by P. J. Vernon
Braking out front, I snatched my greasy paper bag from the passenger seat and threw my book bag over my shoulder.
“We can’t keep you away, can we?” The officer at the front desk joked as I passed through the revolving doors into the station.
“You know you can’t.” The irony of his statement wasn’t lost on me. There were only a handful of detective positions in Elizabeth. And there were more than a handful of good old boys who did their damnedest to keep me away. Me and Sammie both.
A room of cubicles waited for me as I turned the corner. The lamps in Sammie’s were on, but I’d promised not to talk to him. At least not until I finished my sandwich.
My computer came alive as I toggled the mouse. I took as big a bite as I could manage, my stomach feeling better already.
“You’re gonna hate this, Nina.” Sammie smiled wide as he poked his head into my cubicle.
“Jesus, Sammie, can I finish my burger?”
“And where the hell’s my burger?”
“What am I gonna hate? And there isn’t one,” I replied, taking a second bite.
“Ya know, carbs don’t scare all gay men shitless.” He patted his belly. “If you can believe it, we don’t all decorate—”
“I’ve seen your apartment, Sammie. It’s a pigsty. Now what am I gonna hate?”
“Guess who took the Whitman case?”
Greg Whitman, the owner of Whitman Autos, had been pulled over for speeding a week ago. Not surprising considering he kept an inventory of German sports cars. The sort only a few folks in Elizabeth could afford. But doing sixty in a thirty-five turned into the lesser charge when the patrolman spotted the coke baggie. Blow was supposed to make folks think fast on their feet, but Greg must not have had much to work with.
“A public defender, I’m guessing?” Mr. Whitman was up to his chin in debt. I’d had his finances pulled myself.
Sammie stepped into my space. He was younger than me by a couple years. The sort of sharp-jawed guy who’d wanted to be a cop his whole life. Not a lot of book sense, but street smart where it counted.
“Yep. A public defender,” he answered, running his hand through his sandy hair. “Guess who took it from him? Matthew.”
Matthew King had a knack for spotting slipups in the process. They sometimes seemed to materialize from nowhere for his clients. Mouth full of bacon and beef, I scoffed. “Figures.”
“You wanna bet Matthew starts puttering around town in a spanking-new Porsche?”
“Not even if I was a betting woman,” I replied. “It won’t matter. The arrest was clean. The case is solid.”
“Just thought you’d like to know.” Sammie flashed a grin and turned to walk away.
“Oh, and by the way, Sam, Merry Christmas,” I shouted to the back of his head.
“Merry Christmas, Nina,” he called.
An hour later, I gathered my things. My eyelids had grown heavy in the time I’d been at my desk. It was why I did twilight paperwork—the closest to meditation I’d ever get. Book bag back on my shoulders, I made for the front door.
“Nina,” Sammie shouted from behind. I turned to face him jogging my way. “Your Aunt gonna be okay for another hour or two?”
I knotted my brow. “Should be. Why?”
“Trucker called in an abandoned vehicle on his way up to North Carolina. Thought you might wanna check it out with me.”
“What makes you think that? Tow it, and I’ll give it a look tomorrow.” I started to turn towards the door.
“It’s a rental. Parked in the emergency lane, passenger door open marsh-side.”
My eyes narrowed. “Okay…”
“The rental company operates a twenty-four-hour line. Gave them a call. They matched the vehicle to a Paul Godfrey who’d taken possession of it at the Charleston airport.”
A name I didn’t recognize at first. At first.
“As in Paul Godfrey, the environmentalist?”
“Yep. Paul Godfrey, the environmentalist,” he replied. “Paul Godfrey who married Gray King.”
* * *
The morning sun had just started to pierce the pine trees off Paul Revere Highway as I pulled up. A lonesome road with a fitting name. The sort of desolate stretch one could picture its namesake galloping down.
Sammie’s car cut through the gravel behind mine. We’d driven separately so I could go straight to Auntie’s after. I eyed the black Lincoln sedan parked haphazardly as I approached the driver’s side door. Aside from the fact that it had been abandoned on the highway shoulder, passenger door swung out, there wasn’t anything grossly strange about the car. No scratches. Windows intact.
