“I was working in the basement studio and I thought I saw something move outside, through the window,” he told the officers. His words were coming so fast, Savannah couldn’t bear to look at his face. She burrowed deeper into Maggie’s embrace.
“I stopped and turned the light off, so I could see out. But I didn’t see anything, and I figured I was just being paranoid—I mean, it’s been sort of crazy around here, right? So, I flipped the light back on.”
Savannah felt Maggie tense.
“And then maybe five minutes later I looked up and saw eyes reflecting through the glass.”
At this, Savannah let out a desperate, frightened sob, and Maggie pulled her closer. One of the officers took the moment to pause and ask some clarifying questions, which gave Savannah a few seconds to calm down.
“This guy just crashed through the window,” Thomas said. “I think he leaned on it so hard he fell through.”
They asked Thomas to take them downstairs to the studio and discovered that the man cut himself on the broken glass. There was blood on the window and the sill, enough for the officers to gather several samples. The man also dropped his camera, which the officers took with them in a plastic evidence bag.
A few days later, the detective assigned to the case called Maggie in to the station and showed her the fifty-plus pictures the intruder had taken of Thomas, working in the privacy of his own basement.
There was no safe place for them now.
Thirty
Jack
“Jack!”
He moved to answer, but his head was screaming like it wanted to split in two.
Shit.
Every move a tidal wave of pain. He tried to lick his lips. No spit. Bone-dry.
“Jack! Git up! It’s seven thirty. If yer takin’ people out this mornin’ you’ll be lucky if Slush ain’t poached ’em by now.”
“No clients today. Their kid got the flu.” Somehow, Jack made the words come out. In an instant, his gut churned from the whiskey.
“This ain’t yesterday no more,” Carter said. “This here’s today an’ yer late. Why’d you end up on yer lawn for, anyhow? Ten more steps and you woulda been inside.”
That answered one question: he was on the front lawn of his apartment.
Jack screwed his eyes shut against the light and rolled onto his side, so he could pull his knees into his gut and ease the waves of nausea. It didn’t work, but he lay there anyway. Mornings on Tybee had a certain smell and his nose caught wind of it—the sea-salt breeze blowing in off the ocean and mixing with the scent of overheated asphalt and deep fat fryer and the marshes’ briny tang.
“An’ yer lucky nobody took off with yer truck on account o’ yer keys were lyin’ on the sidewalk o’er there.”
Jack had a sketchy recollection of looking for his house keys and not finding them, which meant he must have given up and lain down. Now he was piecing the night together. They had closed out at the Pig ’n’ Whistle around ten, Janie saying Coop needed enough time to sober up before he had to get on the road to Tallahassee. They walked one way toward home and Jack walked the other, toward the pier, thinking he might just sit there and watch people fish while the whiskey hummed. Never mind it was already dark.
He did make it to the pier, that much he knew. And he remembered other parts. Flashes of memory. Of making his way to a bench, of watching the tourists under the floodlights, daiquiris in hand, all of them stopping to look down at the dark water. Everyone posing for a round of pictures. So much picture taking.
At one point, someone handed him a camera, asked him to snap one of her and her kids.
“I got kids!” Oh god. It was coming back to him now. “Didn’t know I had ’em. But I got ’em. And now, seems like maybe they don’t want anything to do with me.”
The woman changed her mind and grabbed her camera back. She hustled her children away, tucking them under her arm like a mother hen.
“Or maybe they’re dead,” he called after them. “I don’t even know.”
That awful part he remembered.
“You know there’s still a guy with a big fat camera on the island lookin’ fer you,” Carter said. “Asked me two times yesterday if I knew you and when I said I did he offered me fifty dollars if I could tip him off to where you were. Gave me his cell phone number and everythin’. I didn’t tell him nothin’. So as far as I figure, you owe me fifty dollars at least.”
“I’m not paying you, Carter.”
“Sometimes he’s in a blue Chevy, all tourist rental car–like. Other times he’s on foot, askin’ anybody who will talk where you at. I was fillin’ my tires up at the Citgo and I saw him talkin’ to Artie behind the register. He was pointin’ out over the bridge in the direction of the landing, so I figure he at least knows where yer boat is.”
“Not my boat.”
“Cap’n Ford’s boat, then. Anyhow, yer double lucky I found you here this mornin’ ’cuz he coulda walked right up and snapped as many pictures as he wanted ’fore you even woke up.”
He had him there. “Thanks, Carter.”
Jack eased himself upright, not ready to stand but at least able to put head above shoulders. His whole body burned in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Maybe ever.
“Can you manage to carry a cup of coffee on your bike without spilling it?”
“’Course.”
His body had made it clear there wasn’t any salvaging his first booking of the day. With any luck, he might be able to stand by the afternoon.
“I’ll pay you double whatever it costs to buy me the largest cup of black coffee you can manage. Nothing fancy. Just black.”
He felt for his pockets where any cash he had left would’ve been. “You got any money?”
* * *
“I’m gonna puke!” the kid wailed.
