The Wallace Girl: The Feud Series

by Scott, Eliot

  Gift my ass!

  I waited long enough to see whether Alex would speak or not. I think I knew he wouldn't. He's never been one to be the center of attention. During school, I was always the one to present our projects, to lead us into the party, to stand in the center of a spotlight.

  Before the family rose to walk the aisle and lead the procession to bury the Sinclair patriarch six feet under the very dirt that caused so much strife among our families, I ducked out the back door and rushed to my car with the push of blood and panic that came with the thought that it’s too late coursing through my body and over my eardrums.

  I pulled into the side alley and hid, and an hour later, I sit here still.

  Alex is one of the first to leave the ceremony. I recognize the front of his SUV as he approaches the exit, and I don't bother to duck or hide; he will never search for me. He doesn't want to find me. I sit tall and watch as he drives the opposite direction of everyone else, turning left and disappearing into the thickness of the woods, toward the lake.

  He always goes to the lake.

  He used to call it our lake, but of course, like every bit of open land in the area, now that his father is dead, it's all his and Grady's, I'm sure.

  May rides alone. Funny, I’ve never seen her drive before, but yet the black Mercedes, shining—brand new—the Limited model with gold trim, fits her to a tee. She leaves after most of the guests have gone, but she pauses in her car, her windshield square with mine. And even though there’s a great distance between us, I swear she sees where I’m parked. I wait for her to pull her mirror down to touch up make up or to lean into the center and adjust her hair in the rear-view mirror. She does none of that, though. She doesn’t look down at a phone or anything else that would require her to pause right here, right in my view. She just stares forward, and after a full minute, she turns her car and pulls away.

  I suck in a deep breath through my nose and hold the fullness in my lungs. Something isn’t right, but I have too many things to worry over and figure out. May will have to go on the bottom of the list.

  When the last car passes me, I shift into drive and follow Alex's same path, slowing to a crawl at the dirt road that leads to the lake. So many memories, so many nightmares.

  I hate that lake yet love it with equal passion.

  My eyes rake over the gravel, the fresh tire grooves cutting along the center, the width exactly right to match his car—I know in my heart Alex is there. I could so easily turn and follow. Is he expecting me? Does he want me to follow? I know if I did I'd still be playing into the Sinclair game. He'd push me away so hard that I might not survive it this time, which might actually be what he wants.

  But I want something else, and I already know Alex so well that I know I won't be able to save him until he wants to be saved.

  He has to come to me. He will come. The attraction between us is still undeniable, and I know he felt it. But is that attraction destiny or is it dangerous? When he comes to me, will it be to kill me like he may have finally killed his own father?

  Will I care that he's a murderer if suspicions turn to truth? As long as he can guarantee that it's the last mysterious death that will happen between the Sinclairs and the Wallaces, then I know I won't. I will keep his secret as long as he agrees to keep mine safe.

  My chest grows heavy and my head fills with momentary doubt, but I whisper my new mantra hoping that saying it out loud will make it true: "I am stronger than all of you."

  My eyes settle back to the dotted center line of the roadway before me, and I press the gas and move on. I know Alex will be disappointed he read me wrong when I don't show up.

  I smirk, pulling in a deep breath as I straighten my shoulders to match the road ahead. Yes. I'm stronger, indeed.

  I’m here for a little adventure.

  After leaving the area around the lake, it doesn't take long for the roadway to weave through the small canyon, opening up on the downtown that was my entire life—and heart—for so long.

  Tacoma, Washington.

  My childhood is rooted here—these storefronts, the way the sidewalks rise and fall with uneven cracks the city council left in place to keep kids from riding scooters and skateboards—even the damp, musty, saltwater-shipyard-meets-pine-trees-crisp cool air is familiar.

  It's home, all rolled up in the walls of a hell I thought I'd never see again.

  If I could find a way to scoop this precious historic square block up and drop it anywhere else on this earth, I would.

