Not Quite Free

by Lyla Payne

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  He doesn’t call him a friend, leaving me to wonder how they know each other. Maybe Travis busted him previously or something. Seems more likely than him having a social connection to someone who makes his living outside the law.

  We drive for a little while in silence, me thinking that it would be good for me to look into all of the people in Frank’s—our—family tree who are still living. I’ve been putting too much of the responsibility on Travis, and Travis is not the one who’s about to be tried for murder. Not to mention, since I haven’t told him about the journals, I’m the only one with absolutely all of the information available. That I know about, at any rate.

  South Carolina is beautiful in the summer, its trees all green, magnolias in bloom, and the sweet scents of a hundred different flowers. Now, in the dead of winter, the landscape is bare but no less stunning.

  “What do you think these people are going to tell us?” I venture, anxious to climb out of my own head. It’s too messy in there, even for me.

  “I don’t know, Graciela. Honestly. Who knows what they’re going to say, or be like, or whether they’re even going to talk to us?” He shifts in his seat, reaching forward to close the heating vents blowing on his face. “I figure the worst they can do is tell us to go piss up a rope.”

  “I guess.”

  Right now, part of me itches to tell Travis what I’ve kept from him—about the Carlotta journals and how Clara is translating them for me. After all, if our gift really does come with a side of insanity, he deserves to know. And it would be helpful for both of us to be on the same page going into these meetings. He doesn’t know about the other half of our family, the ones who don’t see spirits and don’t want to be connected to the people who do. The very people we might be on our way to meet.

  Maybe it’s unfair of me to keep all of that from him, but things changed when someone broke into my grandparents’ house and stole that bag of documents from Frank. I realized it was time to start being smart, and that means keeping the Carlotta journals secret from everyone who doesn’t already know about them. At least for now.

  So, I bite my tongue. Not my strong suit.

  It takes us a little under an hour to get to Sheldon. Travis and I pass the time with cordial conversation, along with a bit of speculation about Frank’s murder. When we pull into the town, I’m surprised to discover it’s even smaller than Heron Creek, which is saying something. It’s just a blip on the road, really, with a gas station that doubles as a general store and a few small offices on the ground floor of old houses with wide porches.

  Travis directs me off the main road and through a couple of turns, to a farmhouse set an acre or so back from the road. It looks as if it belongs to another century, and perhaps it does—the clapboard siding can’t have seen a paintbrush in at least that long. A giant live oak sits out in the front yard, the breeze moving a rope swing lazily back and forth that reminds me of Lavinia Fisher with a quick, sharp, shiver. A rusted red wagon loiters near the front steps, which look liable to break under my weight. There’s no car anywhere out front and the place possesses an air of abandonment that goes beyond the dirt-covered windows and overgrown holly bushes.

  “What do you think?” Travis asks as we park. His brow is cocked and there’s a dubious expression on his face. He looks every bit the cop that he is, and I can’t help but wonder if bringing him along on these visits was the smartest thing.

  Plenty of people don’t trust police, and that’s doubly true in small towns, where people tend to struggle to open up to anyone their mama and her mama didn’t know.

  But it’s too late now. I get out of the car, and Travis follows suit.

  “I think we didn’t drive all this way to stare at an old house,” I inform him, holding my breath as I test my weight on the first step. When it holds, I climb the rest of way up and rap on the loose screen door.

  Travis makes his way to my side, and we both wait a minute before I knock again. There are no footsteps on the other side of the door. No movement against the curtains hanging on the inside of the windows. The wind pushes an old wooden rocker back and forth like a ghost is spending the afternoon relaxing on the porch.

  I reach out for the doorknob, which turns easily in my hand. Travis puts a hand on my arm as I go to step over the threshold, but I shake it off. This isn’t the time to argue about issues of legality. Besides, I’d bet the last of my Happy Meal money that no living soul is inside.

  We might as well see if this family member left any clues behind when she bolted.

  “What was the name of the woman who lived here?” My voice is barely a whisper, as if we’ve entered a tomb as opposed to a simple home.

  “Gillian Harvey. Forty-two, divorced, no kids at home.”

  “No one at home at all,” I murmur as we stare into the abandoned living room. The place is eerie, and even if I didn’t know from firsthand experience that ghosts are real, I would assume at least one lived in this place.

  The layer of dust over everything—the old hardwood floors and the knickknacks on the shelves, the VHS movies stacked beneath a television that looks like a relic from another century—promises the place hasn’t been cleaned for at least a month.

  “Ms. Harvey?” I call out anyway, just in case she’s let the place fall to decrepitude out of illness. Nothing.

  “She’s not here,” Travis says.

  “Yeah, I got that. But maybe we should look around, see if we find any clues about where she went, or about the family.”

  “Okay.” He looks less than convinced. Perhaps he’s wondering whether we can still get arrested for breaking and entering if the house wasn’t locked.

  Ignoring his wavering, I make my way through the house, climbing a set of stairs and wandering in and out of the three bedrooms on the second floor. One is set up as an office, but nothing looks used—the top of the desk is clear, and though the file cabinets are stuffed, nothing is labeled. We could go through it, but we’d need three or four hours. So, not today.

