by Erin Huss
I cross the parking lot. It's not busy and I—Aghk!
Chapter Twenty-Three
Before I have time to process what is happening, my back is against a dumpster and I'm staring at my mother, who has a death grip on my arms.
She looks terrible: her eyes are cradled in yesterday's mascara, her hair’s the size of Montana, and she's still wearing the pencil skirt.
"Zoe Matilda Lane." She spits as she talks. "Do you know what you've put me through?"
I yank my arms free. "Do you know what you've put me through? You tried to have me committed," I say in outrage.
"That's because you're not well, Zoe."
I roll my eyes. I'm not having this conversation again. I can't! There's no time. "Good-bye."
"You're not leaving." Mom pins me against the dumpster. She's deceptively strong and blindly irate. "We've been worried sick. Your father and I have been looking for you all night."
Great, a sliver of guilt worms its way into my subconscious. I don't have time to feel guilty right now. But perhaps I should have, at the very least, called Dad's cell to tell him I was alive, unharmed, and sane. It must have been awful to spend the night searching for your mentally unstable child.
"I'm sorry," I say.
Mom's eyes soften. "I only want what's best for you." She sweeps a strand of hair off my forehead.
"Then tell me who has a name that starts with an S, and when was there a fire?"
Mom's frozen, like someone has come up behind her and pressed pause.
I wave a hand in front of her face, and she doesn't flinch.
Well, she's cracked.
"I … I …” she says, stuttering. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." I wrangle out of her grasp and back away. "When you're ready to tell me the whole truth, I'll be here. Until then, leave me alone."
"Wait, Zoe." Mom fumbles with the pockets of her blazer. "You forgot to take your iron."
"You can't be serious."
Oh, but she is. Resting in her palm is an iron pill. Has she been carrying it around all night? "You're anemic, Zoe. Remember?”
How could I forget?
But I don't want anything from her.
But then again, it's not like I have the funds to buy my own supplements.
Fine, I decide. Only because it's doctor's orders and I feel awful.
I reach my arm out, keeping my feet firm on the ground, afraid she's using the iron as a trick to lure me into a trap, and I snatch the pill out of her palm.
Aha!
What the … I examine the pill in the light of the day. "Why does this have an H, one, zero, G engraved on it?"
Okay, so most my knowledge on the elements comes from Bill Nye the Science Guy's videos from the library, but even I know the symbol for iron is FE.
Oh … crap.
My mind scrambles to put the pieces together as I stare down at the pill in horror. No. She wouldn't … would she?
No!
I gaze up at my mother, and she forces a smile.
Oh, hell. She would!
My mother is trying to slip me some kind of antipsychotic medication! Now she's gone too far.
"Have a good life, Mother." I drop the pill to the ground and smash it with my heel for added effect.
"Where are you going?" Mom asks, following me. "Let's talk about this."
I come to an abrupt stop and whirl around. "Was that an iron pill?"
"Okay." Mom is clasping her head. "Okay. Just listen to me. Don't get mad." Too late. "You threw yourself in front of a car and said you saw a man in a hat, Zoe. You've been walking around town talking to yourself. We saw you at the press conference calling our client a murderer—for the second time. And Mrs. Attwood said you were at the assisted living facility last week threatening Old Man LeRoy. You're not yourself. I … I … I didn't have a choice."
"For the last time … I. Was. In. The. Crosswalk!" I start striding across the parking lot, not exactly sure where I'm going. Ron's office is the opposite way, and Willie's car is parked on the other end of the lot, since it doesn't seem like the kind of car you park beside other vehicles.
"Zoe, sweetie, the ER doctor prescribed it," Mom says, struggling to keep up. "He said it has very few side effects."
Hold on. I come to a sudden stop, and Mom runs into the back of me. "You've been slipping me these meds since I was released from the hospital." Which explains everything. The headaches, blurred vision, feeling extra shaky today, not being on top of things—it all makes sense. These were side effects of a medication that I don’t need. "You poisoned me!" My voice rises to a shriek.