  The horseshoe sign hanging from the pole outside of my Aunt Shelly's white-washed brick building is the same as in my dreams, and the smile hits my lips out of precious habit as I pull through the alleyway behind the storefronts into the small carriage house garage in the back. I pull my one small bag out with me, tucking it to my side and stepping around the back of the car.

  Renewed, I spin on my heels and jerk the metal door down to a close behind me, hiding any trace of my vehicle even though I'm sure just like Alex, the rest of the Sinclairs also know exactly where I am. All it took was for me to show my face at that service for the whispers to begin their trail to curious ears. There's no place left for me to go that isn't tainted with their all-seeing eyes, their murder or my own heartbreak—this tiny room is all I have left.

  I'm going to need to sleep with the rifle.

  And whether the Sinclairs like it or not, this small apartment above my aunt's antique store will be my home for however long I need it; however long it takes.

  Whatever the it might turn out to be.

  A part of me hopes I won't be here but for a few days, another part of me hopes for forever—because I know if I leave soon, it's going to be because I've failed.

  I turn the key and push open the door, a waft of acrid air suffocating me the moment I step inside. There's a layer of dust over most things; my aunt warned me I would need to do some cleaning. But in the corner, there's a bed, and to the side, a small kitchenette and a door I hope leads to a bathroom with running water and a shower.

  I take in my surroundings and close the door behind me, locking it on both the knob and the small sliding lock near the top. It's all for show; if someone wants me dead, there isn't anything a two-inch layer of wood can do to stop them. I've stepped back into their arena—and that makes me fair game. I had no choice. Michael Sinclair's murder...it was a calling card too loud to ignore. Too...gruesome and bold.

  That murder was mixed with something deeper than money and greed, and I intend to find out exactly what the motivation was.

  I have to.

  My bag falls to the floor next to my feet, and the thud kicks up a layer of dust. I cough as I tiptoe to the far wall where a small lamp sits on a night table. I'm surprised when the bulb glows after I click the lamp on, but my success gives me hope that more than just the lights will work in this apartment.

  I never got to see the inside of a dorm room. Instead, I picked a roommate off of the community center board in the small Ohio town I ended up in. I’d wandered there in my lost, hurt and dizzy daze. I used the little money I had saved to get far away on my own terms. Jeff, my roommate, is gay, which is and was perfect because I had sworn off dating forever. I wouldn’t take the Sinclair bribe money Alex tried to send me away with to pay for an education. I refused it, which meant school has been long and slow. I study a little at a time, and I’m close to earning my liberal arts degree. For a girl who struggled learning how to read, the fact that I gravitate to research-related work is rewarding. I’ve thought about clerking with a law firm, or maybe applying for a government job—I like the idea of steady benefits. I could use good benefits. Classes will have to wait this semester though. There’s no way I could study with this interruption. And ignoring something as big as Mr. Sinclair’s death wasn’t an option either. It’s an opportunity.

  "Let's see how hot you are, water," I say to myself, moving to the small sink in the kitchenette. I turn the handle and hold my fingertips underneath the chilly stream
, counting to sixty before turning it off again.

  Prepared for disappointment, I step through the doorway and find a narrow shower stall with a tiny tub nestled next to a pink pedestal sink and a toilet. It isn't much at all, but it will keep me clean. I turn the shower nozzle on and repeat my exercise from the kitchen, which ends in the same result. I can handle a lot of extremes, but the cold water of Washington is not one of them.

  I toss my sweater on the back of the lone chair that sits next to a round table pushed against the wall and stove, flip open a few of the cabinets and drag open the matching drawers until I find one with a flashlight. I shake it to sense the weight, and there's a small chance the batteries I feel inside still work. When I click the light on, I chuckle to myself, musing over the great question—would I trade having light for a hot shower right now? Yes. Yes, I do believe I would.

  Flashlight at the ready, I creak open the sketchy panel that I pray houses the water heater. Only, when I crack it open I realize quickly what the problem is—there is no water heater. The slight chuckle in my chest blossoms into rich, belly laughter, and I take a few steps back until my legs hit the edge of my bed. I slump, letting the flashlight fall to the floor, and bring my palms to my eyes, pressing on them while my mixture of laughter and whining fades into a mere sigh.

