"You come on out to the house if you need to get away for a night or two. You can crash on the couch if you bring some of your mom's chocolate chip cookies."
It was a joke between them because Annette had often sent a Tupperware container of cookies with Noah when Zach picked him up, and Noah would eat most of them.
Noah thought briefly of asking Zach if he knew anything about Shelby Rae Walsh's kidnapping, but he remembered how Erin had insisted that her father didn't want the police involved because of something the kidnappers had said. Besides, Shelby Rae was safe, right? But that whisper of a thought led him to Erin and the fact that she hadn't texted him back. He didn't want to be rude, but he wanted more than anything to be in his room, alone, even if the rest of the house was filled with strangers.
"Mom's chicken is getting cold. See ya, Zach."
Zach nodded and continued slowly past Noah on the street made narrower by the extra trucks and cars. Noah eased the bike down the grassy side of the driveway, weeds brushing at his boots. The grass badly needed cutting. He was sure he'd hear from his dad about it soon enough. The truth was that Noah would've cut it by now, but he didn't want to hang around the house long enough to do it with his father home.
He parked the bike in a smooth dirt patch under the side eave of the garage, and retrieved the chicken dinners from his saddlebags. The white pickup truck he brushed against on his way into the house had a confederate battle flag hung in the window. So his dad really was making new friends. He wondered if his mother had seen it. She’d be embarrassed and upset. Noah understood that some people considered the flag a piece of their heritage, but it didn't seem right to him that it should be constantly in the faces of people who felt deeply hurt by the symbolism. He headed to the kitchen door hoping he could slip in and avoid the party. But of course he’d been seen from the front windows.
“Come on in, son. Have a beer!" Jeb Daly called from the noisy living room. "Hey, I didn't even get to buy him his first drink," Noah heard him say. "Courtesy of the Feds, of course."
"Go on, just go in and say hi. If you don't, you'll hurt his feelings." Noah's mother was taking the chicken dinners from the boxes and arranging them on plates. "Honey, it was so thoughtful of you to get dinner for your father, too. I'll put it in the fridge for later. He had me get a mess of wings to heat up."
"Since when does he have feelings? Did I miss something?"
"Don't be silly. Take in that platter of chips and salsa with you while I finish the wings."
The living room was full of cigarette smoke and tough-looking men, local types who had never owned a jacket or tie. They were either overweight or chain-smoker thin, bearded, bald, or indifferently shaved. All wore cotton T-shirts and blue jeans in various states of repair. The television was on, and Scott and Billy Attwell were playing Call of Duty on Noah's old Xbox 360, with a third guy continually trying to give them advice. Scott and Billy were both buzzcut and wearing bright white T-shirts. Billy had a rebel battle flag tattooed on the outside of his upper arm, but the rumors were that the brothers were in deeper than just Southern pride. Four other men sat around the shaky folding table his mother called the games table playing poker with the same red, white, and blue chips he'd loved to stack and knock down as a kid. Besides the cigarette smoke—and not just cigarette smoke, but the grassy tang of pot as well—there was a kind of humming charge in the air, driven by the strung out bass of the Led Zeppelin CD on the old stereo. Despite the fact that it was supposed to be a party, its pleasantness felt forced. Tense. Noah wondered if prison felt this way.
He stood frozen in the doorway holding the chips and salsa, remembering the times when he was a little kid and his dad had let him open the pop tab of his beers and even take a sip. One night his mother had come home to find seven-year-old Noah getting sick in the bathroom because he'd sneaked a whole beer, and she had yelled at his dad in front of everyone, but it was Noah who later got the belt. There had been times, too, when the police would show up to break up a party that had gotten too rowdy, and he barricaded himself in his room until his mother made him open the door. Now that Noah was no longer afraid, he felt sorry for that little kid.
"Once we finish this hand we'll deal you in, boy."
"Nice to see he's not too old to help out his ma," one of the guys at the poker table said. "Always help your mom, and don’t be an asshole to her because she had to squeeze you out of a space you can't even get your fist into." He was one of the older guys, older than Noah's father. The other players groaned at the image.
