by P. J. Vernon
“Okay,” I answered, coughing.
“To tell you the truth, I’m a little relieved,” she said before casting her eyes to the floor.
“Relieved?” I wiped my own. “Why?”
She hesitated. “Paul sounded so upset, and you had a lot to drink. I was afraid he might…”
“Hurt me?”
“I’m just paranoid, that’s all. It’s not helping and it was obviously off base.” She offered a tiny smile and pulled me in for a second hug. “But he never has, right? Hurt you?”
“No,” I answered. “Of course not.”
“Of course not. Now go up and get your phone. Make sure it’s not on silent.” She kissed my cheek and slid the creaking doors back open.
My phone! It should’ve been the first thing I thought to look at. I raced to my bedroom, buoyed by a sense of hope.
But there’d been no missed calls.
And by lunch, there was still no Paul.
8
Nina
Half way through Christmas Day, the Kings—or Paul Godfrey—still hadn’t reported their rental missing. Or reported anything else that might account for it. If a trucker hadn’t spotted it, it’d still be sitting on the highway. Bizarrely unmissed by its renters.
Auntie stirred beneath her snow-white blankets. She’d wake soon. I’d sat next to her bedside since returning from Paul Revere Highway, the morphine ready to go the moment she could swallow it. I hated this stretch of time more than anything. The few seconds after she woke but before I got the meds in her—those seconds lasted years.
I knew the abandoned rental and Auntie’s “severance” pay weren’t overtly connected. Only related. Like kin. Related just enough to leave me with questions. And every second that ticked by without a call from the Kings fed my questions like fuel to a fire. So odd. Why did Joanna King write checks—large checks—to Auntie Tilda?
Auntie had been clear the discussion was off the table. I’d respect that, but there were two other ways I could answer this question—and both turned my stomach sour. I could use my badge to pull Tilda’s accounts without any sort of legal reason—a fireable offense for which there’d be a record—or I could become executer of her will. Except, she likely didn’t have a will and certainly, no executer if she did. I could spare her the trouble and apply for the job myself at the probate court. The vacancy and my reputation would land me the gig, no question.
But no matter which I chose, I’d be giving Auntie the runaround.
She stirred, moaning.
“Here you are,” I whispered, rushing the measuring cap to her lips. They hardly moved. I watched her throat like a hawk till she swallowed.
Another pained groan, the sort that stabbed my heart, and she went still again.
As the drug coursed through her body, I relaxed back into my chair. On my phone, I thumbed through recent news articles written about or by Mr. Godfrey. Judging by the op-eds he penned for sites like Politico and the Huffington Post, he seemed mighty important.
If they didn’t call soon, I’d have to phone them. No other choice. I chased the thought away. Surely, they’d call. Who the hell loses a rental car and doesn’t care one way or the other?
Sammie made it seem as though I had some ulterior motive for not reaching out to them immediately, but I didn’t. I’d checked that the Kings hadn’t reported anything and kept Sheriff Burton posted. There’d been no questions from any of them. The car wasn’t stolen. There was no harm in letting them come to me.
I circled back to the check instead.
I’d visit the probate court and apply to be executer in person. No reason to bother Auntie Tilda with any more of the Kings’ mess. Lord knew she’d seen more than her fair share of it already. If she died never hearing the names of anyone in that family again, I’d be content. The same went for me, too.
I’d been on the receiving end of a poverty scholarship thanks to that family. They called it something different though, a term with less sting to it. An academic advancement award, I think. But a poverty scholarship’s what it was.
Only two high schools had served Elizabeth County since the nineteen sixties. The public one—Pickens High. And the private school racial integration had spurred the creation of—Elizabeth Baptist. I entered freshman year as an Elizabeth Baptist School Lion—named after the Lion of Judah.
Most folks in the county couldn’t afford private school no matter what color they were, so Pickens High had a healthy mix of students. Elizabeth Baptist was a different story, and the handful of awards they doled out each year helped mitigate their white problem. But for those few lucky students given one? Loneliness was an understatement, especially at a school like that.
