by Lyla Payne
His hair looks greasy…or wet. My stomach churns in response to the observation. I will my mind to stop trying to travel down the path of what it must have been like for him in those final moments. Instead, I force it to search for additional visual clues.
He’s wearing what appear to be casual work clothes—cargo shorts and a torn T-shirt from The Wreck—and they cling to his skin.
When I meet his eyes again, the imploring kindness has melted into sorrow so intense it almost brings me to my knees. He puts a hand over his heart, pressing hard before reaching that same hand out to me. I’m not sure what it means, no more than I am about the pointing that most of my spirits seem to prefer, but it’s clear that he wants something. That he needs help, the way they all have, from me.
An alarm goes off on my phone, nearly giving me a heart attack. I set it to make sure that I didn’t fall down a rabbit hole and forget to go unlock the doors at opening, and the sound of it must startle Harlan, too, because he disappears.
My legs shake on the way to my desk. I dump my bag on the floor and set my laptop down on the desk, toss my coffee cup in the recycling bin, and take a few deep breaths before going to unlock the door.
They don’t stop me from trembling, inside and out. I think that might take a while.
Chapter Five
I’m not sure I could give quality testimony regarding the remainder of my work day if for some reason I needed to do so. My mind races from one thing to the next—what brought Harlan Boone back here after all this time, what Clete’s relation might have had to do with the investigation, and what poor Leo has had to deal with over his dad’s death. I head back into the archives for my lunch break to see whether any follow-up article was ever published, but there’s nothing. I assume that means Harlan’s death was ruled an accident. If it had been murder, surely there would have been a big write-up in the Creek Sun.
A murder in a town as small as Heron Creek wouldn’t just have been news—it would have been big news. The front page kind, and the sort that would have made its way, somehow, all the way to Iowa City. I would have known.
I also can’t stop thinking about why Harlan’s ghost might have appeared to Trent before coming to me. A little territorial, maybe, but when it comes to my ghosts, it’s safe to say any alteration to the norm sets me on edge.
It bugs me enough that I put in a call to Daria, but as usual, my friendly neighborhood medium screens my call. I can’t wait for Mel to get back to work so I have another way to get in touch with her.
For now, I’ll have to wait for her to return my call. Or until I find the time to drive out there and accost her when she doesn’t.
Finally, after a blur of an afternoon, I leave the library. Amelia is waiting on me to bring dinner, so I grab takeout from the diner and head home. The Wreck would have been better, but my mind is too busy for the small talk that accompanies waiting for a to-go order at the bar.
I’ve decided to track down a guy named Orrie McElroy, who wrote that article all those years ago, to see how things turned out with the investigation. Tomorrow, maybe, after I’ve had some time to do some online research tonight. I usually help Amelia put Jack to bed, even though she doesn’t ask for my help. My poor cousin looks wrung out by the time I get home at six-thirty every night.
Also, there is the small matter of the serious talk the two of us need to have. Tonight.
“Hey, we’re in here!” Millie shouts from the kitchen when she hears me stomp through the front door.
I walk in to find her sitting at the table with a book while Jack chills on the floor in his vibrating chair. He gives me a gummy smile and turns my heart into goo with his latest trick. I set the food down on the table and bend down to give the baby a smothering of kisses. While Amelia takes out some real silverware, I grab a beer from the fridge.
“How was your day?” I ask once we’re settled at the table. While I wait for her answer, I dig into my bowl of chowder. The salad can wait, especially when cream soup is staring me in the face.
“The same, but Jack is smiling more, which makes pretty much everything more fun.” She smiles herself, but doesn’t look up from her club sandwich and fries. “I’m looking forward to coming back to work in a few weeks, even if it’s only part-time.”
We agreed that she would start back on Tuesdays and Thursdays for a couple of months to see how it goes. I know she’s worried about affording childcare. Her mom is one of those people who says she’s thrilled to be a grandma but hasn’t changed a single diaper since Jack came home. Not even in the early days.