They weren’t thirty minutes out on his afternoon charter and the kid leaned forward and lost it all over the deck. Not over the side, onto the deck. And his little sister’s shoes.
“Mooommmyyy!”
She was wailing, too, and covered from the knees down in chunks of sick.
Jack cut the engines, swallowed back every foul word, grabbed a fistful of rags and a bucket, and just as he was heading over, the sister, headlong into hysterics, slipped and fell into her brother’s mess. Now she was covered, head to toe, in slime. Bits of the day’s lunch hanging in stringy clumps from her hair. She was screaming, her dad trying to clean her with a bottle of water and a towel, and the mom dealing with the brother who was going another round. All four of them, slicked in vomit and baking in the sun.
And Jack so hungover he thought we was going to die.
Just one whiff and he dropped everything and leaned over the side, heaves racking him. He hadn’t been able to take food in all day, so his stomach wasn’t giving up anything but bitter bile.
Jack was completely useless, and he knew there wasn’t going to be any moving him away from the side of that boat until either the wind changed or the sun fell below the horizon. Hours away. Or days. Or maybe he’d just die there.
At one point, he thought about letting the waves carry him away.
[email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: Hi Jack
Jack,
Not to be a pest or anything, but you hadn’t replied to my email and I thought you might just be busy or something. Or, if you didn’t even know your name had been on TV, sorry you had to hear about it in an email.
Or, you might be really mad. And I guess you have the right.
I just want to stress again though that there’s no way we told the TV people (or anyone at all) your name or who you were or anything. Again, I’m really sorry. We didn’t mean to cause trouble for you.
Could you let me know you got this, at least? Even if you are mad.
&nbs
p; Thanks,
Thomas McClair
Thirty-One
Savannah
Maggie had the basement window replaced the day after the intrusion. Between that, repainting the fence and buying new privacy shades for the house, Savannah hoped Thomas could see how much money this little quest of his had begun to cost their family. Not to mention the intangible costs—like the fact that Savannah could no longer sleep, and that Maggie wandered the house checking on them every five minutes, no matter where they were. Yesterday she heard Maggie knock on the bathroom door and say, “Just making sure it’s you in there, Thomas.”
Chef Bart and Nadine came over earlier than usual that afternoon and brought along smoked Gouda macaroni and cheese, bacon-wrapped asparagus, pineapple jalapeño corn dogs, kale chips and Jell-O salad stuffed with tiny marshmallows. Maggie’s version of comfort food.
“Come, sit,” Maggie said, ushering everyone into the dining room. “I mean it. I love every single one of you and I want to be surrounded.”
Savannah and Thomas took seats at opposite ends. Chef Bart sat between them. Nadine stopped to give Maggie a long hug. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Maggie held her for a long time, then sat at the head of the table.
“Have you considered moving out for a bit?” asked Chef Bart. “At least until this blows over?”
Maggie shut him down. “This is our home. I’m not leaving it.”
“But there’s no telling—” Chef Bart began.
Maggie held up a hand, stopping him. “Please.” She paused. “Everyone. We are together, and that is...” She didn’t finish. Savannah knew Maggie was about to say, “enough.” Because that was the McClair way. That they always had enough as long as they had each other.
Only, was that enough?
Savannah realized she didn’t believe that anymore. Admitting it made her wince, but why keep on lying to herself when the evidence was black-and-white. The McClair bravado was a myth. Her mom and her granddad were dead. Her brother betrayed her. And Maggie was spinning out. Savannah was now one hundred percent alone. On her own to deal with it all—the humiliations, the threats, the invasion.
For a second, she felt her brain try to lull her back into the comfort of believing. Oh, come on now, Savannah. What about your friends?
She pushed back. My friends can’t help me. She’d finally woken up to that fact, too. For starters, Trigg was useless. Trigg only cared about Trigg—always talking about herself, no matter the subject. I know you’re having a tough time but, seriously, you have no idea how bored I am in Nebraska. Or, How did I know Mrs. Thornbird was going to read your essay to the class? Or, OMG, my best friend is famous!
Chef Bart and Nadine were around, but they couldn’t really do anything to fix the mess she was in. Saj had provided a tiny glimmer of help, but that was before she fed Savannah alive to a wolf named Eaton Holmes. And Sam Tamblin? He was nothing but a joke, a publicity whore who only cared about one thing: The subscriber numbers are through the roof! Have you seen the download numbers? They’re cr-ay-zy!
Worst of all, she didn’t even have Jack. Thomas did, of course. He apparently talked to Jack all the time. They were buddies, their own private club to which Savannah hadn’t been invited.
Maggie stood suddenly, breaking Savannah from her thoughts. She walked to the wall where their mom’s essay hung and touched the glass. “Bess was mortified that I kept this up for so many years. She’d take it down and try to hide it, but I’d find it and put it back up.”
She ran a finger down the side of the frame until it was perfectly straight.
“I know it’s a little bit loony to hang your daughter’s college entrance essay on the wall. But I didn’t ever want my family to forget what it said. That no one ought to ever be excluded from discussion. That silence is often born of fear. That every voice deserves its place.”