Noah forced himself to move forward and set the food on top of a stack of magazines on the cluttered coffee table. "Thanks. I've got stuff to do." Not wanting to piss off his father by disappearing too quickly, he wandered over to the television to watch the Call of Duty game, and exchanged nods with the Atwell brothers, who despite their lined smokers' skin and tats, looked to be only about thirty years old.
The guy who'd been giving the loud advice looked up at Noah from the couch. "So you're pals with Barney Fife, our friendly deputy?" He picked a flake of tobacco from his unfiltered Camel off his tongue, inspected it, and wiped it on his blue jeans. "That was his truck out there." It wasn't a question but a statement.
Noah was confused for a second, but finally remembered that Barney Fife was the name of an old television deputy. He shrugged. "He's okay."
"Shot that woman and locked up your old man. Seems like a strange kind of friend for you to have."
"I guess that's my business," Noah answered. His heart beat harder after the words came out of his mouth, but he found he didn't care what this guy thought.
"Just sayin' is all." He appraised Noah with his dull blue eyes and turned back to the game. "What the hell did you do that for?" One of the onscreen figures had tried to jump off of a wall onto the other and gotten himself shot.
Grateful for the distraction, Noah glanced out the window. Anyone sitting in the living room facing the window would've had a clear view of the street out front. Probably more than a couple of the guys in the room had reason to want to avoid the cops. What about his father? Wasn't there some rule that he couldn't hang out with known felons? How like him to blow off the rules. And what about his asking Noah to say he was asleep on the couch Sunday night? It was like he was trying to get thrown back in prison.
"Mom told me to ask if you need anything else.” He stopped at his father's chair. The hair on his father's crown grew in sparse, wide swirls, the scalp beneath it slightly pink and smooth like a child's. Did he know he was going bald? He wouldn't like it if he did.
"Tell her to bring some chicken wings on in if they're done."
"Hey, you work out at the dealership, right?" The full-bellied man who had complimented Noah on helping his mother put his hand up to indicate he was passing on getting more cards. "What kind of deal can you get me on a new truck? I got a trade-in."
After the guffaws of the other men at the table about the shape his old truck was in, Jeb answered before Noah could say a word.
"You've got it wrong, Carter. He works in the shop."
"You don't say."
A voice came from the other side of the room. It was the advice guy. "You remember that chick who worked the desk there a few years back? The one with the tits, and all that hair?"
"She was hot. Kind of stuck up, though." This from the guy at the table who looked something like Hulk Hogan and wore a shiny red bandana over his hair.
"Where the hell have you been?" Jeb asked. "She's the boss's wife, now." No one needed to add that it was he who was ultimately responsible for the death of Bruce Walsh's first wife. "Still looks damned good, too, right son? Did she ever put any moves on you?"
"Me?" Noah was genuinely surprised. "No way." Would they mention Erin, too? He didn't like the idea of these men talking about her. As far as Shelby Rae was concerned, he didn't really care what they said about her. She was a lot older and wore too much makeup. He supposed he should feel sorry for her because she'd been kid
napped, but he knew he only cared because Erin was upset about it.
"You got a girlfriend?" Bandana Man asked.
"Nope." Noah let it rest there, and no one pursued it. He waited while they finished their hand, then said he’d ask his mother about the wings. As he entered the kitchen, he heard, "Kid's wet behind the ears, Jeb. Hardly like he's your son at all. You sure he belongs to you?" Noah didn't hear his father's quiet response, but only the laughter erupting a few seconds later.
In the kitchen, his mother handed him a warmed up plate of the chicken he'd brought home.
"You go on and eat in your room if you want." She tucked a napkin beneath the edge of a biscuit for him. "That crew in there will eat us out of house and home before the night's over. There's plenty of beer, too."
"You want me to hide in my room? Like when I was little?"
She made a face. "Of course not. What do you mean?"