Amelia made a deal with LeighAnn to trade off—my cousin will take the whole brood two afternoons a week and LeighAnn will take Jack while Mille’s working. I’m not sure it’s a fair trade since Jack’s just one baby and LeighAnn’s got four plus whatever strays she’s managed to pick up for the day, but hey. It’s free, and maybe Millie wants the company.
“I’m excited for you to come back, too. It’s pretty quiet around there and I’m afraid Mr. Freedman is going to show up one day to find me passed out at the front desk.”
“You mean that hasn’t happened to you already?” Amelia quips. Her teasing remark was delivered as quickly as ever, but it feels absentminded, as if she’s going through the motions.
“You okay?” I ask first, giving her the opportunity to tell me what’s wrong without my having to ask. Or maybe just hoping that LeighAnn made a mistake. That something else is wrong, something that isn’t Brick falling off the wagon.
I’m a little surprised to realize how badly I want that to be true.
Her head snaps up, her green eyes grabbing onto my face like she’s barely treading water and I’m holding a life preserver. They fill with tears and my chest tightens. The food in my mouth turns to ash; squeezing it down my esophagus becomes a challenge.
“What is it?” I croak once I manage to swallow. “Is it Brick? Do I need to kick his ass?”
That makes her laugh, and the relief in the sound eases some of the tension at the table. Even Jack has gone still, staring at the two of us rather than reaching for the toys dangling above him. After wrinkling his brow at the sound of his mother’s laughter, he goes back to discovering hand-eye coordination.
“It is Brick, sort of. I mean he’s…he’s drinking again. Socially. Which is an issue, but perhaps not all that unexpected.” A tear slips down her cheek. “Mostly it’s me.”
“What? How can it be you? This isn’t your problem, Amelia. It’s his problem.”
“The drinking, sure. But I…” She takes a big drink of water, sighs, and sits back in her chair. It looks like her appetite has totally vanished.
I can relate, and push my own food away. Wait for her to go on, because she will.
“I was with him the other night, on that date?” She looks at me, her eyes pleading. For what, it’s too soon to tell. I nod. “He ordered a bottle of wine for both of us. I sat right there, Grace, and I never said a word.”
That detail surprises me. I’m not sure exactly what to say.
“Well, you’re not his mother,” I venture.
“I know. But I am his friend, first. I’m supposed to be part of his support system.” She shakes her head, and more tears fall down her cheeks. “But that’s not even the worst part of it.”
“What’s the worst part?” I’m not sure I want to know.
“I didn’t even really notice, in the moment. I mean…I did, but it never crossed my mind to speak up.”
This time, I pause longer. I’ve been preparing myself for a pep talk about Brick, about alcoholics and how hard it is to get recovery right the first time, about how it doesn’t have anything to do with how he feels about her or how good of a support system she’s been.
I’m not prepared to address something deeper. Something Amelia clearly feels is a failing or a flaw on her part.
“What do you think that means?” I ask, at the risk of sounding like a shrink.
“I’m scared, Grace. In some ways, I
feel like I’m on just as much of a recovery path as Brick, and now I can see that I’ve been arrogant. I thought that the old me—the one who looked the other way, lied, kept her mouth shut, all in the interest of keeping the waters as calm as possible—died in that house with Jake. But now? I just sat there like it was freaking normal. Like it was more important to avoid a possible outburst than to stick up for a friend.” The tears are coming faster now, and Jack starts to whimper. Amelia reaches down to unbuckle him, then cradles him against her chest as she works to control her breathing. He calms at the smell of her, or maybe the feel of her arms, and his eyes get heavy. We’re edging up on his bedtime.
But I don’t want to let Amelia go until we get to the root of her problem. It will be too easy to pretend we’ve worked it all out. Too hard to start again, once we’ve set it aside.