People walking by are nudging each other and pointing, but I don't care.
"I'm sorry," Mom says in a panic. "I should have told you first, but I didn't think you'd take it if I did."
"No! I wouldn't have. It' s my body, and I get to say what will and will not go inside of it."
"That's what she said," a teenager snarkily murmurs as he passes by.
Oh, geez.
"I'm sorry," Mom says again.
"Sorry isn't good enough!"
"You're right, sweetie." Mom gives me a strange look. "Just come home with me, and we can work this out."
She's got to be out of her hairspray-lovin' mind. I'm not going anywhere with her. Last time I did, she tried to have me committed. I scan the parking lot, looking for our van. There's no way Dad is okay with this plan. Except I don't see our car anywhere. "Where's Dad?" I ask.
"He's searching Fernn, while I've been looking in Trucker."
"How?" We only have the one car.
"Daniel MacIntosh gave me a ride." Mom makes a sweeping gesture with her arm, and I see the Black 4-Runner with Daniel at the helm, watching us through a pair of mirrored aviators.
I've lost the ability to speak.
"Everyone is worried about you, Zoe," Mom says. "Daniel, Dad, me, and Brian."
"Y-you spoke to Brian?" I feel a renewed surge of outrage. "Why would you talk to Brian?"
"He called my cell this morning asking for you. He said he didn't have your number."
"What did you say to him?" I take a step forward.
Mom recoils. "I told him that we had been looking for you all night."
"And he told you were I was?" I ask, feeling a bit betrayed. Not that Brian was aware of what had happened with my mom, so it wasn't like he was ratting me out. But still.
"He said he hadn't spoken to you since I picked you up from The Gazette."
Oh. My mood lifts—slightly.
I shake my head. "Mom, look, I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm not taking any pills. I'm not going to any hospital. But you need to stay away from Daniel MacIntosh."
Mom crosses her arms. "Zoe, the police already interviewed him, and he has an alibi. Daniel had nothing to do with Willie's death."
"Maybe he didn't kill Willie, but he's not exactly a saint either." I spot a coffee house down the street. "Call Dad. Then go grab a hot chocolate and wait for him. I'm sure Daniel has better things to do." Like spend his disinherited fortune.
"He's the one that offered," Mom says. "And I was desperate."
Gah! I don't have time to deal with this. "Call Dad. Hot Chocolate. I'm done." I wrap my arms around my waist and continue toward the sidewalk. I can't very well confront Ron in front of Daniel or my mother.
"Where are you going?" Mom calls after me.
"None of your business.”
"When will you be home?"
I turn around and walk backwards. "Never, unless you ditch Daniel MacIntosh." I'm feeling like I have the upper hand in this argument, until I ram into a light pole, fall into the street, and scrape my hands on the asphalt.
Smooth, Zoe.
Real smooth.
I wait for Mom to rush over, but she doesn't. She's standing at Daniel's 4-Runner, talking to him through the passenger side window. The two interact for a few moments before he starts the car and drives away. Mom brings her cell to her ear and cros
ses the street to the coffee shop.
She listened to me.
I can hardly believe it.
Ha!
I stand and wipe my hands off. Tires slowly approach, and I look up in enough time to see Daniel coming right for me. I jump onto the curb, because being hit by a car once is enough for me to learn that I don't want to do it again. Daniel screeches to a stop and rolls down his window. He pulls down his glasses, revealing his beady eyes. "Don't get involved in things that are none of your business, or else."
He pushes his glasses back on and zooms away.
Chapter Twenty-Four
"Or else what?" Brian asks.
"He didn't say." I trace the BMW symbol on the steering wheel. I'm parked in Willie's garage and had called Brian to get his opinion on what I should do about Ron, and Betty, and crazy Daniel. "He looked really mad, though," I say.
"He doesn't seem like the type of person you'd want as an enemy."
