by Lyla Payne
Her concerned look almost pushes those tears down my cheeks, but I shake my head and hold onto them. “I’m fine,” I assure her in my best whisper. “Go to bed. Kiss Jack for me.”
“Ha. I’m not going to risk kissing him. Somehow I got the only baby in the world who wakes up at every little noise.”
She was the same way as a girl, and I make a mental note to remind her of that later. Amelia loves hearing about all of the ways Jack is like her—or like our family, I suppose—because every one of those traits is something he didn’t inherit from his shitbag father.
That half of Jack’s genetics bothers her, I know, even though she’s never said it in so many words. Personally, I don’t think Anne Bonny would allow her lover’s namesake to be anything other than one hundred percent awesome. That somehow she managed to give him all of Jack Rackham’s genes and none of stupid Jake’s.
If ghosts can do such a thing there’s no doubt in my mind that Anne took care of it.
“Night,” Millie says, picking up the carseat. Still, she pauses to cast one last worried glance back at me when she reaches the stairs.
I wave her on and head into the kitchen, flipping on a couple of lights along the way. It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark per se…more that too many things have jumped out at me from shadows and it behooves me to scatter them preemptively.
I’ve even taken to sleeping with a night light on like a three-year-old now that Henry, my stalwart spirit companion, is gone. He’d liked his dark corner, so I’d kept it that way for him. Maybe because I sometimes wish I had one of those, myself.
There are no ghosts in the kitchen. None that I can see, at any rate, and I relax long enough to dig my phone out of my purse while I wait for the electric kettle to heat up. A cup of tea sounds like the perfect antidote to the brief scare on the porch, and it also seems like the best way to head off the sudden aching scratch in the back of my throat.
I don’t know if I was expecting a message from Beau after what happened at the hospital. I only know I’m a little disappointed there isn’t one, even though he’s just respecting my wishes. Now that the initial shock of our breakup has worn off, I find myself missing his steady support in my corner more than anything else.
There’s no text or snap from Leo, either. Then again, he rarely reached out even when we were talking every day. The more time and space between us, the easier it is to see that I was almost always the one who contacted him first. Almost always the one to call, the one to confide, the one to drop by at odd hours for a beer on the porch.
I don’t know what all of that means. I only know that if I’m going to wait on Leo to come back, I’ll likely be waiting a long-ass time.
And not for the first time, I feel grateful that he put a stop to my drunken, lustful lunge. What if something had happened, and feelings had developed…but only on my side of things? It sucks bad enough to be the only one putting any effort into a friendship. I can only imagine how my feelings would smart if we were involved in some kind of ill-advised romance. The more I think about that night, the more I think that Leo did right by me. And maybe that smarts more than anything.
A sigh winds its way out of me, leaving exhaustion in its wake. I’m way too tired to emotionally analyze our twenty-year friendship and all the potential landmines of going forward. If we do go forward.
I see a missed call from a number I don’t recognize. The area code isn’t a match for Heron Creek, Charleston, or Iowa City, which exhausts my knowledge of area codes.
The tiny number ‘one’ next to my voicemail app turns my lips down in a frown. Who leaves actual messages anymore?
I press it, then hold my phone up to my ear, leaving a bit of distance as if something might come through the phone and slither into my brain. Which, based on all of the things we don’t know about Wi-Fi and a bunch of other junk I don’t understand, may be true.
“Hi, Graciela, this is Knox MacArthur. Like the general.” He laughs and it makes me smile that he remembers my question from when we met. “I was wondering if you’d be able to meet me for a drink or coffee sometime in the next couple of days to talk about Trent Boone. It’s…” He pauses, and for some reason, I imagine him licking his lips.
There is something wrong with me, I swear.
On the other hand, a healthy female would have to be dead to forget Knox’s brand of rough-and-tumble gorgeous. Both he and Trent, Leo’s brother, live on commercial fishing boats up in Seabrook, and I drove up to meet them after Trent’s former—deceased—girlfriend requested my help.