“You’re not…listen.” I take a deep breath of my own. Steady my voice and keep it soft, for the baby. For all of us, really. “Here’s what I was going to say about Brick, but maybe it applies to you, too. Recovery isn’t easy. It’s not a straight road. Addicts often stumble. They take two steps back before figuring out how to go forward again. It takes a certain amount of time to break a habit, to learn to cope in different ways. We’re all programmed to take the path of least resistance. Whether that means ordering a drink on a date or not bringing up a touchy subject to avoid a fight. Brick’s struggling. You’re struggling. It’s normal.”
“Maybe. But it still feels shitty. Scratch that. It feels terrifying. I don’t want to be that woman again, Grace. I can’t be her. I have to be strong for Jack. I have to be the kind of woman who speaks her mind when it matters, not the kind who hides what she thinks because she’s afraid of getting hurt.”
“You are that woman, Millie. You always were, but Jake’s abuse made you forget it.” I reach over and squeeze her hand. “And just because you weren’t the friend Brick needed the other night, it doesn’t mean you missed your chance forever. If you think he’s worth saving, then put on your cape and get your butt out there.”
“I didn’t even think you liked him.”
I shrug. “It doesn’t matter whether I like him or not. The bottom line is that I think he’s good for you. I think you’re good for each other, actually, and you know…he’s kind of grown on me.”
“He’s a good man,” she whispers, emotion raw in her soft gaze.
“And he doesn’t have a lot of friends, Millie. Don’t give up on him.” I give her a stern look and hold my hands out for the drowsy baby. “But don’t let that shit slide, either.”
She hands Jack over and starts to gather the dishes, a small smile on her face. “You’re so bossy.”
“Yeah, and I’m not stopping there. Leave the dishes and go take a shower. I’ll get Jack ready for bed and then come back down and clean up.”
Amelia gives me a one-armed hug, looking tired but more determined than she did twenty minutes ago. “Thanks. I owe you one.”
“We owe each other. Eventually it’ll come out even.”
Long after Jack and my cousin have gone to sleep, our conversation lingers in my thoughts. I had no idea that she’s been struggling with those old demons so hard. On the surface, she seems so much better. Being a mother to Jack has been a joyful thing, though I’ve noticed the occasional blip of anxiety on her part. Which I assumed was normal for a first-time mom.
If Millie feels as if she’s failing Brick, then that goes double for how I feel about missing all of these underlying tensions inside the person I see every day and have known my entire life. That said, I need to remind myself of all the things I told her, because they apply to me, too. Change is a process. I get another chance to be better, thank heavens.
I need to pay more attention. Now that a crazy relative isn’t stalking me, stealing mail and trying to kill me, I have more time and space to make my cousin a priority.
Finally, encouraged by my resolution, I flip up my laptop screen. My email’s open, and there are a few messages about library business, plus one about the journal article I wrote that’s coming out soon. There are some final revisions that need doing, but I’m not in the right head space. I ignore the emails in favor of the Internet, and a search for reporter Orrie McElroy.
If he wrote for the Sun, he must have lived here. It’s not as if our rinky-dink local paper attracts Pulitzer Prize winners from all over the country. I don’t remember him, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Growing up, I only lived here during the summers, and I hadn’t been back for years by the time Harlan died.
It doesn’t take long to figure out why I don’t remember the journalist. He’s ninety-seven years young and currently—at least, as of two weeks ago when the Sun published his most recent editorial—residing in our local old folks’ home. Which means he was already old when I was growing up, and therefore invisible to me.
The good news is, I know where to find him. The bad news is that I have to go to Shady Acres, which is the worst possible name for a retirement home. It’ll be chock full of the busybodies I spend my afternoons trying to avoid at the coffee shop, but it’s the best way to get the scoop on the Harlan investigation without somehow talking my way into the Folly Island Police Department.
Unless they fall under Charleston’s PD, in which case I could always go back to Officer Dunleavy and ask for another favor. I’m not sure how many more he’ll willingly give me before he chucks me onto the street and slams the door in my face, but there’s always a chance that the answer will continue to be one more.
