Watcher (The Shining Ones Book 1)

by Shawnee Small

  I lost count somewhere around three hundred.

  I’d finally fallen asleep.

  ***

  The banging was persistent. In my dream, the sound reminded me of the pounding of my heart. I could feel the blood rushing in my veins, the sound of valves opening and shutting. It ebbed and flowed in a familiar pattern‌—‌my heart squeezing and contracting with lust before seizing up with fear. It was the same night after night. The erotic dream turning into a nightmare. The nightmare I couldn’t escape, no matter how hard I tried. I braced myself for the horrible ending that always came with the dream, but instead awoke with a start.

  Sitting up on the couch, disoriented, I looked at the clock above the kitchen sink. It was too early. My brain barely registered the time, as my attention was drawn to Daisy barking at the front door. The sound of her barking and the insistent banging was almost overwhelming. I stood up too quickly and stubbed my toe on the coffee table.

  Swearing under my breath, I staggered toward the door with the afghan wrapped around my shoulders. Pushing Daisy out of the way with my foot, I struggled to unlock the two bolts with one hand.

  “Hold on! I’m coming!”

  The door finally opened and I stood in my doorway, speechless.

  Birdie was on my front porch. He looked pale in the early dawn light, his face drawn and pensive. He wore a hoodie and a pair of tattered jeans, like he’d just gotten home from work, except his shoes were untied. His hair was a mess, just like his clothes. If I hadn’t known any better, I would’ve thought he’d just woken up himself, except for the tense way he held himself‌—‌that and the fear in his eyes.

  He pushed past me into the trailer, running his hands through his short, spiky hair.

  “Why aren’t you picking up your phone? Jesus, I thought something had happened to you, too!” he yelled. He was jacked up on adrenaline.

  “What?” I asked, a note of dread creeping into my voice. I could feel the cold knot in the bottom of my stomach.

  “It’s bad, Poe,” he whispered, his eyes full of anguish. He continued to walk toward me as if to embrace me. My anxiety was off the charts, and I backed up against the kitchen counter.

  “Just tell me!” I cried, unable to stop myself.

  “It’s Amanda,” he whispered, his face pale.

  “Is she okay?” I asked, feeling the sweat break out on my brow.

  “She’s dead, Poe.”

  ***

  I don’t remember what happened in the minutes that followed Birdie’s news. It probably didn’t help that I’d fainted in my own kitchen. One minute I was standing wrapped in Penny’s afghan, my back wedged into the countertop. The next, I was propped up in the passenger side of Birdie’s minivan with Birdie leaning over my feet, struggling to push them into a pair of sneakers. It was too surreal for words.

  Amanda was dead.

  I sat silent in the van, still trying to process the news as Birdie pulled out of my driveway. She was gone. For good.

  Staring at the van’s dash, my eyes searched the plastic edges and grooves. I saw every fleck of dirt, every smear of grease. A microcosm of invisible debris. There were pebbles embedded in the gray floor mats. A few flecks of cigarette ash sat undisturbed above the door handle. I wondered who’d been smoking.

  “Tell me,” I said quietly, trying to remember to breathe.

  “I don’t think–” he said before abruptly stopping.

  “Just say it.”

  “They found her on north beach this morning, like Alberta,” Birdie replied.

  “Was she–” I couldn’t finish.

  “Yeah.”

  “Pull over!”

  Birdie pulled over just as I opened the door and vomited. There was no food in my stomach, but that didn’t stop me from throwing up cold coffee. It was bitter and acidic as it came back up. Birdie passed me a tissue; he touched my back, but didn’t rub it.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, not completely insensitive. I nodded my head and pulled myself back up into the seat. My face felt like all the color had drained away from it.

  “What about her dad?” I whispered, thinking back to my run-in with Mr. Chu in the parking lot. He had looked old then. What would he look like now?

  “Yeah, he’s already been down to the station to identify the body,” Birdie replied reluctantly.

  His words sank in.

  “Amanda.” I started crying.

  Birdie reached over and squeezed my hand.

  “I know, Poe. I hope they catch the son of a bitch,” he declared vehemently.

