by Jean Oram
“Andrews!” came a rumbling baritone. Paul returned to his work as Chief Nielsen stuck his head out of his office. The chief was impossibly big, tall, and heavily muscled; his blue uniform strained over the dark skin on his thick biceps. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut military short, and sometime in the past six years, he’d started needing reading glasses. He pulled them off now to give Ben a piercing look, then turned around and stomped back into his office. Ben didn’t need to be told to follow.
“Good luck, sweetie,” Amelia whispered.
Chief Nielsen was already back behind his desk when Ben walked into the office and closed the door. “Have a seat.” The big man swept his hand toward a chair.
Ben sat down, feeling like he was fresh out of the academy and undergoing his first debriefing.
“First day went okay?” Chief Nielsen said.
“About what I expected.” Quickly Ben gave the rundown on the traffic stops and the rescue of the car keys. The chief nodded along, but from the way his eyes wandered to his computer screen, Ben knew he didn’t have the big man’s full attention. Well, that was okay; this was pretty standard stuff.
“Quite a change from Atlanta?” Chief Nielsen demanded when Ben finished his report.
Ben hesitated. “Yeah, but that’s a good thing.”
“I get it,” the big man said. “I spent twenty-three years in Chicago.”
Ben let his eyes linger on the waxy white blooms on the magnolia tree outside the chief’s window. Six years ago, he’d been sitting in this very spot, probably in this very chair, as the chief conducted his exit interview. He’d been part of the IBPD almost fifteen months and was cocky, bored, and ready to move on. But Atlanta had given him new perspective, and the images would haunt him forever—scrawny children playing in dirt yards; seven-year-olds mimicking the sneer and swagger of the local gang; buildings covered in graffiti; sidewalks clogged with loitering drug dealers and prostitutes, who melted into the shadowy, litter-filled alleys when the police cruisers came by; and fights every night, usually involving shootings. At least once a week he could count on someone dying.
“I told you it wouldn’t be a cakewalk,” Chief Nielsen growled, but his eyes softened. “It’s more than that, though, isn’t it? Is it because of Griffin?”
Ben’s pulse thundered in his ears. He still had nightmares. “Yeah,” he said tightly.
The chief nodded. “That’s a tough one. Keep at it, you’ll be okay.”
Ben dug his fingers into the arms of the chair, unable to think of anything to say.
There was a tap on the door and Tara poked her head inside without waiting for an answer. “Lucille Sanderson just called.”
Chief Nielsen groaned. “Don’t tell me. The McCormick twins.”
Tara nodded. “She wants someone to come over.”
“I’ll go,” Ben volunteered, anxious to get away from the stuffy office and any more questions. “I’m having dinner with my parents, so I’m headed that way anyway.” Six years ago, a call from Miss Lucille would have been purgatory; now it felt like heaven.
Miss Lucille lived next door to Ben’s parents on Seaside Boulevard—a quiet neighborhood of beachfront properties surrounded by date palms and crepe myrtle trees. The houses were set back from the road and further cushioned from traffic by wide strips of gravel and sand that provided parking and public access to the beach.
In the summertime, rental cars and minivans packed the neighborhood, and though the beach was public land, Ben and his siblings had always regarded the tourists as invaders. One year they’d even put up hand-lettered posters on either end of the street announcing the beach was closed. It was one of the only times he ever remembered his mother being truly angry.
“The beach is public property,” she’d said, her eyes flashing. “And we could get in big trouble for trying to keep people out. Go take those signs down right now.”
They’d reluctantly obeyed. The beach was theirs, or it should be.
Today the street and the wide crescent-shaped driveway in front of his parents’ house hosted only Tyler’s white Suburban and Gina’s yellow Honda. His siblings had beaten him here. Not wanting to block anyone in, Ben parked along the road near the detached garage, then popped the trunk to get his change of clothes. He stood for a minute, debating on whether he should go see Miss Lucille now or change first, then decided to get it over with.
He was halfway up Miss Lucille’s sidewalk when her front door sprang open. “Benjamin!” She stalked onto the wide front porch and waited, pressing her lips together in an impatient expression he knew well.