"No, he doesn't. Do you think he'd hurt my parents?"
"I don't know," Brian says, which is of zero comfort.
I massage my temples; my head still hurts. But knowing why I feel so crummy actually makes me feel better, as odd as that sounds. "So I have the cufflink, and I have the information on Ron. Can you run the story?"
"I'll need at least one more reliable source. Why don't you call Trucker PD?"
"Because there's no chance they'll listen to me."
"Why?"
"Um … because Manfreed thinks I'm not credible."
"Why?"
Geez. He asks a lot of questions that I don't want to answer. "Can't you just run the story anyway?"
"No, it could damage Ron's career, unless I have a little more proof. Tell Jackson Anderson."
"Um … I can't."
"Why?
"He doesn't think I'm credible."
"Seems like every person but the accused has a problem with your credibility. Which makes me think you're onto something."
"Sure." Let's go with that.
"I'll do a little more research on my end, and I'll contact the PD for a comment. I'll reach out to Ron as well. I have his number around here somewhere. And I'll call Jackson."
"No!" The last thing I want is for Jackson to tell Brian about my fraudulent gift. Brian is the only one who has any trust in my ability to function as an adult.
Well, he and Willie.
Willie …
I half expected him to be waiting in the garage, livid that I'd taken one of his babies out for a joy ride. But he isn't here.
"Why can't I call Jackson?" Brian asks.
"Errr … because I'll tell him."
Maybe.
Probably not.
Perhaps I'll write him a note.
I hang up with Brian, return the key to the hook, and go inside.
"Hello?" I whisper, expecting Willie to be standing there with his arms crossed, foot taping, jaw set. But he's nowhere to be seen. He must still be in the guest room.
"Zoooeeee? Is that you?" Betty calls out from the kitchen.
"It is. I'll be right there." I go up the stairs, taking two at a time, my hand gliding along the handrail. "Willie?" I whisper.
Still nothing.
I walk into the guest room, close the door behind me, and just stand there for a few moments. "Willie?" I whisper. "Are you here?” I can feel the presence of a spirit, but I don't see anyone. "Willie, I'm sorry. There was an errand that I had to run by myself." I check in the bathroom, the closet, and under the bed. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Please, speak to me. Willie?"
Nothing.
"You know what?" I wipe my eyes. "Fine. Don't speak. I just found out my mother has been drugging me, and I've been threatened by your nutso nephew, and, oh yeah, I took your car. The BMW with the butterfly doors. There was a dent on the rear fender before, right?" I say, hoping to aggravate him into appearing.
No such luck.
"I know you're here, Willie. I can feel you …” At least, I think I can feel him. Perhaps the spirit I'm feeling isn't Willie but someone else. Someone not ready to show themselves and Willie really is gone.
But he can't be.
Not yet.
We didn't even say a proper good-bye. His killer isn't behind bars. Betty is out on bail. Justice hasn't been served. He can't transition when everything is still a mess.
Right?
I check the hallway, his bedroom, the garage, and every room in between—and there are a lot of rooms.
Willie is gone.
"Zoooeeee?" Betty calls again from kitchen. "Are you here?"
My legs feel like water, and I swallow a few times, trying not to panic, and make my way to Betty.
The kitchen has black cabinets with glass fronts, white marble counters, multiple ovens, two grills, three sinks, and no Willie. I find Betty wrapped in a terrycloth robe, standing in front of a griddle with a spatula in her hand, a two-feet high stack of steaming pancakes on the counter.
"Hi, Betty," I say, trying to read her expression. She doesn't appear mad. To be honest, she doesn't appear to be anything. She stares mindlessly at the griddle as if hypnotized.
She reaches into the pocket of her robe and pulls out a wadded tissue and wipes at her nose.
"How did you sleep?" I ask as I sink into a barstool across from her.
"Wellss enough." Betty adds two pancakes to her tower. That's a lot of pancakes.
"Are you expecting company?" I ask.