In so many words.
“I’m worried about him,” he finishes. “Yeah. Okay, thanks. Talk soon.”
The phone goes dark, my own face staring back at me in the blank screen. The kettle clicks off and I go through the motions and make my tea, then head upstairs with my brain whirring and more awake than desirable.
As I get ready for bed, a list of questions scrolls through my mind. How did Knox get my number? Why is he worried about Trent, and why would worry over Trent make him think to call me?
The obvious answer to the latter part of that question is that it has something to do with seeing dead people, but does Knox even know that about me? I suppose he does; he was there when Trent and I were talking about Ellen that day at the diner. There’s a good chance Trent told him the whole story, too, given that he’s raising a toddler, now.
It makes my face hot to think about the two of them talking about me, especially since there’s a good chance they think I’m not quite right in the head.
You helped Trent find the son he didn’t even know he had. I’m sure he believes you. Even if he doesn’t, he’s probably grateful enough to not make fun of you behind your back.
Maybe, I reply to my inner voice. Maybe not.
As much as I liked Trent Boone when I spent a few hours with him here and there, I’m cautious when it comes to anyone in Leo’s family, except for Lindsay. There’s a story to their falling-out, obviously, and the fact that they left the two of them, plus Marcella, out in the cold makes it hard to imagine Trent and I could be friends. The same goes for the rest of the Boone boys, though I’ve never really known any of them that well to begin with.
I’m biased, but I don’t even care.
The tea hits my belly with a calming heat. Despite everything, my eyes are heavy as the warm, soft blanket brushes my chin. The last thought that sneaks up on me before sleep is that Knox didn’t even bother reminding me who he is or how we know each other. He just assumes I’ll remember.
Which, I think with a smile, I definitely do.
Chapter Two
I debate calling Knox back until lunch the next day, though it’s hard to say why. There’s no real reason not to, and let’s face it—my curiosity isn’t going to allow me to pretend that message never ended up on my phone. I’ve been glancing at it surreptitiously all morning at my desk in the library.
Now, even though my takeout lunch from the diner is sitting in front of me, I find myself pulling up Knox’s number. I hate making actual phone calls even to people I know; placing one to a virtual stranger ranks at the very bottom of my to-do list. But even though I didn’t mention the phone call to Millie this morning since she was barely out of her room by the time I left for work, there’s no doubt what she would say: I can’t send a text response to a call.
Dammit.
My finger hovers over the call button, but before it can land, LeighAnn bursts through the door with at least a half a dozen kids. The suddenness of their arrival makes me flinch; I’m jumpy as hell after what happened last night on the porch. All morning, shadows have moved at the edges of my vision. Wisps of darkness, coalescing into what could be a man.
The kids aren’t all LeighAnn’s brood, but they might as well be, and she looks tanned, happy, and ready to collapse at any moment.
“Hey,” she says, flopping her oversized handbag down on the high-top table where I’m sitting. It occurs to me that her bag probably rivals Mary P
oppins’s; I’ve seen her pull out everything from boxes of pink hair dye to whole loaves of challah. The kids run back to the children’s area, which has been deserted since Dorothy, one of the busybodies who’s a fixture here, brought her granddaughter in early this morning.
“Hey,” I reply around a mouthful of chicken salad on a croissant. “Rough day?”
She waves a hand dismissively and tugs a baggie with some kind of wrap in it out of her bag of tricks. “It’s a regular day with the town’s preschoolers in tow. Yours?”
I shrug. “Pretty regular day around here, too, but I’m guessing quieter than yours.”
“That would be a big perk of being a librarian, if you ask me.” She extracts her lunch and takes a bite. The kids aren’t making any noise at the moment, which I guess means I’ve acquired a lunch date.
I’m not complaining, not about the company or the excuse to put off my phone call for another fifteen or twenty minutes. Maybe less, if I’ve learned anything about the attention spans of preschoolers.