Adding to the isolation was the knowledge of where the money had come from. I knew it’d been Auntie Tilda’s work at Piper Point, complete with Congressman Seamus King’s signature at the bottom so I never forgot where to direct my gratitude.
Indeed, I learned quickly to take nothing for granted and find my seat early. Gray usually walked in right as the bell rung.
At Elizabeth Baptist, Christ was lord. But for the four years I attended, a queen reigned, too. Or a king rather. Gray King. She wasn’t a mean girl by any stretch, though there was no question her father and her family’s money placed her squarely atop the totem pole, just as my lack of both dictated my own station.
She was every bit what a Low Country girl should be: Demure, polite, a touch enigmatic. I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit how easy it was to get caught up in her, in the cult of personality that surrounded such a pretty King.
We wore the same uniform. Pressed khaki skirts and white polos. She wore it better somehow, or at least I convinced myself she did. She took her assigned seat directly in front of mine.
“It’s freezing in here,” Gray announced to no one as she rubbed her goose-bumped arms. That day I wore a knitted sweater over my polo. The room might’ve been cold to Gray, but I was warm. In fact, I’d planned to remove my sweater anyhow. I didn’t think twice and tapped Gray’s shoulder. She turned.
“You want my sweater?” I asked.
She hesitated, her face devoid of emotion. At once, I grew painfully aware of my mistake. I knew what was running through her head. She was desperately searching for a reason to turn down my sweater. She’d have accepted it quickly from her friend Frances. Or even the guy always buzzing around her like a bee—Jacob Wilcox.
She didn’t want to wear a sweater from me, and I knew exactly why.
“No thanks,” she finally replied, half smiling. “I’m not that cold.”
It was a lie. She meant she wasn’t cold enough to wear my sweater.
Years later, I learned the term microaggression. They formed the basis of an entire lecture topic at the police academy. Casual offenses, they were usually trivial, ignorable even. But they were deeply anchored in racism.
I said nothing. Class went on, but the comment lingered at the front of my mind. Later, when I shut my locker door, Gray stood waiting. My heart jumped.
“Can I talk to you?” she asked. Her voice had an earnestness I didn’t often hear at this school. I nodded.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” she told me. “I’m sorry for not taking your sweater.” She went on, “To tell you the truth, it ate me up inside. All class long. I had to confront something ugly inside me. Something that pushed me to turn down your sweater.”
Her honesty floored me. As my face flushed, I clutched my books to combat the awkwardness. “It’s okay,” I replied, discomfort creeping into my voice.
“It’s not okay,” she said. “And I know that it isn’t. Pretending otherwise won’t make me any better.” She smiled at me once more. “Lacrosse tryouts are in a couple weeks. Think about giving it a shot, alright?”
“Sure,” I replied. She turned back down the hallway beneath a fluttering school banner strung from the drop ceiling.
Frances had been stalking like a lioness a few yards back during our conversation.
When Gray disappeared, she pounced. “School doesn’t provide equipment, and it’s expensive,” she’d said through a meaningless smile. “Team’s okay the way it looks now. Nothing personal.”
By junior year, I’d made captain of the varsity team. If I recalled correctly, Frances hadn’t made the cut. She’d been relegated to another year on JV.
In a big way, I was grateful for my time in the lion’s den. High school taught me all about microaggressions, but Gray showed a stunning level of self-awareness. The sort that spoke of potential. A potential to overcome, and one I suspected she hadn’t lived up to. Frances Miles was no mystery. She was a bitch, plain and simple.
I cut my teeth on courage. I thought of Auntie Tilda’s proverb again. “If you stand for nothing, you’ll fall for anything.”
But this time, the responsibility to confront was mine. This time, I’d have to go to the Kings. I needed to inquire about the abandoned rental, but on a deeper level, something about making contact with the family exhilarated me. I hadn’t seen Gray in so long, and the rental suggested she’d come home. What kind of woman was she now? The one I caught a glimpse of outside my locker? Or maybe she’d become more like her mother over time. Entitled bordering on petulant.