Noah dropped his voice to a whisper. "Dad can't afford for the police to show up. But if they do, maybe it's not such a bad thing."
"What's come over you? You can't talk about him like that when he's in the house. What if he hears you?"
"He's trying too hard with us. I don't trust him, and I don't trust those guys in there." Noah's voice was low and earnest. "What if they're planning something?"
She shook her head. "Don't say that. If you say things like that, you let them out there in the world and they might come true."
Noah wondered what sort of magic his mother believed in. Mostly he didn't want to see her hurt. But there was another dimension to it, too, wasn't there? Erin already saw his father as the man ultimately responsible for her mother's death. If he got involved in something else and got caught...He didn't want to think about it.
Why is what she thinks important to me? She was beautiful and smart and serious and had a strong sense of justice. That was the kind of woman he wanted to be with. Every other girl he'd dated before paled in comparison.
"Sure, Mom. You're right." He bent to kiss her on the cheek. "Grab me a Coke?"
She smiled. Why she seemed happy, he wasn't sure. But there was an edgy excitement to her happiness. He was sure she knew his father was up to something.
But when he started down the hallway to his bedroom she stopped him, whispering. "He's got a lot of money on the table."
"Yeah. I saw. Did you give it to him?"
She shook her head. "I have no idea."
* * *
After eating his dinner while catching up on a Netflix series, Noah took a quick shower. As the evening went on, the voices from the living room got louder, and the smell of pot filled the hallways. He locked his bedroom door and tried to sleep. The wall opposite his bed vibrated with music, and even earplugs didn't keep out the background bass. He lay there, edgy and wakeful. Where had his father picked up so much cash, and what about the coincidence of Shelby Rae's name coming up? His father had seen her recently, even though he'd only been home for four days, and he and Shelby Rae were hardly on the same social circuit. How and when had that happened?
Chapter Six
It had been years since Erin had cried as hard as she cried that afternoon. Trouble cuddled close to her on the bed, his soft, purring body firmly against hers, acting as a kind of emotional shock absorber.
She missed her mother. She missed the short time she'd felt really close to her father. It had taken her mother's death for him to respond fully to her need for him, and her need for him had been great. But once he married Shelby Rae, he changed back to his old self. The Provider. The Guy Who Worked All the Time. Shelby Rae constantly complained about it, but Erin knew that’s what he was really like. Over time, Shelby Rae's behavior revealed that she wasn't terribly interested in being a mother, so Erin didn't find it all that difficult to go away to college.
Why did it still hurt so much? Why did she even care what Shelby Rae said or thought? It was like the little kid in her had awakened and had found herself alone, and afraid. Who was she supposed to trust?
She slept for six dreamless hours, until the sun rested just above the treetops outside her window, and Trouble nudged her gently to remind her it was time for his dinner.
She walked through the strangely silent house. Curious, she opened the door into the garage and saw that both her father's and Shelby Rae's cars were gone. That struck her as odd, but she decided it was just as well. If either of them had been home, she would have gone out, maybe called MacKenzie. Wait. MacKenzie was with her boyfriend at the house he was renting, miles away. Or she might have called one of her other sort-of friends who were still living in town. The fact was that she felt oddly alone in her own home. In her own hometown. Was this what being an adult was like?
In the kitchen, she fed the drooling Jocko first. Her father or Shelby Rae had cooked up a big container of ground beef and rice and put it in the fridge. Taking out one of Jocko's special bowls, she put a cup of the food in it and heated it in the microwave. While he ate, his tags clinking against the porcelain, she spread the contents of a can of wet food for Trouble on a plate, then decided that some broiled trout was more his style. He tracked her, walking on the counter as she worked. Shelby Rae would have a hissy fit to see him up there, and Erin took a perverse pleasure in letting him walk wherever he wanted to.
Realizing she was also hungry, she grabbed some cocktail shrimp, tossed it with fresh spinach, veggies, and tiny tomatoes, and drizzled some bottled Caesar dressing over everything. Then she took an open bottle of Pinot grigio from the fridge and poured herself a glass. Not only was there no one to know, no one would even care. She settled down in front of the television with Jocko and Trouble on either side of her to watch Pretty Little Liars.