Miss Lucille Sanderson had lived next door for as long as Ben could remember. As a child, he’d thought she was an old lady, but she’d hardly aged a day in the twenty-eight years it had taken him to grow up. She still had the same shoulder-length bleached hair, sprayed to withstand even the harshest ocean breeze, and the same false eyelashes and heavy makeup. It could even be the same small dog tucked under her arm.
Tonight she wore a dark blue dress printed with enormous pink roses and high-heeled fuchsia sandals. The dog wore a matching pink collar.
Miss Lucille’s husband had passed away long before Ben could remember. She’d never held a job, but was active in the Coastal Preservation Society and the Ashland Belle Society. Aside from the dog, her home was her pride and joy, and she spent her days gardening under an enormous floppy straw hat, or sitting on her front porch on the lookout for anyone who might be tempted to trespass. The McCormick twins were the bane of her existence.
“Good evening, Miss Lucille. How are you tonight?” Ben asked.
She huffed irritably and eyed his uniform. “I assume you’re responding to my call? The McCormick boys are running through my yard again. Yesterday I caught them trampling my Southern Bluestars.” She gestured with a bony arm to a row of the fragile bushes lining the edge of her property.
Ben fought back a grin. Miss Lucille’s house was directly across the street from the McCormicks’, and the eleven-year-old twins evidently considered the fifty-yard walk to the public access trail too much of a bother. According to Ben’s mother, they could often be seen leaping Miss Lucille’s flowerbeds and running across her lawn on their way to the ocean. “I’m sure they don’t mean any harm. They’re just eager to get to the water,” he said, using his reasonable policeman tone.
Miss Lucille slammed one hand on her narrow hips. “Don’t you laugh at me, Benjamin Andrews,” she snapped. “This is my private property and if they keep destroying it, I’ll file an official police report.” She gave him a critical look. “Whether you are willing to help me or not.”
Ben slapped at a gnat that landed near his wrist; he’d expected nothing less from Miss Lucille. “A couple of kids running across a lawn is not really a matter of police involvement, ma’am.”
“They’re trespassing,” Miss Lucille insisted. “I’ve already complained to their parents, but a fat lot of good that did me. If they want to behave like hooligans at home, so be it. But they’re not going to do it on my property.”
Three weeks ago Ben had chased a twelve-year-old down on foot through Bankhead, an Atlanta suburb. When he’d caught the boy, he’d found drugs and a Glock 16 in his pockets. What would Miss Lucille say if she knew the worst kind of hooliganism did not entail accidentally trampling someone’s Southern Bluestars? Actually, she probably wouldn’t care. In Miss Lucille’s book, carelessly destroying someone’s flowers was on par with carrying a gun and thirty individually packaged doses of Vicodin.
“I’m going to put up a fence,” she said fiercely. “I’ve been threatening to do it for years, but now I actually will.”
“I don’t think the homeowners’ association will let you have a fence,” Ben pointed out. The Indigo Bay Coastal Community was strict, and fences had never been an option.
Miss Lucille offered a huffy sigh.
“I’ll talk to the McCormick twins,” Ben offered, slapping another gnat on the back of his neck.
“See that you do.” Miss Lucille nodded shortly, then looked him up and down. “And get your mama to feed you. You’re looking a tad skinny.”
“I have to stay in shape so I can chase hooligans,” Ben said seriously.
She rolled her eyes, but one corner of her mouth quirked in a smile. “Do you have a girlfriend yet?”
“Uh…” he blinked at the rapid change of topic. “No, not at the moment.”
“My niece Maggie is coming to stay with me this summer. She’s a sweet girl and very available. I could put in a good word for you.”
Ben’s stomach squirmed. The last thing he needed was for Miss Lucille to play matchmaker. “Thanks for thinking of me, but I’m going to focus on work for now.”
“You’re never going to find a girl with that attitude,” she warned as she turned to go back inside.
Ben smiled after her. Miss Lucille never changed—the way home should be.