Maybe Auntie’s checks would come up, maybe they wouldn’t, but I liked the idea of sharing a room with the Kings. With the women who held those answers.
9
Gray
Hours since lunch, and still no word from Paul. The closer evening drew, the more my palms itched. The taste of grapey fermentation, whispers of cool white wine, rose in the back of my throat. My body anticipated a drink my mind knew wasn’t coming.
“Where could he be?” I asked my sister. My voice cracked as I paced back and forth in my stale bedroom. It still smelled of sweet liquor. A queasy cotton-candy stench. Charlotte sat on my unmade bed.
“There’s the Ramada on Keebler Street.” She thumbed through her phone, jotting down numbers on a notepad. “And the Days Inn by the Greyhound stop.” She paused. “You don’t think he’d—”
“He’d never take a bus,” I said. “He’d fly, and I’ve checked our accounts twice now. He hasn’t booked anything.”
She knotted her brow. “You’re sure you checked all the accounts? He doesn’t have, I don’t know, another one?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Like a secret bank account?” My words caught on my throat again.
“Men hide things from their wives all the time. Will certainly hid a lot from me.”
There was no way Paul had secret accounts. A corner of me wished he did. Then I wouldn’t be so certain none of his cards had been used since 11:07 PM. Excruciatingly certain.
“No, that’s crazy. Not Paul. Paul and I don’t keep secrets.” The statement soured in my mouth. My thoughts went to his phone. To the way he always kept it out of reach. And I hid my drinking from Paul. I wasn’t always great at it, but I tried my best. “Besides,” I added, “he insisted on merging all our accounts after we got engaged.”
Charlotte froze. “All your accounts?”
“Well, yeah. We were going to be husband and wife. It made perfect sense.”
“Even the trust from Daddy?”
“All of them.” I hadn’t shared her concern, but the look she wore made me wish I had. But we were married. What’s his was mine and mine was his. The same vows everyone else took. No caveats. Whatever a financial planner had said shrunk in comparison to the idea of keeping things from one another—at least in the beginning. I didn’t want to be like Mamma. I’d wanted a marriage built on truth, on disclosure.
And Paul was successful in his own right. When he landed the lobbying job with Cooper and Waters, our future seemed real. Our place in Georgetown, a pristine empty canvas on which the two of us could paint a life together. Far from Elizabeth. Far from Piper Point. The signs—the slippage—were obvious now, but back then they were normal, routine. Even endearing.
I’d have a few too many glasses of wine while cooking dinner. I’d hiccup, and Paul would say, “You’re cute when you’re buzzed, Rosy Cheeks. You looked sun-kissed.”
I’d pick out a dress for a night out, and Paul would point to another. “But this one’s such a stunner.” He took an interest in me, in my appearance. But glasses of wine with dinner grew into bottles by myself, and soon, kindly worded suggestions became instructions. Non-negotiable.
Charlotte’s chiding refocused me.
“You know what Daddy told us, Gray,” she replied. “What if Will had access to my trust? He’d have made off with half of it.” She turned back to her notepad. “Never mind. That’s a discussion for another day. I’m jaded on men, anyways.” She began to dial one of the motel numbers she’d scrawled down. But if Paul stormed off to some highway hotel, why had his cards gone unused since? Sure, he carried cash, enough for a room for a few nights, but not so much as to book a flight with it. Could you even book a flight with cash these days?
Then there was his luggage. A topic Charlotte had delicately avoided. His black roller sat in the bedroom’s far corner collecting a sheen of fuzzy dust. Mocking me. Why would he have left his luggage?
He hadn’t used the cards. He didn’t have the cash to fly out. But he had to be in Elizabeth. He had to be somewhere cooling his heels after what I’d done. The last phrase echoed inside my mind over and over. After what I’d done.
The pills from earlier had worn off, and my heart was beating faster. I itched for a drink. My armpits dampened, and more sweat beaded on my brow. I fished another two of the Valium out of my pocket and swallowed them with spit.