She returned to the table and sat.
“Your grandfather used to say that we have enough when we have each other.” Maggie kept her eyes on her place setting as she spoke and was quiet for a moment before looking at the people gathered around her. “But I think he may have missed the point. It’s not enough to be together. We have to stick together.
“I’m sorry I shut you down, Bart. You were voicing your concern and I appreciate that. If we can’t talk to each other about this, what do we have?”
Ironic, Savannah thought, given what she’d just decided about her own situation. Just a week ago she would have agreed with Maggie, but now, she knew that all this togetherness was whitewash. Feel-good sentiment. The truth was, no one understood how Savannah felt. They’d all attempt to help, keep trying to make her feel better, tell her to give it time, that the awfulness would pass. Just like they had when her mom died. But at least then she’d had Thomas to share the experience with. Now she had no one. And she ought to keep reminding herself of that because every time she did, the truth settled in a little bit more.
“It’s reasonable to worry, Maggie,” Chef Bart said, looking more relieved than when he first arrived. “Strangers have invaded your house twice now. And the police can only do so much. I’m just glad they’re making themselves visible around the neighborhood.”
This was true. Tabby Melby had called to say she was keeping a tally on a notepad stuck to her refrigerator. She made a tick for every police cruiser and every uniformed officer spotted and so far, she reported herself impressed.
“We’ll take it day by day,” Maggie said. “And we’ll do it together.”
Thomas began to flick his fork angrily against the side of his plate. “If they think these scare tactics are going to stop us from having a relationship with Jack, they have another thing coming. After last night, I’m more driven than ever.”
Savannah wanted to scream. “Easy for you to say, Thomas,” she spat. “Since you seem to be the only one who does have a relationship with Jack.”
Maggie held up a finger to say We’ll get to that, and it made Savannah want to leap from her chair—her grandmother was spewing fairy tales about the magic of togetherness, all the while letting her brother get away with acting entirely on his own.
Maggie asked, “Who is they, Thomas?”
“You saw the camera the police took away last night,” he said. “That’s a couple-thousand-bucks camera, which means that guy was taking pictures because he knew someone would pay big for them. They’re making money off of us.” Thomas pointed his fork around the table. “We need to find a way to beat them at their own game.”
Without waiting to hear more, Savannah stood, took her plate into the kitchen and ran upstairs.
“Van—” he called after her.
She slammed her bedroom door so hard the pictures on her wall rattled. Good. Let the whole bunch of them hear how done she was with all their crap.
Thirty-Two
Jack
Her voice mails had been coming all day and Jack ignored them. But now, too tired to sleep and too hungover to drink, he was out of excuses.
“Junior, it’s Mom. Call home.”
“Baby, I really do need to talk to you.”
“Are you getting these? Your dad’s in the hospital. Do you care enough to even find out why?”
One message was just two minutes of incomprehensible, snot-filled tears.
“Fine. You hate us. We get the message. But if your dad dies before you decide to lower yourself to call home, that’s on you. Know that that’s on you. Forever.”
“Johhnnyy. Where are you? Your mama loooves you.” The last message told him everything he needed to know. His dad was going to be okay. If he were in real trouble, his mom wouldn’t have been able to go home to satisfy greater priorities.
He pressed Delete.
* * *
It was dark out when Ford rattled the screen door, waking him up.
“I know you’re in the
re, Jack. I can see your feet hanging off the end of the couch.”
Jack groaned, acknowledging he was alive, though barely. “Since when do you make so many house calls?”
“Open the damn door.”
He eased himself upright and waited for equilibrium. His feet were pins and needles and his scalp itched like he hadn’t showered in days, because he hadn’t.
“You look like hell.”
“Feel like it.”
“And your AC is sailing right through yer screen door. What’s happening with you?”
The linoleum under his feet was sticky with humidity and Jack could feel the temperature change the closer he got to the open screen like weather zones, arctic to tropical. He popped the lock on the door handle and wondered why he’d even bothered locking it.
“You want something to drink? I got water.”
Ford shook his head and Jack pulled from the fridge the milk jug he kept filled with tap water, pouring himself a glass.
Ford followed him into the kitchen and leaned against the counter.
“How was Atlanta?” Jack said.
“Crowded.”
Jack took a long drink and waited for him to get to the point of his visit.
“You remember I told you we had business to discuss when I got back? I assume you figured out I’ve been talking to a lawyer.”
“Yeah.” He hadn’t figured it out. Janie had.
“My lawyer in Savannah wants me to sue you. For breach of contract.”
“Okay.” This shouldn’t have been news, but surprise rang through him, nevertheless.
“That’s why I went to Atlanta. Get some time to think. Talk to my sister, who’s also a lawyer.”
Jack said nothing and waited for the hammer to fall.
“I never use her for legal advice. Don’t mix business and personal, all that. She’s not the right kind of lawyer, anyhow. But she can dissect a contract as good as I can gut a mackerel. Plus, she knows me better than just about anyone.”
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