  Birdie’s words broke through my grief. I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to get ahold of myself. Silent tears still slid down my cheeks. I sniffled.

  “Has anyone called Haylee yet?”

  “Haylee’s already at the station. Sheriff Riley wanted to speak to her,” said Birdie.

  “Is that where we’re going?”

  “Yeah,” Birdie replied, not making eye contact. Clearly, he still wasn’t talking to me. “No one could get you on your cell phone, so I told him I’d go.” He pulled up outside the small concrete building that was Tybee’s police headquarters.

  There was an awkward moment of silence.

  “Thanks, Birdie. I–”

  “I’m glad you’re okay. Go on in, they’re waiting for you,” he said, cutting me off. I winced.

  I got out of the minivan and hobbled up to the side door of the station. A deputy held the door open for me as I walked into a wall of suffocating heat and noise. The station was crammed full of reporters, officers from other jurisdictions, and hordes of noisy onlookers.

  The deputy grabbed my arm and started to weave through the mass of bodies. Using his own body as a shield, he pushed against the wave of people as we made our way across the room. The smell of sweat and rancid body odor was almost overwhelming. We cleared reception and headed down a side corridor at the back of the station.

  I walked past three lock-up cages before the deputy indicated I should make another turn. At the end of the corridor, we stood outside a flat pine door that was obviously government grade. The only ornamentation on it was a name plate that held a small black acrylic sign marking the office as belonging to Sheriff Bud Riley.

  The deputy left me outside the door as I knocked on it.

  “Come in,” barked the voice from the other side of the door.

  I walked into Sheriff Riley’s office.

  “Have a seat.” The sheriff rose from behind his desk and extended his hand toward an empty green chair.

  I settled into the chair and glanced around. It was so obvious that this was a man’s office. A large sea bass was nailed to a plaque behind the sheriff’s chair. Stacks of unfiled papers sat on the corner of the desk and filled up half of an empty bookshelf the same color as the door. A couple of dented old filing cabinets were positioned across from me and a half dozen family photos were strewn about the place. A woman’s touch‌—‌probably the sheriff’s wife.

  The sheriff cleared his throat.

  “I’m glad you’re okay. We were a bit worried when we couldn’t get ahold of you.” He looked me up and down with a critical eye. It was what one would expect in a police station. Everyone was a suspect until cleared. Even in my grief, it irritated me.

  “What do you want?” I asked abruptly.

  “I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind, Poesy.” He shuffled some papers around on his desk. “When was the last time you saw Amanda?” He paused at the end of his sentence.

  He wanted to say “alive,” I thought to myself.

  “Wednesday before Thanksgiving.” I remembered my last conversation with Amanda. She had assured me she would be all right by herself; now she was gone. I tried to hold back the fresh tears.

  “Where did you see her?” the sheriff asked, his voice taking on a clinical tone. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably as the tears spilled down my face. I looked away from him and tried to fo
cus on an outdated memo stuck on a corkboard behind his desk.

  “She was at my place‌…‌she was staying with me.” There was no reason to hide that fact. I wiped under my eyes with the back of my index finger.

  “And why was she staying with you?” Sheriff Riley asked.

  Giving him short answers would only extend the tortuous process, so I told him about Amanda’s falling out with her father, but omitted the part about Amanda’s pregnancy; however, the sheriff seemed to already be one step ahead.

  “Was Amanda pregnant?” he asked me point-blank, staring directly at me. I squirmed in my chair.

  “Yes,” I answered finally, knowing it wouldn’t be that hard for him to find out.

  “We’ll run tests, anyhow, just to confirm,” he said as he looked down and scribbled some notes on a yellow legal pad. He didn’t bother to glance up again. Was he done with me already?

  “Is it really the same as Alberta?” I blurted out, gripping the arms of my chair.

  When he finally did look up, he was slow to answer. “It’s a formal police investigation now. I can’t really comment, but off the record, it’s looking the same,” he replied with a grimness that left no doubt in my mind.

  I felt queasy again. “Can I go?”