“Gray.” Charlotte caught me as she hung up with the motel. “What are you taking?”
“Nothing.” I adjusted my answer. “Something for my headache.” She didn’t seem to buy it, but I didn’t care. “Did Cora hear anything last night?”
“No. Didn’t see any lights in the driveway, either. Have you called his work? Maybe Cooper and Waters has heard from him? I can’t picture him without his phone in hand. Surely he’s emailed or texted or something.”
“I thought about it,” I replied, “but Paul would be furious if I bothered work with something like this, something that’s my fault.” Given the circumstances, I knew how foolish my answer would sound to Charlotte, but it was the truth. And that made me feel even more foolish. Tears gathered in the corner of my eyes again.
“Okay. It’s okay.” She could see my struggle and pulled me next to her on the bed. “I know this isn’t easy. You made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. Paul makes mistakes, too. Hell, he’s in the process of making one right now.” She placed her arm behind my back and rubbed.
“What if,” I spoke in staggered heaves now, “what if something happened to him?”
“You shut up, Gray.” She gave my elbow a squeeze. “You had a fight. He took off to chill out. That’s what happened, do you hear?”
“But his luggage?” I asked, desperate to believe her.
“Means he didn’t think this through. That he won’t be gone long. Besides, I didn’t dress you for bed, so Paul must’ve. He must’ve come home before leaving again.”
I nodded vacantly. I still hadn’t found my clothes from last night.
My door creaked open, and I jumped. Mamma stood on the other side, her lips tightly pursed. Not in a spiteful way but worried.
“The police just called.” Her tone sharpened. “They’ve found Paul’s rental abandoned by the highway.”
Paul’s rental? Abandoned? The statement weighed a metric ton, and Mamma dropped it directly onto my head. I stopped breathing. A sinking feeling swallowed me and any consolation Charlotte had offered. Police?
“There are detectives on the way here now to speak with us.” Her pale eyes locked onto mine. Unable to hold back, I sprang to the bathroom and vomited again.
* * *
Night fell over Piper Point. Pealing thunder announced the steady rain that followed. It nearly drowned out the doorbell when it rang.
<
br /> “Hello, Gray.” Nina Palmer smiled as she stepped into the foyer. A stout blond man whom she introduced as Sammie walked in behind her. She seemed uncomfortable to be here. I didn’t blame her after what had happened with Miss Tilda. I never forgave Daddy for that night in the library.
Despite her unease, she was every bit as I’d remembered, though it had been a decade or longer since I’d seen her. Her cheekbones were high. Her face, sharp almost like a bird of prey. It didn’t surprise me she’d chosen a career in law enforcement. She’d been tenacious her whole life, like her aunt.
The grandfather clock that loomed in the corner by the door chimed for seven o’clock in the evening. Still no word from Paul. The dread that had latched onto my chest hadn’t left. I breathed, but the way it tightened, I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be able to.
“Please, have a seat in here,” Mamma instructed as she motioned to the salon. We took our places on opposite couches. Charlotte and myself on one. Nina and Sammie on the other. Mamma dragged a Queen Anne chair from the hearth and took her seat between all of us. “Cora’s put some coffee on. She’ll be here any minute with it.”
“Thank you, Mrs. King,” the man named Sammie replied.
The rain fell in heavy sheets. The clock’s second-hand ticked by, extending the time Paul had been gone tick by tick. And now there were police at Piper Point. What if Paul really was gone? If he is, another thought tickled, do I want him found? Guilt squashed the sentiment, and the room smelled like wine that wasn’t there.
“I want to start by apologizing,” Nina began, shifting in her seat. “I know this is an unpleasant situation, and a visit from us doesn’t help.”
Her eyes shot to mine as I bit my bottom lip. It had begun trembling.
She went on, “I also must say, I’m perplexed we had to call. We found the vehicle early this morning.”
Mamma spoke up, “We assumed he’d taken it. Paul, that is.”
“We’ve been phoning hotels all afternoon trying to track him down,” Charlotte added, taking my hand. Nina arched her brow.