Driver’s side unlocked, too. I tugged the door open. It smelled like a rental. Not exactly new car, but not my car, either.
Sammie appeared beside me. “Anything unusual?”
“Aside from the fact that it’s here, no.” The car was clean as a coat of paint. “Keys seem to be gone.”
“Should we phone the Kings?” Sammie asked.
“Not yet,” I said.
“But how can we be certain the driver’s okay?” he asked. “It’s possible no report means nobody left to report it. Car door left opened and—”
“Wouldn’t the family notify us if someone was unaccounted for?” A guilty edge crept into my voice.
Sammie sighed. My reasoning seemed to leave him unsatisfied. “You want me to attach a twenty-four-hour removal notice?”
Something stirred deep inside me. The whole thing could be innocuous, but just enough was off-kilter, just enough wasn’t right. Folks left cars behind when they partied, and the night before had been a party night for a lot of folks. But they left them at bars. At houses. At restaurants. Not in emergency lanes. Not on Paul Revere Highway.
“No. Get a tow up here. Take it to the impound lot,” I instructed. “It’s a hazard in the highway shoulder. Let’s let the Kings—or Paul Godfrey—come find it.”
7
Gray
Piper Point’s stagnant air greeted me when I awoke in the Yellow Room. My room.
There are a few precious seconds after you wake up from a night of hard drinking when you’re at peace. A temporal comfort doled out by the universe to remind you how you could feel in the morning—if you’d made better decisions.
Then it’s gone. Torn from you. And the world you were at peace with, for the briefest of moments, shatters.
Cotton mouth.
A drill bored into my temples. With every grinding turn, a memory burned into sharp focus. Staggered images bled into the space behind my eyes.
The flight. My filthy ring. Mamma’s church. Ruby’s. Jacob.
My heart plummeted, and my stomach tied itself in knots. Shameful knots.
Jacob. I kissed him. Or he kissed me. I didn’t know which.
Paul!
I turned to an empty spot beside me in the bed.
As I sat up, the world spun. Sweat beaded on my forehead. Liquor wafted off my wet skin. I wore a silk negligee that clung to my body like sweet-smelling paste. A wave of queasiness rippled through my insides, and I sprang for the toilet.
A dry heave at first. Followed by bits of salad that I’d had at the airport, all I’d eaten yesterday. As I retched, drops of yolk-colored bile dripped into the basin.
Footsteps. Paul maybe? The door to the bathroom creaked as it moved. I wiped my chin, mouth filled with acrid spit, and braced for a confrontation. When nothing happened, I turned around. No one stood behind me.
The door had been pulled closed, not opened. Probably Mamma, then.
Christmas. It was Christmas morning. She probably didn’t want Charlotte’s twins to hear me retching while they opened gifts. Mamma wouldn’t try to comfort me. No glass of iced water or damp cloth for my forehead. No, I should be kept away from the family. Hidden behind a shut door because I might ruin fucking Christmas.
I splashed ice-cold water on my face, stuck my mouth under the faucet and gulped until I couldn’t swallow another drop. Eye
s down, I made for the hand towel. I didn’t want to see my face. Not yet. I wasn’t ready for that.
I ran hot water in the tub, turning the brass lever to send it piping up the shower head. Stripped naked, I stood beneath the stream. Tendrils of steam rose off it, misting the room in foggy wet. The heat stung my skin, splotching it red. I didn’t care. I needed to sweat out the booze. Still drunk, the room swirled around me.
Kneading shampoo into my scalp, I ran through last night in my mind. Each time Jacob’s face flashed before me, my stomach twisted again. I’d kissed him in a crowded bar. With Charlotte and Paul and everyone else there.
My arms ached as I washed. How had they gotten so sore? And the pitch soil packed deep under my nailbeds? But then I’d woken up with dirt-caked nails on a handful of occasions before, after my worst binges. I struggled to collect my thoughts.
I didn’t remember the ride home, but if I’d made it home, then Paul or Charlotte must have brought me here. I didn’t put myself in a nightgown. When I drank into that kind of stupor, I fell asleep in whatever I wore. Paul must have dressed me. Which meant he hadn’t been mad enough not to care.