“How are Melanie and little Mary doing?” There’s real concern in her voice; LeighAnn isn’t one to gossip, necessarily, but like all small-town residents, she does like to be in the know. “I heard she had a rough go of things.”
“She did. Apparently what happened is, like, super rare. I’m amazed the doctors at our dinky hospital had even heard of it.”
“They still have medical degrees, Graciela.” LeighAnn rolls her eyes and bites into her wrap, taking a moment to swallow. “Sometimes I think not being all crazy busy and competing to be the next Patrick Dempsey works in their favor. Or our favor.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You realize Patrick Dempsey isn’t actually a doctor, right?”
“If you say so.”
“Uh…” It takes my brain a second to come back from that trip. “Mel and Mary are both doing great, as of this morning. They’ll probably only keep her an extra day or two.”
Will sounded relieved when we spoke early this morning. Relieved and tired.
“Awesome.” She pauses to scarf down the rest of her wrap, head cocked toward the back of the library like she’s waiting for a volcano to erupt. After a moment, she re-focuses on me. “How’s Amelia doing with Brick’s decision not to give up drinking after all?”
I freeze. Though Amelia did react strangely when I mentioned Brick the other day, she hasn’t said a word about him drinking. I can’t believe she would keep such a big secret from me. The idea that she did sends a bolt of cold fear through me, and for good reason—secrets like that are the kind that yanked us apart all those years ago. The old Amelia refused to see Jake for what he was, or somehow thought that covering up what he was doing would make it go away.
The new Amelia is supposed to be different.
“What do you mean?” I hear myself ask through lips that feel like two chips of ice. Horror blinks across LeighAnn’s face and I wish there had been some way to make it seem as if this isn’t news to me, but it is, and I can’t.
“Oh. Um. I thought you would…” She swallows a couple of times even though she already finished her wrap. “David saw him at a lawyer function in Charleston a few nights ago, and he was holding a glass of wine.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, I kind of figured maybe it was one of those society wine-doesn’t-count things? Or he’s better?”
“I don’t think you get better from being an alcoholic.” My lips tug down hard and my heart hurts. “Amelia didn’t say anything. Maybe she doesn’t know.”
The sad thing is, my first instinct is to give Brick a pass. I never knew him to be a crazy, mean, horrible, or otherwise troubled drunk. In fact, before he announced that he was going into treatment I had no idea he had a drinking problem at all.
But as much as I want to think that perhaps he overreacted, that drinking was never a real problem for him, I just can’t. He’s not the type of person who would make himself vulnerable like that if he didn’t really need help.
Which means he’s in trouble. And as much as that makes me sad, it first and foremost sends me into protective mode regarding Millie and Jack.
“Thanks for saying something,” I say, managing a tight smile.
“I didn’t know it was news, but I’m glad I did. It sounds like he could use a friend. Or whatever Amelia is to him.” A shriek and a crash sounds from the rear of the library and LeighAnn sighs, then stuffs her trash into her magic bag and gives me a smile. “Duty calls. Take care of yourself, Graciela, and remember I’m here if you gals need a hand with that baby.”
“Thanks.”
I have no idea how I’m going to tell Amelia about Brick, but if my impression at the hospital was right, maybe she already knows. And has been purposefully keeping it from me.
The rest of the afternoon goes by quickly—or at least, I’m too distracted by the number of things on my plate to dwell on Amelia, the maybe ghost from last night, or Knox. A couple of older ladies from our book club putter in just before closing and ask some vague questions about what Beau was doing in town over the weekend. I’m able to ignore them when Cade Walters saunters by to drop off some signed books.
It’s a rare day indeed when his appearance is welcome. I still don’t know what to make of his constant, borderline-creepy watching from down the street. Or the fact that he came here to sell the house where his grandmother died, but doesn’t seem inclined to do so. Or to leave town.
Nothing good, that’s what.
With less than an hour to go until closing time, I finally put in the return call to Knox MacArthur. Butterflies flap in my stomach as my mind conjures what it remembers of his handsome smile, chiseled biceps, and the strange sense of ease that surrounded our interactions, brief though they were.
Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to have a drink with Knox MacArthur. Maybe getting out of Heron Creek for an evening would be good for me. The streets, buildings, and…well, essence of the place can’t help but remind me of Leo Boone.
My fingers still tremble slightly as they hit the buttons to return Knox’s call.
He answers on the first ring. “Hello?”
I don’t realize how much I was hoping he wouldn’t pick up until he does. So much so that I can’t think of what to say.
“Um, this is Graciela? Harper?” Good gumdrops, why am I saying my name like it’s a question? I clear my throat and try to regroup. “I got your message.”
“Oh, good. I felt a little weird about calling you, but I’m not sure there’s anyone else I really could have called for such a thing.” He laughs, and it’s such an easy, happy sound that my shoulders instantly relax. “So, how about that drink?”
It feels different—not in a bad way—to head out of town for something other than a ghostly investigation. Amelia knows where I’m going, of course. I’ve almost died too many times—having at least one other human aware of my whereabouts is just common sense.
Which I know some people would say I lack, but screw them. They should mind their own business.
The drive to Seabrook is straight and easy. I put on some Taylor Swift and let my mind wander until her moody breakup songs bring up too many emotions. I switch it off. No reason to wallow and ruin my evening.
And that’s when I feel the steering wheel shimmy, and then hear the telltale flapping of a flat tire on the pavement. Since I’m the only car within eyeshot, it has to be coming from my trusty Honda.
“Dammit,” I mutter, nudging the car onto the shoulder.
When I was a kid, there was no dad around to teach me how to change a tire. Obviously. But life without a helpful dad wasn’t so bad with a trusty Will to fill those shoes.
He’s the one who dragged me out and forced me to change my first flat tire while he watched and instructed. In the rain, no less.
When I complained about the weather, he told me to suck it up, that it was good practice because tires absolutely never blow out when the weather is sunny and pleasant.
At the time, I con
tinually cursed him under my breath. Now, I shove open the car door and thank him for the confidence in my ability to solve this problem myself.
Will must be some kind of sorcerer, though, because the first sprinkle hits my nose as my feet hit the gravel on the side of the road. Cold winter wind whips through my hair, tugging strands loose from the sloppy bun at the crown of my head, but even though this situation is far south of ideal, there’s relief in knowing I have the power to fix it and be on my way.
The feeling lasts exactly as long as it takes me to open my trunk.
Empty. The donut’s not there. Where on earth had I left that and forgotten about it?
It has been years since my last flat. Maybe I’ve been driving around without one this entire time. That sounds like me.
“Well if this doesn’t bake my beans,” I mutter under my breath, then dive for the driver’s door as the rain starts to come down in sheets. “Lovely.”
Back in the relative sanctuary of my stinky old car, I contemplate my phone—and my options. Amelia is out of the question, even though I know she’d strap her kid in the car without a second thought to come rescue me. Will and Mel are otherwise occupied. Leo’s…nope.
That pretty much leaves Daria or my half-brother, Travis. The former would likely not answer her phone, so there’s no point in trying. The latter…I don’t know. The memory of what happened in his backyard a few weeks ago, namely the untimely death of our murderous, distant cousin, is still messing with my mind. We haven’t spent much time together since. Maybe it’s taking Travis a little while to sort it out, too.
I’m not sure what’s bugging me, other than the general trauma of the bloody scene—our crazy cousin Gillian’s dead body; Travis’s injured one. But whatever the issue, I’m not going to call and ask him for a favor when we haven’t talked in a while. Or when we apparently haven’t figured out where our sibling relationship goes from here now that the whole our-relatives-are-out-to-get-us problem has been resolved—if not explained. At least, I assume it’s resolved. We didn’t find any more local cousins hell-bent on exterminations. Maybe Clara’s translations will suggest otherwise, but for now, I’ll welcome the relative peace and quiet.