  “Yeah, turn your phone on in case we need you.” He dismissed me with a quick movement of his hand.

  I got up quickly and made for the door.

  “Poesy…” His voice stopped me in my tracks. “I’m sorry about Amanda.”

  “Thanks,” I said quickly as I fled from his office.

  I turned around one last time and looked at the aging man behind the desk. He looked tired and haggard.

  He hadn’t needed to say it.

  Tybee had a serial killer on the loose.

  12

  By the time I got to work in the afternoon, it was obvious the rest of the island had heard about Amanda’s murder. Although it was Monday, you would’ve thought it was a summer Saturday lunch crowd. The bar heaved with bodies, and there wasn’t one empty table in the place. Paddy’s was packed and unlike the day after Alberta’s death, the noise was loud and angry like a hive of hornets. I couldn’t feel their anger. Not yet. My grief was still real and raw in my chest. Amanda was gone. For good.

  If I hadn’t gone with Birdie, if I’d just stayed home with her, she still might be here. Cooking in my kitchen, smiling, dancing to some hip-hop song on Haylee’s stereo, laughing at one of Birdie’s bad jokes. I had failed, failed to protect her from the monster that had impregnated her and beat her.

  “Hey, you okay?” Haylee and I were in Paddy’s kitchen when she gripped my arm and turned me to face her. I could feel the tears at the edge of my eyes. “Aw, come here girl, it’s okay. Just let it out.” Haylee drew me into a hug, and I shuddered as the sob erupted from my chest.

  “Shhh. Let’s go out back for a minute.” She led me through the kitchen and out into the employee parking lot. A slight breeze pulled at my hair as the sun shone down on us. It somehow seemed so wrong‌—‌how could it be such a beautiful day when something so horrible had happened?

  “It’s all my fault.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?” asked Haylee.

  “I should’ve never gone with Birdie. I should’ve stayed here. She might still be alive if I’d just stayed put on this goddamn island!”

  “Don’t,” Haylee warned. “Don’t you be even thinkin’ that. It ain’t your fault, Poe.”

  I rubbed furiously at my cheeks, pushing the salty tears away. “You don’t know that.”

  Haylee stared at me long and hard before sighing. “You couldn’t stop it happenin’ any more than I could’ve. Plus, Amanda wouldn’t want you beatin’ yourself up.”

  “How could this happen here? To Amanda? Jesus Christ! Everyone knows everyone else. How can someone here be a butcher, Haylee?”

  “Listen, it don’t mean nothin’,” answered Haylee, frowning. “Corinne hid the bottle for a good old while before people cottoned on that she was a drunk. It’s easy if you try hard enough.”

  It was a frightening thought.

  “I just don’t see how it’s possible. The evil of it. I mean, the bodies…” I couldn’t finish the thought; otherwise, the tears would come again.

  “Trust me, girl, I know. I don’t know what’s gonna happen when folks get past the shock. Hell, them good ol’ boys are gonna be a problem, with all them guns and such.”

  Haylee was right. At the moment, the island was still in a state of disarray. For now, people were congregating in the places that were familiar and comforting to them, like Paddy’s. That would last a day or two until after Amanda’s funeral, but then what? Sheriff Riley wasn’t any closer to naming a suspect, and there were two murders and a lot of unanswered questions.

  The longer it went on, the more likely it was that some people were going to take the law into their own hands. There were plenty on this island who still believed in the old justice, and it wouldn’t take a lot to push them over the edge. The last thing we needed was a lynching.

  I followed Haylee back inside Paddy’s and back to my busy section. The grief was still there, but the sheer number of people who needed to be served kept me distracted. I tried hard not to listen to people’s conversations, as I knew from Alberta’s death that people could be cruel. The last thing I needed was to hear someone talking about Amanda, so I didn’t linger as I carried trays of food and drinks in and around the bar. I focused on pouring sweet tea and kept a neutral, solemn look on my face. If someone patted my arm and gave me their condolences, I gave them a nod and moved on. Moving was the key. I couldn’t focus on the pain if I kept carrying forward.

  I hadn’t expected Sheriff Riley to show up, looking for me.