A sliver of hope. There’d be apologies, of course. To Charlotte. To Mamma. Paul, most of all. But he knew I’d been drinking all day. He’d said so himself countless times. I’d screwed up, but the nightie meant he must be approaching the situation with some compassion.
I finished scrubbing my body. Washing my face. Rinsing my hair. As I toweled off, I glanced at the mirror. Clouded with fog, I saw only a pink blur. I still wasn’t ready to look at myself.
I’d dress well this morning. Something smart. Something that would work against the picture of me they’d expect to stumble down the staircase. A fresh silk blouse tied off with a bow around my neck. I’d do my makeup. I’d steady one hand with the other to do it just right.
As I unzipped my suitcase on the hunt for my cosmetics bag, something was missing. Where were my clothes from last night? The laundry bag tucked into my roller was still neatly folded. I scanned the Yellow Room. My slacks and blouse were nowhere. I reminded myself to ask Paul. If he’d thrown them in the laundry room, there was a chance Mamma would find them, soiled in ways I didn’t want to think about. I headed back into the bathroom.
Now was the time to look. I pressed my palm against the fogged mirror and swept it sideways, clearing a spot of glass. Condensation ran down its surface like tears.
Saline drops had soothed my bloodshot eyes. Heavy bags hung under them, but cold cream had helped. After I finished with makeup, I pinched my cheeks to redden them and found my ring sitting alone on the wicker dresser. Paul must’ve taken it off as he tucked me in. I slipped the diamond on my finger.
A couple sharp squeals from downstairs caught my attention. Joseph and David.
My hands trembled. The drunkenness had worn off, and the way my hangover washed over me, I knew it would be a bad one. Category five—I’d taken to describing them as though they were hurricanes. It would last awhile, maybe even a couple days if I didn’t drink or take something soon.
More giggles from downstairs. Mamma’s high voice, too, feigning excitement along with the children and likely wishing I wouldn’t come down. But I would, and I’d be pleasant to be around.
The pine floors groaned as I crept down the empty hallway. Not to the stairs, but to Mamma’s bedroom. She might’ve locked up the liquor, but I had no intention of facing them—facing Paul—without help. Her door stood ajar. I opened it and slipped past her four-post, floral bed. The walls had been painted on all sides with a mural. Garden scenes mostly. Gracefully meandering peacocks. I made for the bathroom. Pausing, I waited to hear Mamma again. To make sure she was still downstairs with everyone else. A woman laughed, but it could’ve been Charlotte. It pealed once more. No, definitely Mamma’s dramatic cackle.
I opened her medicine cabinet and found a whole row of vitamins and oils and minerals. Another shelf of cholesterol medicines. A beta-blocker for her heart. Bottles of antidepressants left over from our try-before-you-buy family doctor, Mary-Ann Conner.
Mary-Ann Conner. Her name in print froze me. I’d once stood in this bathroom with the woman when I was very young. As a child, the circumstances had been confusing. I only remembered pulling my skirt back up to my waist, returning Dr. Conner’s plastic container to her. Filled with vinegary urine.
I shook my head. Jackhammers tore into my skull. No, Mary-Ann’s prescribed antidepressants wouldn’t do. They wouldn’t help now.
As I rifled through the containers, a bottle peeked out from the back, a label warning for drowsiness and a caution against driving. Diazepam, 10 milligrams per tablet. Valium. The bottle was half full. The label said ninety tablets and had been dispensed a year ago. Around the time Daddy passed away. If they’d been in the cabinet for so long, that meant Mamma didn’t use them regularly. And that she wouldn’t miss a few, either.
I gulped down three and stuck a handful in my pocket. As I shut the medicine cabinet, Mamma’s face appeared in the glass, and I nearly screamed.
“What are you doing, Gray?”
“I have a headache.”
“That’s no surprise,” she replied, arms crossed. She eyed me up and down. “At least you’ve put yourself together. Best you can.”
She’d noticed that much. I tugged at my bow and brushed the sides of my slacks.
“Is everyone downstairs already?” My voice caught on my throat.