“Nope." She pours batter on the griddle into four even circles. "Do you want”—she pauses to belch into her fist—"pancakes?"
"Not right now."
"Coming right up." She grabs a plate from the cabinet and flips one … two … three … four … five … six … ten pancakes on top!
"Um … I really don't want any right now, thank you."
Betty drizzles the pancakes with syrup, making small circles until they're swimming in maple. Then she opens a drawer, pulls out a butcher knife, slices the butter in half, and drops it on top.
"Er … thanks.” I take the plate, trying not to spill syrup onto the counter. I want to ask Betty about Ron, but this doesn't feel like the right time. Not when there's a large knife within arm’s reach.
"Is Willie here?" She looks up, her eyelids appear heavy. "I need to speak to him."
"Not right now." I cut through the stack of pancakes with my fork and move mushy pieces of dough around my plate, to give the appearance that I'm eating.
Betty opens her mouth then closes it and clutches the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles turn white.
I place my silverware down and wait, positive she's about to confess about Ron.
But instead she blurts out, her cheeks flushed, "I lost his cufflink! I don't know where it went. It was on my nightstand, and I went to put it away this morning, and it wasn't there. I moved everything in my room, but I can't find it." She teeters to the right.
"Betty?"
"Mmmhmmm."
"Have you been drinking?"
She holds her thumb and forefinger together. "Just a wee bit," she says with another burp. "I tried this scotch Willie had." She makes a face. "It wasn't very good, but it did make me feellls a bits better."
Okay, Betty is completely bashed (read that in a novel once). I have no idea what to do with her … except.
Well, I might as well ask her. "What's your relationship with Ron?”
Before she can answer, the doorbell chimes. Daisy darts from the wall and starts barking.
Gah!
My life is weird.
"I thought you weren't expecting company … Betty?" She appears to have fallen asleep standing up. "Betty?" I come around to the other side of the counter and shake her by the shoulders until her eyelids pop open.
"What happen … sss … ed?”
"Are you expecting someone?"
"You're cute." She says with a lazy smile and boops my nose. "Your style is a bit”—she waves her spatula at me—“off. Buts it's endearing."
> "Thanks. There's someone at the door."
She puffs out her cheeks.
"Betty?"
"Huh?"
Ah! This is painful. "The door."
"What about the door?" She stumbles forward, and I catch her before she falls.
The bell rings again.
"There's someone … here,” I huff out. Betty drapes herself over me, and I turn around, using my back to bear her weight (which isn’t much, thank goodness). "How much scotch did you drink?"
"I love pancakes. My mom used to make me pancakes when I was sad. I’m feeling sad. My life is ruined. Allsss I wanted to do was help."
There goes the bell again. Whoever is here is not going away.
"Let's answer the door, okay?" I shuffle forward with Betty on my back, making it all the way to the fridge before I give up. "Never mind." I drop her onto a chair. "Wait here and … um …” I yank the spatula form her death grip. "No more pancakes or going near hot things." I turn off the griddle first then hurry to the door.
Daisy beats me there and is barking frantically, racing back and forth and jumping up and down.
"Calm down," I say.
There's one of those old-fashioned peepholes on the door, the kind you have to flip open to see out. Not exactly discrete, but it's better than nothing.
I grab the little knob and … okay, so the old-fashioned peephole is just for looks. Great.
The doorbell sounds off again.
Fine!
I open the darn thing and, crap. It's Jackson. He scrunches his masculine face at me in disbelief. "I thought I told you to stay away from my client."
Feeling irritated, I put a hand on my hip. "She asked me to come here because she didn't want to be alone last night."
Jackson doesn't wait for a formal invitation and walks right in, swinging a briefcase at his side. And Willie said those were not in style. Ha!
"Where is she?" Jackson asks.
"She's indisposed."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means she's drunk."
His eyeballs nearly explode out of his head. "You got my client drunk!"
"There's no need to yell at me! It's not my fault. She got into Willie's scotch."