet without each other. “Are you Conway? The one who helped find Anna?”
I stepped back, both of us facing the strangers. “Yes,” Conway said, his skin white as ivory.
The man's smile looked out of place. He hadn't worn it in a long time. “I'm Nolan. This is Sherry. We're Anna's parents.”
Amazed, I looked at them both closer. Was that why Conway seemed so unsettled? Could he recognize parts of the girl who'd died in her mother?
Sherry held out her hand; it was shaking. “We just wanted—” she couldn't finish, covering her mouth, tears finally breaking free. Her sadness caught me in a choke hold.
Nolan patted his wife's shoulder, looking seriously at Conway. “Thank you. You can't imagine how much it destroyed us wondering all these years what happened to our little girl. But you brought her back to us. We can find peace, now. That's... that's a gift we'll forever be grateful for.”
Conway's expression melted. Then it bunched together again, and I knew he was holding back his own tears. This was a man laid so low by his guilt, that seeing the parents of the girl who haunted him should have broken what was left of him.
Reaching out, he hugged them both. They fell into Conway, all of them mumbling, speaking softly of regrets and insisting things would be all right. I watched it with amazement—somehow not feeling out of place.
I was seeing the man I love grow full again, shedding his self-loathing for the first time in years. There was no better feeling. And maybe it would take time for him to truly heal... but I believed it would happen.
We'd found each other. We'd broken each other. We could be fixed.
We could live again.
- Epilogue -
Conway
The ropes cut into my hands. Sweat blurred my eyes. Digging deep, I contorted my body and tossed the empty pallet onto the pile in the truck. It clattered there among the rest, wood particles flitting through the golden beams of sunset.
This was hard work-the kind that drained your body and made the day fly by.
It was perfect for me.
“Good work today,” Vick said, waving as I passed.
My nod was sharp. “Thanks.” Vick was the master foreman, and he'd taken a liking to me once he'd seen how dedicated I was to the job. I never explained to him that I did the physical labor with such gusto because it kept my mind from wandering.
I was lucky I'd gotten the position at all. I had a sparse work history; almost everything had been under the table. When I'd shown up to apply, Vick had crossed his arms, looked me over, and said I was a big ass man. I'd laughed and agreed. Clasping my shoulder, he'd given me a single shift to prove myself.
After watching me for three hours, he'd hired me on the spot, saying I was worth the cost of two men.
In the corner of the parking lot was a jungle green Charger. It was nicer than I needed—a gift from Georgia for my birthday. She'd refused to return it. And after I'd taken it out on the road, I'd admitted I adored it.
Climbing into my car, I tossed my bag on the passenger seat. The sun was at the right position on the horizon to blind me. Setting my shades in place, I cranked the radio and drove down the street. I didn't listen to music. I always listened to the news.
While Georgia was sick of hearing about Horror Island—as everyone called our debacle—I was compelled to listen. Two months had gone by since the day I'd saved Georgia and my sister from Lonnie. No one brought up the event much. It'd been replaced by fresher tragedies.
But one of the kidnapped girls was going to write a book about her ordeal. That meant people were chatting again. I'd heard clips from a morning talk show segment about it multiple days in a row. Now, I tuned in right in the middle of one.
“...Was only nineteen when she was yanked from her bed by Lonnie Adams, the youngest son of the late, but just as terrifying, Facile Adams.”
It wasn't healthy how obsessed I was with this story. I knew that. I just didn't know how to turn off the part of my brain that needed to understand how. How had my brother done all of this and kept it hidden from me? He'd been a puppet master. I'd never seen the damn strings.
“We have with us Felicia Quail,” a voice on the radio said.
The one writing the book, I thought, turning the volume up.
“Felicia, could you tell us a little about what you went through on the island?”
“Sure,” she said, the right amount of confidence gained from multiple interviews. “I was kept in a room I barely saw. I was gagged and blindfolded. But I could hear other people, other women. I didn't know how many at the time.”
“That's awful,” the hostess gushed, sounding way too delighted.
“It was. It definitely was.”
“Did you think you'd make it out alive?”
There was a long pause. I gripped the steering wheel, darting my eyes from the radio to the road. Felecia said, “No. Not until Georgia arrived.”
Hearing someone else say her name made all of my muscles knot up.
“Georgia Mary King,” the hostess said. “The woman who'd been kidnapped once before.”
“Yes. So, sometimes, Lonnie would come into the room. He'd take us somewhere else in the house, he'd—do things to us. I'd try to shout every time, but it was hard. Anyway, one night when he tied me back to the bed, the gag wasn't on right. I was able to scream for help. I thought it was pointless but I hoped and hoped and... it happened. Someone heard me.”
Each breath I took was forced. My heart was slamming in my chest, experiencing all the adrenaline Felecia must have been the night Georgia had
found her.
“Do you think, if Georgia hadn't been kidnapped that second time, that you would have ever been found?”
“I don't,” she said bluntly.
“Then she saved your life.”
“Yes, and that's why I've written a dedication in my book for her.”
“That's right!” the other woman crowed. “You can pick up Felecia Quail's true story of her time on Horror Island this Thursday, and we'll have—” I'd parked my car and cut the engine.
Multiple publishers had begged Georgia to sell them the rights to her story. She'd refused them all. “I'm done living that,” she'd said. “I'm ready to start something new.”
Unlocking the main gate to the complex, I climbed the stairs to the third floor. Georgia had requested that wherever we lived was up high. That, and it had to have an open-air patio. I would have worked five jobs if I'd had to in order to give her all of that.
Cracking the front door, I stepped inside. It was a large, open floor plan apartment that we'd moved into. Bright yellow counters, white walls, and hard wood floors—her friend Chelsea had called it “stylish” and I'd just shrugged.
The only reason I lived here... was because she did.
Georgia was facing away from me in the kitchen. She'd tied her long hair up in a tail. The blue eye on the nape of her neck watched me. Once, that image had brought my guts into my throat; I'd been shaken to my core. But now, seeing it, I was reminded of the plaintive wish the woman I loved had made to me.
If I'd run with her nine years ago, what would be different?
I'd spent so much of my time living as a martyr, thinking that every minute of distress at my father's side was worth it if there was a chance he could lead me to Emily. The bitter irony was that I'd never discovered a thing.
Lonnie was the one who'd found our sister.
The memory of everything I'd done in the name of the greater good was a constant knife in my chest. It kept me awake at night, tossing in my own stressful sweat. I'd have lain there anxiously, if not for the sweet, strong woman at my side.
Whenever I woke in distress, she'd wrap herself around me. Her hand would link with mine, our pinky fingers curling into an unbreakable knot. Georgia had helped me see that living a life full of regrets helped no one, least of all myself.