  I really want a shower.

  I remain statue-still for several minutes, imagining the cold water, gearing myself up to handle it, preparing myself with lies that it won't be that cold, when the loud pounding at my door sends my heart through my throat and my fists cling to the old quilt on the bed.

  "Open up, JoJo. It's just me," Aunt Shelly shouts.

  I rush to the door to let her in, giving her wide eyes as a sign that I don't want her shouting my name. Maybe they know where I am but I don't need Aunt Shelly to paint a bullseye on my door with her loud voice.

  "Sorry." Aunt Shelly huffs, a little out of breath as she moves closer to me. "I figured you should just about be gettin' in." Her arms are loaded down with a heavy box plus a duffle bag dangling from her arm. Her hair has always been just as wild as mine is, only now, her color doesn’t match mine anymore. It is caught between her old-lady gray and my chestnut brown. Her curls are large, puffy and tangled like she's given up trying to tame them like I do mine. Because our hair grows bigger before it grows longer, Aunt Shelly's bob-length cut also makes her head seem about three times larger than it should be.

  "What's all this?" I ask, pulling the box from her arms and taking hold of the duffle to move it to the small table for her. We start undoing the tape she's placed to hold the box shut.

  "I wanted to get some fresh sheets in here, and there's also towels and such. And you probably didn't bring a lot of your toiletries, so I packed up a few things from the house..." Her teeth pause over her bottom lip, her eyes on my hands working on the tape, and her breath catches. I see a flicker I don't recognize cross her expression. It isn't like her to be afraid. Aunt Shelly has always been the one in our family who stood up to everyone and anyone. She's been the one I've leaned on most these past years, even though it was mostly through letters, emails and phone calls while I was away. But the way she's watching me—she's so still. And suddenly she looks so old and tired—I get that she's more than afraid.

  "Thanks," I say, doing my best to ignore the vibes she's giving off. I focus instead on pulling out her packed soft blankets and a pillow that's so soft that I almost no longer care about the shower. All I want is to push the dingy bedding to the floor and hug this pillow until morning while happier scenes play through my mind.

  Eventually, Aunt Shelly unfreezes and begins helping me unpack the remaining items—moving the soap and hair products into the bathroom along with a stack of fresh towels.

  "Ya-know, I don't think Walt ever put in that new water heater. I'll get him out here tomorrow." Her voice echoes from the bathroom walls. Walt is her longtime boyfriend, and they've been together so long now that it's practically marriage, only they live apart. My aunt is a little hard to live with. Like most antique dealers, she hoards, but she's also a dealer that likes taxidermy. Add the antiquing every weekend to the taxidermy thing into the hoarding thing, and well...

  It was her main floor bathroom that's wall-to-wall stuffed rodent heads that made Walt finally move out. They'd had a fight over her gallery of rare and antique vermin—and some full body rodents that were perched on little ledges—all with glass eyes and hung to be staring at you as you sit on the toilet. For better viewing. Aunt Shelly told me once way back that not many people took the time to fill rabbits, mice, groundhogs, squirrels, moles, minks and even marmots with sawdust—you know—back in the day. And now a-days, no one does it at all.

  Hard to believe.

  This living arrangement and relationship works for them, and somehow Walt shows up at her store every morning, and doesn't leave her side until she's ready to shut her eyes for sleep at night.

  Aunt Shelly shouts over the sound of water running into the tub. "I know it won't help for tonight, but if you can handle a bath, I can heat up a few pots for you on the stove." She cuts it off and steps to the doorway, her hand on her hip, waiting for my answer.

  I never thought of that. So often the simple solutions fail me. My lip quirks up on one side, and I nod back to her. "My God, yes. Please...can we—you—do that?"

  She chuckles as she steps from the bathroom, squaring her shoulders with mine, her hands coming out to cup my bare arms as our eyes meet.

  "Pumpkin, I would do anything for you. A hot bath is nothing." Her smile is soft but still tainted with that worry I sense lives behind her eyes.