She paced to her vanity and began to retouch her own makeup. “The boys got up early. They’ve nearly torn through all their presents. There’s still a few under the tree with your name on them, though.” A pleasant accent punctuated the last sentence like she expected me to be happy to open gifts. Like I was a child, too.
I dug my nails into my palms.
“And Paul? How’s Paul this morning?” I clenched my teeth waiting for the answer. Mamma and Paul often whispered behind my back. He treated her like the mother neither of us ever had. Whatever had happened, Paul had probably briefed her by now.
She ignored me. “Cora’s put out a proper breakfast, and there’s plenty of coffee. Get on downstairs.”
I did my best not to face the cracked landing mirror as I made my way down the steps. The last thing I needed was to catch another glimpse of my face.
Downstairs, the twins chased each other from one room to the next mimicking airplane noises and gunfire as they clung to new toys. Johnny Cash’s “Silent Night” crackled from a record player in the salon. The smell of bacon and coffee filled the whole of downstairs.
I walked into the kitchen. The griddle sizzled as Cora worked to keep every inch of counter covered with hot food.
“Merry Christmas,” she offered cheerily as I passed behind her.
Charlotte sat on the cushioned window bench in the breakfast nook. We locked eyes. Hers were heavy with bags, too. She hadn’t bothered with makeup but then she didn’t have anything to compensate for.
I turned to the French press by the toaster oven. Some coffee would help keep my mind sharp once the pills kicked in.
Paul wasn’t around, and my anxiety dissolved. I felt an inch better about things. He’d probably needed space to calm down from last night. He might be out back. Or perhaps watching TV in the den. With Joseph and David running amok, he might’ve been chased there. Paul didn’t care for children.
As I stirred my coffee, Charlotte walked up from behind, and my shoulders jumped. “Gray, I need to speak to you,” she whispered in my ear.
“Of course,” I answered, tapping my spoon on the cup’s rim.
She spoke softer. “In the library.”
My pulse spiked. Even the pills couldn’t stop it. Thank god, I’d found some. I took a sip of coffee, bitter and strong. “Okay.”
In the library, oak shelves covered three of the room’s four walls each lined with elegant books, occasionally interrupted with a marble bookend of some sort. Heavy drapes were pulled to the sides of tall windows.
&n
bsp; Charlotte slid the parlor doors closed, shutting the room off from the rest of Piper Point. “Paul didn’t come home.”
Her words struck me like a hammer.
She paused. Either letting them sink deep or waiting for a reaction. I wasn’t sure which. How could Paul not have come home? Hadn’t he dressed me for bed?
She folded her arms, worry painted on her face. “Do you remember last night?”
The question shook me. I had to tell the truth. “No. Not much.”
“You kissed—”
“No!” I yelped before lowering my voice. “No, I remember that. Just not much after. And wait. How did you know? You left Ruby’s before?”
Her brow knotted, eyes glistened. “Paul called me on his way home. He was heartbroken. Sobbing. Told me what happened.”
A sense of dread began to gnaw away at my insides.
“I tried to wait up, but I fell asleep. When the kids woke me up early this morning, I looked out my window. My car’s the only one in the driveway.”
The dread latched onto my ribs, pulling them inwards, pressing hard on my lungs.
“No car?” I finally managed to say something. Useless, but it was something. I picked at a tiny sliver of skin at the corner of my thumbnail.
“I went to your room to see if you made it home alright. I heard you throwing up, and I shut the door so Mamma wouldn’t hear. Paul brought you here, and then … left, I guess?”
“Does Mamma know?” Another useless question.
Charlotte looked uneasy. “I had to ask her if she’d seen him. Heard from him.”
I tore the piece of skin off. Blood pooled in a crescent. I shoved my hand into my pocket to wipe the blood on the inside fabric. My fingers brushed past more pills.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. It was all I could say or think. I don’t know. Welling tears stung my eyes.
“It was quite a night,” she said, pulling me close. She diluted the anxiety in her voice. “I’m sure he just checked into an interstate motel for a good night’s sleep. One with no arguing. He’ll be back. If we haven’t heard from him by the time lunch is done, we’ll start making calls. I’ll speak with Cora, too.”