  One glance his way told me I wasn’t gonna like what he had to say, but I made my way over to him as he beckoned from the bar.

  He looked no different than he had yesterday‌—‌it was like the man hadn’t changed or slept since our interview at the police department. His uniform was the same government-issue tan that every island officer used. Tan, short-sleeved shirt, tan slacks, and probably even tan socks underneath his black patent-leather issued shoes. His sheriff’s hat sat at a slight angle on his head, obscuring his eyebrows from where I was standing. He had taken his sunglasses off at the door, and I could see now that he had large wrinkles around his eyes that drooped and sagged, making him look like a sad hound dog.

  But I knew better. He might look like the grandfatherly type, but he was the sheriff, and his coming here for me was bad news. To make matters worse, Birdie was feigning uninterest behind the bar, but I knew he was listening to every word, even if Sheriff Riley hadn’t said anything yet.

  I strolled up to him as casually as I could, which, frankly, wasn’t casual at all.

  “Hi, sheriff, what can I do for you? Can I get you a drink?” I asked.

  The sheriff took his hat off and laid it on the bar. He had a shiny bald spot on the top of his head where his hair had given up growing almost two decades ago. Bud Riley had been losing his hair since Birdie and I were kids.

  I tried not to stare at that bald patch as he continued to assess me. Seconds seemed like minutes as I stood there being scrutinized. Tiny drops of sweat formed at the small of my back. I was about to say something else when he finally spoke.

  “Tell me about Adam Walker.”

  That was it. No pleasant small talk, no more condolences about Amanda, no niceties.

  “What about him?” I asked, my tone wary.

  “How much do you know about him?”

  “As much as anyone else, I guess.” Or more than you can possibly imagine, I thought to myself.

  “That’s not what I’ve heard.” He swiveled his torso in my direction, his piercing brown eyes locked on mine. “I hear you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with him.”

  “Who told you that?” I stared back defiantly.

  �
��Does it matter?” he asked, his words slow, almost lazy.

  “Yes, as it happens, it matters to me. I want to know who’s gossiping about me.” Birdie busied himself behind the bar, but I wasn’t fooled. He’d been drying the same glass for the last several minutes.

  But Sheriff Riley wasn’t about to answer me.

  “Did Mr. Walker know Amanda, as well?” His eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch, and his mouth, which had worn a heavy frown, now turned up slightly at its corners. The intent was plain and clear to me now.

  “No way. Amanda was my friend.” The indignation rose up in my chest.

  “And yet, he was at your trailer when you returned to town, yes? And where was Amanda? He was there, but she wasn’t.” The sheriff was drumming his fingers on the bar like he was bored. I glared at Birdie.

  “How could you?” I hissed at him. “Adam didn’t kill Amanda any more than you did!”

  Birdie shot me a hard look back. “What do you really know about him? He’s bad news and you know it. Stop sticking up for him.” He threw down the bar towel, his hands planted on his hips.

  I wanted to reach across the bar and slap him right then. His betrayal cut deeper than Adam’s. “No, you know what this is about? It’s about you being jealous. I don’t want you, yet you’ll ruin another’s man life just to get even. GROW UP!” I was shouting then.

  Sheriff Riley placed his hand on my arm, but I shrugged him off. I was pissed. “I’m not taking part in your witch hunt. If you want to know about Adam, you know where to find him. Leave me the hell out of it. I still have a friend to mourn and bury.” I turned back to Birdie one last time. I wasn’t done with him, not by a long shot, but I wasn’t about to spend one more minute in this place. “Maybe you should remember that, too.”

  I stormed off to the kitchen, never once looking back.

  ***

  It seemed illogical, but as I left work, I decided to go to Adam’s.

  I couldn’t tell you why. He had made it perfectly clear from our last encounter before the Brianna episode that we were through being anything‌—‌friends or otherwise‌—‌it hadn’t been vague or ambiguous. His intentions had been bright as day. Yet I was walking up his porch, still in my Paddy’s uniform, smelling of grease and stale beer and about as tired as I’d ever been. Why was I here? What would be gained by going through the discomfort all over again?