  "I know. I'm so grateful." I step into her arms and squeeze her tightly, breathing in deep when she holds me with just as much love. Though she’s my aunt, she's also my mother, my father and the one person who knows all sides of my story, just as I know hers. Family is so important and ours is so very small.

  I let my Aunt take over, and during the hour I soak my body and wash my hair in the small bath with the aid of four pots of stove-heated water, Aunt Shelly manages to spruce up my small apartment with the cleaning supplies and small touches she brought from her house. When I come out, dressed in my pale pink pajamas, my head wrapped in a towel, my aunt is packed and ready to leave, and my tongue touches the roof of my mouth, ready to beg her to stay. I close my lips instead and smile, because as much as I don't want to be alone, I know I need to be. It's the only way I'll be ready to face more demons in the morning.

  Deep down, I always knew I’d come home again. Even so, I didn’t expect it to happen so soon. Somehow, I’d gone from wanting to rush here in an instant to wanting to put this off forever. It’s because of the details. Everything needs to work out just…perfectly. If it doesn’t, my world will crash—again.

  “Fresh sheets.” My aunt startles me from my trance and tilts her head toward the bed. "I'll wash the old ones and bring them back so you have a spare. I'll drop them inside the door before I open up the shop."

  "Thanks." I swallow, fighting to keep that smile—the one that's brave—on my face.

  "Oh, and I had a few extra things in our pantry. I put them in the right cabinet. Just soup and cereal...oh, and a loaf of bread. Put some milk in your fridge, too. But you can join me in the shop anytime for breakfast or lunch tomorrow, okay?"

  Her eyes dip as she waits for confirmation.

  I smile again. "Alright. But I'll probably be out most of the day." Her lip twists in dissatisfaction at my answer. I fight to fix it. "I'll do my best, though. Breakfast will probably work best."

  She still stares me down for a few seconds, giving in finally with a nod as she folds her arms over her chest. I notice the empty duffle bag clutched in one hand, so I turn to the open closet door to see a few extra items hung inside next to the few things I packed for the trip.

  "Just brought you some sweaters and a rain jacket. I can't let my favorite girl catch a cold, now. After all, what would little Emily say if I sent you bac
k with the sniffles," she says.

  I smile on instinct, hearing my daughter's name, my eyes fluttering closed and immediately taking in the vision of her before I left.

  She stood at the bottom of the steps at Jeff's house, tap shoes on her feet, and a bow in her brown, curling and fluffy hair. I promised her I would be home in time for her dance recital next weekend, but my girl—she senses the truth out like a Foxhound on the trail. She dressed up and performed her part (and everyone else's part too so I could see the whole show) right there next to my suitcase.

  I didn't cry until the cab drove me away.

  I'm going to miss my little girl. But I couldn't bring her with me, because it's not safe, because just like my parents were with me, I do not want the Sinclairs to find out about my daughter. Would they think of her as yet another Wallace girl? Someone to be destroyed like they'd done to me and my mother? Or worse, would they try to take her, keep her and make her into one of them? Both situations are unacceptable.

  Her ultimate safety is the reason I now exist. Here.

  I'm determined that Emily will grow up free of lurking shadows, free of restrictions and worry. She has no idea what it means to be a Wallace girl, and she's never met anything as evil and as dark as a Sinclair. If I do this right, as she grows into a woman, her life will not be made up of feuds and the past that haunts our two families.

  It will only include her future and love, and whether Alex wants to or not, and even if I have to drag him kicking and screaming—or even kill someone to make things right—he and I will be the ones who set Emily free.

  We owe it to her.

  And she'll be able to love and be loved by whomever her heart decides it wants. And that boy—he won't be a devil in disguise, that's for damn sure.

  "Thanks." My hand finds hers and squeezes.

  She grasps back. "You know where the rifle is?" Her eyes dart over my shoulder to the small desk pushed into a corner. I follow her line of sight then look back to her, nodding. "Good. If something feels wrong, don't second-guess yourself—you use it."