A quick search reveals that Folly Beach is its own city and therefore has its own police department. Darn. I suppose I could check in with our own finest and see whether Will can get me an official copy of the file on the accident and ensuing investigation. Maybe we have one, since Harlan lived here and is presumably buried in the Heron Creek cemetery.
One of Leo’s odd jobs was to mow in that very place, but this is the first time it ever occurred to me that he must have cut the grass over his father’s grave. I wonder now whether he spent his lunch breaks eating with his dad. He’s perhaps not quite that sentimental, but he probably kept the grass around the grave spotless and the flowers freshly laid. Considerate is more his style.
Except maybe not the flowers. Leo would leave something more personal, and infinitely more perfect. Not sure what, though.
Get your mind back on the task at hand, Gracie. You’re supposed to be thinking about Harlan Boone, not his son.
Easier said than done, but I give it the old college try. Again.
It’s getting late, so I decide to shut my research down for the night. I spend five minutes reading emails, then close my computer and trudge into the bathroom to wash my face and change my clothes. I shut the door, thinking that there’s no reason to give Harlan Boone a peep show, and then laugh at myself.
Like a closed door—or any other attempt at propriety—has ever concerned any of the ghosts who have visited me. Besides, Harlan doesn’t seem like the pushy type. I guess that can be a good thing, and it will also make things more difficult. I need his help to figure out what he wants. I always do.
The keyboard on my phone is smooth under my thumb, but it can’t tell me what to do next. Guilt rushes in as I start a text to Trent. No matter what Knox wants, the fact is that Leo is my friend, and I’m seeing his dead father. Shouldn’t he be the one I text for help?
Maybe, but after a brief pause, I take the easy way out and send the text to Trent, asking if we can chat. My stomach churns over the decision as I head into the bedroom, where I drop the phone on the bed, grab the empty beer bottle on the nightstand, and let out a resigned sigh. The last thing I want to do is take it downstairs, but Amelia’s voice is in my head, yammering about cockroaches.
To be fair, an infestation would be worse than walking downstairs before bed.
I grab the bottle, and also that morning’s coffee cup, before heading down the stairs. At the bottom, a cold draft tickles my feet and my blood fr
eezes along with my toes.
The windows are closed, and so is the front door. I follow the breeze around to the kitchen, and see that the sliding door to the patio is cracked open, along with the screen, and a reddish rock is wedged in the small opening.
My heart pounds as I check the room. For what or whom, I have no idea, but neither of us has—to my knowledge—been out on the deck in weeks. It’s been cold, and fairly wet. A quick check reveals the security system isn’t on, which fits with my theory that someone left this here. On purpose.
There’s no one in the kitchen, alive or otherwise. I grab the rock, slam the door, and engage all of the locks. That done, I snatch the baseball bat we keep in the front hall closet and proceed to walk the entire house and check every closet, under every bed, to make sure we’re alone. Amelia never wakes up, and Jack sleeps peacefully in his bassinet beside her bed. They gave up on putting him in his own bed, for now. He’s happier in here, and to tell the truth, I think my cousin likes it better that way, too.
Once I’m positive no one is hiding in any shadowed nook or cranny, I set the alarm system for the night and then head into my bedroom and close the door. My fingers tremble as I sit down with the rock, which looks as if it could be a raw gemstone of some kind. It’s not my area of expertise, but I know that certain stones are indigenous to the Carolinas.
There’s nothing written on it. Nothing wrapped around it. I don’t think there’s any way it got lodged where it did on accident, but if it’s supposed to be some kind of message, the meaning is lost on me.
With every single creak and settling crack in the house kicking my heart into overdrive, it takes me a long time to go to sleep. A long, long time.
Chapter Six
Not that long ago, my well of mysteries had finally run dry, ghostly and otherwise. Or so I’d thought. The crazy Fournier cousin who’d stalked Travis and me and killed our father—a discovery that (thankfully) cleared my name—was dead. Henry was gone. The ghosts had taken a break, a fact that made me grateful beyond belief given that the most recent ones hadn’t been intent on giving Casper a run for his money in the “friendliest” category.
