Quite Precarious

by Lyla Payne

kitchen. We’ll have dinner afterward. Maybe a floor picnic, if it’s not too late. Sound good?”

  She nods, tearing her eyes away from the pictures in her book about ladybugs long enough to look toward me.

  I chuckle under my breath. “Finish your book. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

  The book will work out in our favor if it can keep her enthralled while the lawyer is here. Leo probably figured, and that’s why he bought it in the first place. They don’t usually purchase books, not with my daughter’s love of both the Heron Creek library and its kook of a librarian, so he must have had an ulterior motive.

  I make it out of the shower and into a clean pair of jeans and a thin, comfortable sweater. My hair’s in a ponytail and my feet are in socks, but there’s enough time to get

  Marcie a bowl of mac and cheese in case our meeting runs long, and remind her to stay in her room before the doorbell rings.

  In the front room, Leo’s shaking hands with a tall black woman with light skin and a waterfall of braids down her back. She exudes a professional vibe in her lilac pencil skirt, flowing cream-colored blouse, and a heather-gray jacket. The fact that she made it up our broken sidewalk in nude heels makes me both respect her and wonder who she’s trying to impress—because the Boones have never been the kind of people that inspire others to put on airs.

  We might be from the wrong side of the tracks according to some people in this town, but neither Leo nor I ever minded. Our family is real.

  At least, that’s how I felt before they abandoned me over a few dozen bad decisions.

  “Hi, I’m Leatrice McClean.” Her tone is warm as she reaches out a hand that envelops mine in a firm handshake.

  “Lindsay Boone.” I hold my breath, never sure these days who has heard my story.

  I get a wide array of reactions around here even if no one has said anything rude.

  Some people are surely harboring distaste, but if one thing has never changed about Heron Creek, it’s that we take care of our own.

  “Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?” she starts, transitioning smoothly into business.

  “Right this way.” Leo leads her into the kitchen and they settle around the table. My brother looks nervous, the lines around his eyes and mouth deeper than they were twenty minutes ago.

  “Would you like something to drink? We have water or juice, beer. I think wine.”

  “I’d love a glass of water, or some lemonade if you have it.”

  “Just a sec.”

  I grab a beer for Leo, pour a lemonade for her and decide to have one of my own—

  with a healthy splash of bourbon. The two of them are talking softly when I slide the glasses onto the table and take a seat, listening in an attempt to catch up.

  “They have a decent amount of physical evidence, with the bullet the surgeons pulled out of your shoulder matching the ballistics report on the Middletons’ gun. Now, we can

  fight that, at least try to get the hospital to admit that they could have mixed up the report, but that will only work if they had at least one other gunshot victim the same night.”

  “How likely is that?” I ask, wondering how many people are shot in Charleston on the average night, and what the chances are that they went to the same hospital as my brother.

  “Not very,” Leatrice admits. “But we’ll check on it.”

  “What else?” Leo’s voice is thin, as though he knows there must be something else.

  “They’re building a circumstantial case regarding your connection to a…” She pauses, checking what must be notes on her phone. “Graciela Harper and her cousin Amelia Cooper. The Middletons’ daughter-in-law?”

  “Ex-daughter-in-law, but yes.”

  “You’re close with the family?”

  “I’ve known them just about my whole life. But like I told the police, this is a small town. I don’t know if they can prove that we’re particularly close.”

  “Look, Mr. Boone.”

  “Leo.”

  “Leo. I’m your attorney. It’s my job to be on your side, and to provide you with the best defense possible. I can only do that if I have all of the facts.” She purses her lips, tilting her head to the side as she studies my brother like she’s wondering how much he can take. “It’s not a great case to begin with, and any surprises will be the death of us.”

  “He’s in love with her. Graciela,” I blurt out, avoiding Leo’s gaze in favor of focusing on the lawyer. “I don’t know how many people know it, but they spend quite a bit of time together. Play tennis, get into little bits of trouble here and there. They’re friends.”

  Leo doesn’t argue or defend himself against my accusation. I’ve never said it out loud before, what I know about his feelings for Gracie, but there’s no point in denying it’s the truth.

  “Okay, but what about the daughter-in-law? She’s the real connection.”

  Leo shrugs. “We don’t have a relationship per se, but everyone knows Gracie would do anything for her.”

  “And if people assume you’ll do anything for Gracie, then they’ll have their connection.” I draw lines between the dots for Leatrice, even though she seems bright and

  they’re fairly obvious. We can’t afford any miscommunications. I’ve had my fair share of trials that haven’t gone my way in the courtroom so in this, I’m the expert.

  “No one else in town would claim I’m in love with her. They’d say we’ve been

  friends, of a sort, since childhood, same as everyone else in this town.” He closes his eyes briefly, tapping one finger on the table. “People would also say that Gracie and I have a long history of getting into trouble together, or at the very least, that we’re not so big on following the letter of the law.”

  Leatrice waves a hand. “Kids’ stuff. Neither of you have been arrested as adults, and there’s nothing recent on your records. You might have been close as children, but she’s only returned to town a few months ago, and before that you hadn’t been in contact for years, correct?”