  The layout of the house makes me think there’s probably an attic, but I don’t have the energy to explore it. Instead, I go back downstairs and find Travis in the kitchen, standing over the counter near an old rotary dial phone.

  He looks up, his expression almost guilty. “Find anything?”

  I shake my head, peering at him with narrowed eyes, unable to help but wonder whether my instincts are off. Whether after everything that’s happened to me, I’m simply programmed not to trust people. Maybe I’m becoming a true Southerner—the good parts and the bad.

  There’s a pen and a pad of paper near the phone, and one of those little wooden doohickeys that holds bills behind it. Instead of using her office, it appears that Gillian Harvey kept everything pressing by the phone. But the wooden contraption’s empty, save for one slot filled with an unpaid water bill. It was due three weeks ago.

  “Looks like she hasn’t been gone that long,” I observe. “A month, maybe less.”

  “It’s odd, for sure,” Travis agrees, shuffling out of the dated kitchen and toward the front door. “You ready?”

  “Sure.”

  We leave the house the way we found it, but I already know I’ll come back. Maybe not by myself—maybe with Mel or Will—but not with Travis.

  Not with Leo, either.

  The thought makes my heart ache and my throat burn. Travis shoots me a sidelong glance as I gulp the fresh cool air, trying to calm myself.

  “You okay, Graciela?”

  “I’ll be fine. Let’s just go.”

  We climb into the car and set off toward Savannah in silence. I know we’re both wondering the same thing—whether the third relative is going to be gone, too, and what it means for us if she is.

  Chapter Eight

  We make it to Savannah before dinnertime and pull into the driveway of a big, old house on one of the city’s famous squares. This relative’s got plenty of cash—the old home has to be worth at least a m
illion bucks, and the garden out front is immaculate.

  Travis and I exchange glances before we both get out of the car.

  “I hope he doesn’t think we’re here for money,” I comment, only half joking.

  “What, you assume someone who lives in a house like this won’t think a cop and librarian make enough money to live on? Preposterous.”

  I furrow my brow, giving Travis the once-over. “Was that a joke? Are you feeling okay?”

  “You know, I do have a sense of humor. It’s just that the majority of situations you and I have found ourselves in don’t exactly call for it.”

  “Hmm. I’m still going to ask Daria what the signs of possession are. Just in case.”

  It strikes me that I’ve said the same thing to Amelia before, and then wonder whether it’s possible that, with time, my relationship with Travis could grow into something comfortable.

  “How’s she doing, anyway?” he asks, his tone conversational as we wind our way through the garden and into the house. “Changed her hair color lately?”

  “I’m sure. Haven’t seen her for a few weeks, though. Mel would know better than me.”

  “I’m starting to think the department should have hired Mel instead of Will. Girl has a nose for the facts.”

  We’ve reached the porch, and my nerves are wound too tightly for me to say anything in response. This place definitely doesn’t have the abandoned air of the last, but the worry that every last person on Frank’s family tree is dead or gone stays with me.

  The only way to know for sure is to buck up, so I force myself to raise my fist and knock.

  The door swings open to reveal a man with graying hair. His youthful skin makes it hard to guess his age, but maybe he’s in his fifties. His eyes are gray like Travis’s, which is interesting, and they narrow at the two of us as he stands blocking the door.

  “I don’t buy things from strangers, and I’m not interested in talking politics.”

  “It’s not even election season,” I reply, confused but strangely charmed by this man who clearly just wants the two of us to get the hell off his porch.

  “Doesn’t stop people from talking nonsense.”

  “Well, that’s true.” I try a smile, one he doesn’t return as he folds his arms over his chest. “We’re…we’re Francis Fournier’s kids. He died recently and left us a family tree and we just…”

  I trail off, unsure of where I was going with this whole train of thought. What I’ve said so far has earned me a flicker of surprise, but the man hasn’t suddenly turned friendly.

  Nor has he opened the door and invited us inside.

  “We just want to know more about our family,” Travis says, the sincerity in his voice much more winning than my fumbling. “Frank wasn’t the most forthcoming, and neither of us knew about his existence until a few months ago.”

  The older man snorts. “Well, that sounds about right.”

  “I’m Dylan Travis.” My half-brother sticks out his hand, which the older man shakes.

  “Louis Bernard.”

  His expectant gaze turns toward me. I swallow hard, hoping to high heaven he hasn’t followed Frank’s case too closely in the papers. “Graciela Harper.”

  He shakes my hand without so much as a disapproving look, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding. I could have used a fake name to avoid the awkward didn’t you kill Frank moment, but if this man is family, I’d rather not start off on a foundation of lies.

  Besides, I didn’t do anything wrong.

  “Well, I’m not sure what I can tell you, but come on in. I was just getting ready to order dinner, so I suppose you can join me if you’d like.”

  “That would be great,” I answer quickly for both of us, knowing Travis would probably decline out of politeness. Or because he’s an extreme introvert.

  The truth is, we need some of this man’s time, and keeping him from his dinner is no way to make friends. Besides, my stomach is finally showing signs of hunger.