Chapter 3
Eva walked home slowly, keeping to the gravel lining the road. It was more than a mile to her apartment, but she had no choice—she didn’t own a car. Besides, it was a nice evening, the spring flowers were out, and the exercise was good for her.
The sounds of the ocean grew louder when she turned onto Seaside Boulevard, though the view of the water itself was hidden by the homes lining the road. She lifted her head to take in the sweet smell of a flowering dogwood tree, and her heart swelled with gratitude. When Mrs. England had offered to help her relocate, she’d never imagined she could end up in a place like this. Indigo Bay was so different from the heavily wooded hills of North Georgia where she’d grown up. All the open space was magnified a thousand times over by the endless expanses of water. She’d been here four months, but the ocean never failed to astonish her.
A stabbing pain in her heel yanked her back to the present, and she stopped to pull out a triangular burr embedded in her purple flats. The burrs grew along the side of the road and she constantly stepped on the rock-hard points, driving them through the thin soles of her shoes. Mean little things.
Eva flicked the burr into the bushes and continued walking, her mind now on her shoes. Thanks to all the walking, they were too thin. Could she have them re-soled, or would it be cheaper to find a new pair the next time she was at the thrift store? Her budget was small and brand new shoes were a luxury she couldn’t afford.
The Andrews should really be charging her much more for the rent on their small apartment where she lived, especially considering the location. But Marjorie Andrews had been the embodiment of Southern hospitality—offering the apartment at a discounted rate and even helping her find the job at Miss Eulalie’s. From the look of things, they probably didn’t need the money, but still. The thought that she owed anyone was as prickly as the burr she’d pulled from her shoe, only not as easy to dislodge.
Speaking of owing … Eva’s hand went automatically to her purse to close around the stack of bills in her wallet. She’d cashed her check on the way home from work, and since she didn’t have a checking account, she paid her rent in cash. It was the first Friday of the month, rent day.
The Andrewses’ property sat toward the west end of Seaside Boulevard, a graceful craftsman-style house covered in white clapboards with black shutters and fronted by a curved brick driveway. Eva’s apartment was above the detached garage that sat near the street on the east side. It was screened from the main house by a line of palms and shrubs and accessible by an outdoor stairway leading to the second floor. The privacy was Eva’s favorite thing about her apartment, followed by the vines of sweet-smelling clematis growing up the stair rail, their deep green leaves and vibrant pink flowers lending a sharp contrast to the white building.
Tonight, a gray Nissan Altima sat parked on the street near the garage, but she didn’t see anyone around. She climbed the stairs, unlocked the door, and stepped inside with a sigh. The apartment was quiet and dark. Eva slid the deadbolt into place and stood still for a minute, letting herself revel in the peace and the satisfactory feeling of ownership. She might not own the physical building, but she paid rent every month, and for the first time in her life, she owned a space that was all hers.
And things. Eva’s gaze wandered around the room. Most of the furniture had come with the apartment, including a sofa, bed, dresser, and a dining table and chairs. There had even been a television, hung on the wall opposite the sofa.
But the small bookshelf was hers. So were the books filling it, and the mercury glass lamp sitting atop it. The dishes in the kitchen were hers, and the clothes that hung in the small closet in the bedroom were hers. Almost everything was secondhand, but she’d taken great pride in sorting through the racks at the thrift store, because she knew everything she bought would be hers to keep. She wouldn’t fall in love with a piece of clothing only to watch it become communal property and worn to shreds like things had at home. The apple-green skirt she was wearing would stay hers, as would the white blouse and the purple flats. There were no sisters waiting nearby, demanding their chance at Eva’s pretty things the way they always did at home. And she’d had no choice but to share. Everyone shared everything: that was one of the major rules of the Family.
Family. Eva’s heart clenched at the word. As if what she had lived with could ever be considered a family. Families were parents and children picnicking on the beach. Families were newlyweds who stayed in the honeymoon cottage and strolled around downtown holding hands. Families were sons buying toffee for their mothers at the chocolate shop.