What she'd said to Shelby Rae about her faking the kidnapping to get money for her relatives had been in the back of her mind, but she had surprised herself by confronting Shelby Rae. If it were true, it would explain a lot—Shelby Rae’s not wanting the police involved, her not being afraid to go out—just her generally cagey attitude about the kidnapping. That Erin's father had possibly heard it (was he even still speaking to her?) was worrying. More worrying was how plausible it was.
Having a glass of wine and letting Trouble walk all over the counter made her feel a lot better. Rebellion for rebellion's sake wasn't in her nature, but at that moment it felt pretty good. Maybe she should go upstairs and accidentally give Jocko one of Shelby Rae's carefully shelved Manolos to chew on. Could cats be trained to pee on things? She looked at Trouble, who had been dignified even as he mangled small bites of shrimp and trout. Probably not this cat.
She texted MacKenzie to see what she was doing, and MacKenzie texted back that she should make the drive out because it was a good party, and there was plenty of room to stay the night. The message came with a half dozen wink emojis.
The last thing Erin wanted to do that night was hook up with some stranger, so she told her she’d come next time.
There was also a call she'd missed. Julie had called back while she was sleeping, but only left a very brief message asking Erin to call her right away. Erin tried, but got no answer.
Around ten, she heard Shelby Rae come in from the garage. She knew it was Shelby Rae because Jocko had jumped off the couch and run to greet her with his special bark: I'm so glad you're back, I'm so glad you're back, I thought you were never coming back! When Shelby Rae didn't come in to say hello, Erin felt relieved. They had nothing to say to each other. She was much more nervous about seeing her father, but when she went to bed an hour later, he still wasn't home.
Where was he, without Shelby Rae?
* * *
I’m a champion sleeper, just like my feline forebears, but right now I'm restless. There's something unsettling in the air and though there's still an hour until dawn, I find myself prowling anxiously through the air-conditioned palace that is the Walsh estate. Finally I settle in the enormous, silent kitchen. I know of a mouse family that lives in the closet in the unused maid's quarters, but they're
tiny and not much sport, so in the gray light I sit on the kitchen counter alternating my attention between a mouse searching the floor for crumbs and the quickening sky outside the window.
If only Tammy would return. She's rather more experienced at sniffing out mysteries than young Erin, and I do enjoy working with her. I believe there's hope for Erin, but she sat like a lump on the sofa last evening when I was trying to get her to go up to Shelby Rae's room and investigate that phone. Not that I blame the girl. She's deuced unhappy, and that best friend of hers, MacKenzie, is a gallivanter. Perhaps Erin will let her guard down a bit and maybe trust Noah a little more. We shall see.
Erin’s right, I believe, to show little faith in Shelby Rae. I wish I could have jumped into her car to see where she went yesterday. Her demeanor is noticeably untrustworthy. Although, I have seen traumatized kidnap victims before,and they can be unpredictable. Perhaps her performance on the phone was just that—a good performance.
Jocko is still asleep on his mistress's bed, so I'm alone as I ease through his dog door and onto the patio thirty minutes later. The birds are starting to awaken, and the feeders near the trees are busy with cardinals and red-winged blackbirds. My natural instincts are piqued, but I have no taste for bird games this morning.
Something is up that has nothing to do with the local wildlife.
The path leading to the docks is damp and cool on my paws. I love the soft feel against my sensitive pads. Contrary to popular belief, most cats don't mind a little dirt. It's easily whisked away with a concentrated bathing session.
Already the fish in the cove are surfacing to catch morning bugs on the water. Turtles line the submerged log beyond the first dock, waiting for the sun to rise and warm them. I wouldn't mind a spot of sunshine myself. A cold chill dances its fingers up and down my spine.
Beyond the turtles, there is no more movement near the water. No fish. No frogs. No singing birds. It's as though night is still abroad despite the lightening sky.
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