  All good reasons to impose on Mr. Bernard’s hospitality. Travis can deal.

  “I was thinking of having the last of the December oysters with some grit cakes and greens. Sound all right to y’all?”

  He’s a Southerner, through and through. The Carlotta whose entry I read last, my grandmother, I guess, moved to South Carolina to get away after her mother’s suicide. She says nothing about seeing her brothers and sisters, so I kind of assume they didn’t live nearby. But here’s some possible evidence to the contrary.

  If memory serves, this man is a cousin of Frank’s—maybe even a first cousin. This could be as close to family on our father’s side as we’ll ever get.

  I’m going to take a closer look when I get home. I should have done it earlier, but between the trial, the letter from Beau, Jack, and the thing with Leo, my energy level hasn’t been what it needs to be if I’m going to really get myself out of this muck.

  “That sounds great,” I tell him honestly. December was so busy I didn’t have time to get fresh oysters more than once. The stray regret reminds me of eating at Aw Shucks with Odette.

  I should stop and see her. Bring her some candy and maybe buy her lunch. I miss the old woman, and her knowledge of Gullah curses basically saved me, Amelia, and Jack from the curse on Anne Bonny’s line. Surely, that earns her at least a monthly dinner.

  “Thank you for the offer,” Travis adds, cutting me a glance that says he’s not thrilled with the prospect of being stuck here for at least an hour. I ignore it.

  “Very well. You two make yourselves comfortable in the parlor. I’ll let the woman know there will be three for dinner.”

  He shuffles off, leaving Travis and me in the doorway to an ornate parlor. The rug is thick and old, but clean. Antiques crowd every available inch of space. The room feels slightly like a really expensive episode of Hoarders, except it’s immaculate.

  “The woman?” I repeat, all of a sudden wondering what sort of man we’ve agreed to dine with tonight.

  “Why did you say you wanted to stay for dinner?” Travis hisses by way of reply, his brow furrowed with impatience.

  “Oh, come on, it’s free food. And I mean, he has a woman.” I waggle my eyebrows. “It’s not like we’re putting him out.”

  “I wanted to be home before it gets too dark.”

  “Why? Are you going to turn into a pumpkin?” I make a face when he fails to respond. “You know, you’re testing that assertion that you possess a sense of humor.”

  Mr. Bernard returns before we can discuss it further. Thank goodness. Discussing humor with someone who has nothing to add to the conversation is one of life’s less desirable activities.

  “Now, that’s taken care of. Please have a seat. Would either of you like a drink?” he says, walking toward the bar, which looks to be made of a sturdy, expensive hickory wood. “I’m having a brandy.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever had brandy outside of the hot toddies Amelia forces on me when I have a cold. Because, you know. I’m not eighty.

  “Um, I’ll take a bourbon if you have it.”

  Travis looks like he wants to ask for a beer, but there’s no way there’s a beer chest hidden away in this house, and he seems to realize that. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself. I find that digging into the past requires some lubrication.”

  I do not approve of older men using the word ‘lubrication’ willy nilly, but forgive him as I watch him pour me a generous amount of bourbon from an impressively expensive bottle. The flavor casts its own kind of magic on my tongue, and I have to stop myself from moaning as it slides down my throat.

  “That’s delicious.”

  “As it should be, my dear. Now, dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes. I don’t like to discuss unpleasantness over food, so we’ll get this family talk out of the way first.” He sips his brandy, studying us over the rim of the glass as he motions for us to sit, and then follows suit. “What is it you’re looking to find out?”

&nb
sp; Travis gestures my direction, allowing me to take the lead. I’m thinking now that I should have spent more time ruminating on what exactly I’m going to ask the family members we do manage to find and less time mooning over Beau and drinking with Leo.

  I could have also avoided the Leo disaster that way. Hindsight and all of that.

  “Like Travis said earlier, neither of us knew Frank was our father until a few months ago. My mother told me my father was dead, and Travis was adopted. We’re half-siblings,” I finish lamely, like he can’t figure that out on his own.

  “How nice for the two of you to have found each other.”

  “Yes, well, I don’t know if you knew Frank at all, but he wasn’t the most forthcoming person in the world. And now he’s gone.”

  “Murdered, I heard.” He gives me a look that leaves me with no doubt that he has read the papers, after all, regardless of his non-reaction earlier. “That why you’re here?”

  I decide in the space of a breath to stop beating around the bush with this guy. He’s smart, he’s savvy, and he’s obviously not easily scared—not to mention the fact that the clock’s ticking. We only have fifteen minutes left until we have to swap conversation about family for dinner conversation, whatever that means.

  “We’re trying to figure out who might have killed him. Since I didn’t.” I pause, waiting for a reaction that never comes. “So, basically, anything you know about Frank or our family history would be great.”

  He puts down his glass and leans back in his chair, folding his fingers together in a steeple below his chin. “I take it you know at least a little something about the Fournier family history, or you would not be asking about it in connection with his death.”

  “We know that there have been a fair amount of violent deaths in our family…” I hedge.

  “And we know some people see ghosts,” Travis adds for me. “Or claim to, anyway.”