Families were not a group of mismatched strangers forced to live together and fighting over food while they prayed for the end of the world. Families were not nights spent in whispered terror as rumors spread through the Compound about someone who had tried to thwart the rules and been punished.
Families were not someone you’ve been told to regard as a “brother” pulling and fumbling under your clothes.
Eva went to the bathroom and ran a comb through her hair, still marveling at how short it felt. She’d always had long hair—when she left the Family, it had hung past her waist—but she’d had it cut a few weeks ago so it barely brushed her shoulders. Getting rid of the physical weight of her hair had been nothing compared to the symbolic weight of it. One more way she was shedding the features of her old life, moving toward the new.
After freshening her makeup, she left the apartment again for the main house, taking the path leading from the garage to the wraparound porch. The kitchen door was usually unlocked and if the Andrews weren’t home, Eva would leave the rent money clipped to a magnet on the fridge.
The kitchen was cheery with white cabinets and countertops, light maple floors, and a blue painted ceiling that matched the gleaming glass tile backsplash. Plenty of windows offered a view of the backyard, leading to the row of sand dunes and, beyond that, the broad expanse of ocean. The dunes blocked the view of the actual waves, but Eva could hear them thundering through the open windows.
There was evidence of meal preparation, but the big table in the dining room was empty, as was the dining set on the back deck. Marjorie and Peter must be on the beach.
She turned to clip her money to the fridge and stopped with a jolt when she saw the box sitting on the counter. It was a box of toffee from Miss Eulalie’s, and she recognized the clumsily tied yellow bow. Her mind raced through conversations she’d had with Marjorie over the last few weeks. She’d said something about her youngest son moving back to Indigo Bay from … where? A big city somewhere. Columbia? No, that didn’t sound right. But somewhere in the South.
The image of the policeman swirled through her mind. His quick smile, the smooth caramel sound of his voice, the tanned skin of his forearms. She’d dropped his chocolates all over the counter and given him a sloppy present for his mother.
“Eva!”
She jumped and spun around as Marjorie Andrews stepped through the French doors leading to the deck. Marjorie was a few inches shorter than Eva, and plump. Her light brown hair was g
raying at the temples and there were deep laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. She wore white capris embroidered at the hem with red starfish and a red shirt with twinkling beads at the neckline. As always, she radiated energy and a nurturing instinct that Eva had never experienced before and was inexorably drawn to. As much as she tried to keep to herself, there was something irresistible about Marjorie, a feeling of safety and acceptance Eva craved.
“I … here’s the rent money.” Eva thrust the bills forward.
“Oh, go ahead and set it on the counter.” Marjorie waved the money away. “You’re just in time for dinner. Will you join us?”
Eva shot a quick glance at the box of toffee. “I’d better not.”
“Nonsense. Please come! We’re doing an old fashioned crab boil and Tyler brought blue crabs all the way from Hilton Head.”
Eva hesitated. Fresh crab definitely sounded better than the can of salty minestrone soup she’d planned to microwave for dinner.
Marjorie took her silence for agreement. “We’re on the beach, but I forgot the crab crackers.” She reached into the walk-in pantry to pull out a small pail full of silver tools and wooden mallets. “Oh, and could you grab the paper towels, please?” Marjorie gestured with her head toward the roll hanging by the sink. “I’ve got two rolls down there, but you can never have too many paper towels with crab.”
Eva pulled the paper towels from the holder and silently followed Marjorie across the deck, down the wide wooden steps, and across the lawn to the sand dunes. A trail wound between the dunes, well packed with sand and lined with tall weedy grass. The breeze picked up and the sounds of the ocean grew louder as they emerged onto the beach.
Flickering tiki torches lit the folding picnic tables set in a long row in the sand near a smoking fire. A woman and a young girl were covering the tables with newspapers while three men stood around the fire, watching the two large pots nestled in the glowing embers. The flames and smoke swirled like a modern dance interpretation, leaning one way, then shooting another as the breeze caught it. The ocean gleamed faintly in the moonlight, and laughter drifted toward them from people who were splashing and playing in the surf.