  My brother actually looks sad, as though he hates remembering those quiet gaps of time when Graciela Harper disappeared from his life. “Correct.”

  “Okay. They might try to play that card, but there’s no reason for a jury to believe you and Miss Harper are any closer than anyone else who grew up together in a small town. I think we can fight that.” She licks her lips and takes a swallow of her lemonade, like she’s stalling.

  The sense of foreboding, as thick in our house as it was in the air this evening, puts tension between my shoulders. Leatrice is the weatherman, and she’s about to tell us how bad the storm is going to get. Even my little brother, who has far less experience getting bad news from lawyers, senses the shift in her attitude and sits up straighter. Some of the fatigue falls away from his face, replaced by trepidation as he presses his lips together.

  “It’s not good. If we can’t cast a shadow of a doubt on the ballistics, you’re likely going to be convicted of breaking and entering. They’re not charging you with theft, since the Middeltons haven’t, as of yet, found anything missing.” Another pause, this one shorter. “I would expect that story to change at some point during the process. They’ll find something missing—jewelry, papers, antiques—to make it worse, even if they have to make it up. It’ll be your word against theirs, and I also expect them to come out with forensic evidence that you were in the house.”

  “I was careful,” Leo says, quietly. It’s his first admission that he was, in fact, in the Middletons’ house, but no one is surprised. “And if it helps, I can tell them what I was doing there, so they’ll know I didn’t steal anything.”

  “Let’s see how things go.” Leatrice stows her phone back in her purse, the only instrument she brought for the interview tonight. “I wanted to be honest with you about how things are looking right now, and we’ll be in touch as the trial gets closer. I know this should be obvious, but in the meantime, don’t talk about the case with anyone. Don’t leave town. Don’t
give the cops or the Middletons any reason to come after you again.

  Got it?”

  Leo nods. He doesn’t move to show his attorney out, even after she stands up, so I push back my chair and lead her to the front door, thanking her quietly before sending her out into the rainy South Carolina night. I take a moment for myself, pressing my forehead against the door and taking a couple of deep breaths.

  This is bad. If nothing changes, and no pleas are offered—which Leo doesn’t think there will be, given the outcome of Amelia’s custody case and how pissed the Middletons are about being beaten—my brother is going to jail.

  Tears sting my eyes at the thought, for so many reasons. First off, I’ve been to jail. It does things to you, even when you deserve to be there. Even if you’re strong, even if you’re dumb enough not to be terrified. Then, there’s Marcella. She can’t get me back just to lose her uncle, the man who has been the blessed constant in her life all this time.

  I take another minute, pull myself together, and then walk back to the kitchen. Leo’s right where I left him. When his gaze raises to mine, it’s angry.

  “You didn’t have to say that. About Gracie.”

  I slide into the chair and gulp the rest of my spiked lemonade. “She’s your lawyer, Leo. She’s not going to take out an ad in the Creek Sun.”

  He looks uncomfortable, as though I’ve stripped away a layer of skin, and for a moment, I feel badly. He’s kept the secret locked away for so long, hidden so deep that most of the time I think he’s able to convince himself even he’s unaware of it. But the guilt falls away fast enough, in favor of a familiar anger. Which is much more deserved.

  “I can’t believe you’re willing to go to prison for her. I can’t believe she’d let you get yourself into this situation. I hate her.”

  “Don’t hate her, Linds. It was my decision. I just…it’s hard to say no to Gracie.”

  I snort. “Let me try next time.”

  “Look, you don’t understand my loyalty to her. Fine. But you’re a mother. Wouldn’t you do everything you could to keep Marcella safe? Those people can’t get their hands on Amelia’s baby. Surely you agree with that..”

  “It’s not your problem, and you’re going to pay for it with your freedom.” The tears are back, jamming a lump in my throat. I swallow hard half a dozen times, angry at myself for being such an emotional baby now. “You could have just said no.”

  Leo’s expression turns sad, edging toward pity. “This isn’t you. You’ve been gone a long time, and I know Mom and the boys turning their backs on you still hurts. But we’re a community. We’re family, me and Gracie and the others, and there was a time when you would have done anything for the people in this town—even the ones you didn’t like.”

  “I hardly remember that girl.” There’s a hard edge to my voice that I don’t like.

  Hardly understand.

  His hand covers mine, and shame heats my face. I should be the one comforting him right now, not the other way around. “I do, Linds. We’ll find her. Give her time to stick her head out into the light again. She’s had it kicked quite a few times lately.”

  We sit there like that for a long time. I have no idea how much time passes, but then Marcella is there, the book in her hand as she climbs into my lap and asks if we can have a floor picnic and if Uncle Leo is still going to read her the book.

  In a breath, the night is normal again. I’m not a broken shadow of the girl who grew up in Heron Creek. Leo’s adoration for Graciela Harper isn’t about to land him in prison.

  We’re a family, the three of us, and we can pretend we’re not more aware than most that that fact can change in an instant.

  Chapter Four

  Travis

  The Ryan twins are out helping the pastor over at the Baptist church make sure the weatherproofing around his old-ass windows will hold through the storm. William Gayle checked out an hour ago to pick up his son before heading home for the evening. That leaves me alone at the station even though I’m not supposed to be working tonight.

  It would have been nice to get home before the storm rolled in, but in truth, it doesn’t matter all that much. My property manager takes care of any weather damage. I don’t have a kid or a pregnant wife to worry about, and the only thing waiting for me at home is a package of ramen noodles and some cheap beer.

  Though my tenure in the Heron Creek PD started out with far more excitement than I could have anticipated in a town of two thousand, today has been quiet. In fact, if it weren’t for one resident in particular, there wouldn’t be much to talk about at all.

  A frown finds my face at the mere thought of Graciela Harper and what a pain in my ass she’s been since I arrived. Funny, I suppose, when she’s the whole reason I came here.

  It’s still strange, that it gets dark so early. My stomach and internal clock insist that it’s well past dinner, but my phone promises it’s not even six-thirty. The gathering storm doesn’t do anything to help matters, with thick, dark clouds blotting out the rising moon.

  I ignore the grumbling in my belly. The only other option is to dig around the break room for some leftover food or resort to the vending machine, and that’s its own kind of minefield. This coming from the guy who eats dinner straight from a box more nights than not. That’s how bad it is in there. I’m convinced that the Ryan twins and their good physique can only be explained by genetics. Or voodoo.

  My laptop fits on the desk with my work computer, and I open it after double-

  checking that no one else has wandered in. I could use the desktop for personal email and the like—everyone else certainly does—but there are some things that need to stay private. There was a notification on my phone earlier that my parents emailed, but there hasn’t been time to read it until now. And again, maybe it’s paranoia, but I prefer not to open sensitive data on my cell. Skynet and Edward Snowden and all of that. The government might deposit my paychecks, but that doesn’t mean I trust them with everything.

  A guy whose past has a few dark spots needs to be more careful than most.

  The email is there, bold and with the strange ability to catch my breath in my chest.

  It’s not that I don’t love and appreciate my adoptive parents, there’s just something about the mere existence of the only people in the entire world who know every last thing about me that sets my teeth on edge.

  The subject line of Hello, Son tells me nothing except that my mother is the one who wrote it. My father never calls me son—it’s always something like sport or buddy or some other nickname better suited to a five-year-old. More proof that while they’re nice people, they were not meant to be my parents.

  I take a deep breath and click open the email, scanning the few short paragraphs first to get the quick relief that comes with reassuring myself all is well. Instead, my stomach drops as the words Graciela, email, and isn’t it wonderful jump off the page. I clench my teeth and go back to the top, reading more carefully this time.

  Dear Son -

  We received the email from Graciela, and are so happy that you decided to connect with what remains of your birth family. It must be fate, her ending up in South Carolina, too, when all this time we thought she stayed in Iowa after her mother’s death. Isn’t it wonderful?

  I advised her that she has your father’s and my blessing as far as beginning a relationship with you, and that we would have encouraged it sooner if Felicia had been amenable. We hope that things are going well, and would love to hear from you or arrange a visit soon.

  All our love, Mom & Dad

  The message is short. I come to the end far before my brain can compute how any of this happened. I read it a second time, and then a third, before it occurs to me that she dropped the necessary information right up front—that she received an email from Gracie.

  I snap the laptop closed and sit back in my chair, my mind a whirl so violent it feels like it’s been kicked up by a Tasmanian devil. Why would Gracie email my parents?

&n
bsp; What had she said that made my mother spill the beans about my adoption, or had my parents seen her name and just assumed? How had she even found my parents, and more than that, what else did she know?

  My records were sealed for various reasons, but I wouldn’t put anything past my half-sister. Her training as an archivist has made her more resourceful than most, though knowing our mother and hearing the stories about Gracie’s childhood in Heron Creek, I’m not sure she didn’t have a running start where nosiness and digging in her heels is concerned.

  Most days, those are traits that inspire admiration. Heck, even on the days she’s made my job as town detective so much harder than it has to be, even when she’s scared the shit out of me trying to get herself killed, and even a few days ago, when she informed me she’s known for a while that the local criminal element is looking for a way to get rid of me…I’ve admired her. Been proud of her, even, but this? Digging into my past, tricking my poor, clueless parents, violating my privacy?

  It boils my blood until the under side of my skin feels scalded. I want to punch the wall, rip something apart with my bare hands, maybe march over to her house demanding answers.

  How dare she?

  But you’ve known almost your whole life that you have a sister. Her mother kept that from her, so why shouldn’t she have a right to know?

  I bat away the rational thoughts. Gracie’s lack of information isn’t my problem, and it was never my decision. If she wants to be mad let her be mad at Fe.

  Or, let her be mad at you for coming here to meet her, to get to know her, but declining to tell her the truth about who you are.

  Shut up, I hiss at the annoying conscience chirping in my ear like that damn cricket from Pinocchio.

  The Ryan twins slam through the front door before I have a chance to get hold of my emotions, which are careening off the walls. Luckily, the two of them don’t notice much that’s not part of their job. Or female. The smell of Indian food, odd and out of place in Heron Creek, almost sends me running for the bathroom in sympathy. The restaurant just opened up and, since it’s not run by Indian people, I’ve avoided it.