“I can’t wait.” I inhale deeply, press the glass to my chest as if it’s shielding me from the outside world. “Well, I’ve got to go.”
Faith gives me a quick hug. “Okay, but if you need anything, let me know.”
I nod.
She stops, her brows stitched in concern. “I mean it.”
A genuine smile tips my lips. “I know. Thank you.”
“See you Friday.”
As soon as I’m back inside, the phone rings. I didn’t see Faith make the call, but I know she did. My cell is in the kitchen, sitting beside the letter that is still unread.
Blanche Blount’s name lights up the screen.
“I am a terrible person,” she says when I answer.
I slide onto a chair and flick the envelope, watch it pinwheel atop the counter. “You’re not a terrible person.”
“Yes, I am.” Her voice holds the vacuous quality of a Bluetooth speaker. She must be phoning from her Escalade. “I should have remembered. Damn it! Stay in your lane, asshole!”
She’s definitely driving.
“Sorry. Bunch of idiots on the road.” She exhales. “Anyway, how are you?”
“Hanging in there.”
“And your mom?”
“She’s okay—asked about you.”
“I need to call her.”
“She’d like that.” Before silence can seep into the conversation, I move on. “How’re Jeremy and the kids?”
“He’s been so busy with work that I’ve barely seen him. But Eliza Kate is well.”
“And Zach?”
She grunts. Things must not be so good with her stepson. “I just wanted to call and say I’m sorry, and that I miss her every day.”
“Me too,” I say, my voice dropping.
“But hey, we can talk about her this weekend. Relive old memories.” She says it to be nice, and it helps ease the ache some.
“Don’t you think Paige will feel left out?”
“She’ll be fine,” Blanche says sharply. “Don’t worry about Paige.”
Even for Blanche that’s rude. “She’s our hostess and paying for the masseuse.”
“Trust me, she can afford it.” Is that tension in Blanche’s voice? “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to run. I need to get back to the boutique.”
“Okay. Give my love to Jeremy.”
“I’ll call your mom,” she says before hanging up. I hope she does, but you never know with people.
I press the phone to the table and stare at the letter.
It stares back.
I peek in, unsure of what to expect, not at all surprised when a folded slip of paper sits sausage-plump in the casing.
I spread it on the table, working the creases out with my fingers. The paper is commonplace, what you would buy at Walmart to stuff into your laser printer.
The very first words catch my gaze. They sit on the page, fat and confident like an overfed cat.
Dear Court,
I know what you’ve done…
My vision shrivels to the size of a pin as I read the rest of the message. The words jump and bump before me, coming together and tearing apart. I read the letter twice before letting it drop from my fingers and flutter to the floor.
I grip the sides of the table. My forehead drops onto the slick surface.
In this moment I think two things.
The first is: I am being blackmailed.
And the second is: Oh shit. What do I do about it?
Chapter 4
That week, I take the letter everywhere. It lives in a side pocket of my purse, zipped up and barricaded by my wallet. It is the best hiding place I can think of.
My bank account is now nearly ten thousand dollars smaller, spent in Bitcoins to keep the extortionist at bay. It’s the total of what we had socked away for the kitchen. Now it’s gone into a world of shady dealings.
I did not tell Tal about the letter, and he has noticed something is off with me—that I’m tense. He’s offered to give me at least five backrubs this week. I’m sure he thinks it’s because of my sister that I’m all wound up.
Little does he realize.
Every day, as soon as I’m alone, I sit with the letter between my hands and tick off people I know.
Surely whoever is blackmailing me is someone in my life.
Isn’t it?
I’m not a sleuth. I’m not even very good at solving mysteries—Faith could tell you that. When we were younger, we would read the same Nancy Drew’s, each of us trying to figure out who the killer was before the other.
Faith always called it. She is uncanny like that. Eventually we upgraded to Christopher Pike, and she always guessed those, too.
I would be floundering, a fishing bobber without a home, unsure who the heck committed the crime while Faith would smile a secret smile, content with the knowledge that she knew whodunit. The woman is a bloodhound.
But is she also an extortionist?
I can’t even think it would be my friends—surely not them. Faith needs money, but she would borrow it before she did something like this.
Wouldn’t she?
And Blanche—could it be her?
I shove those thoughts away. My friends did not do this. They did not go snooping around and discover things that they are not supposed to.
Maybe it’s Monogrammed Monica from the gym. The whole monogramming thing is a cover. Deep down she’s secretly a high-tech criminal hell-bent on ruining people’s lives.
See? Told you that I’m not good at this.
By Wednesday I’ve resigned all possible suspects, of which there were few to begin with, I’d like to add. It’s while I’m sipping coffee and staring at the letter for the millionth time that Mama calls.
“Did you forget about me?” she asks kindly.
Forget about her?
My heart shrinks. It’s Wednesday—the day I do her shopping.
“No.” Yes. I bolt up and quickly throw the letter into my purse and head toward the door, grabbing my jacket along the way. “I’ll be right there.”
“Is Haley coming?” Her voice sounds so bright and full of hope.
I cringe before the words are out. “Um, well, I forgot. I sent her to preschool.”
She sniffs. “That’s okay.” It comes out full of sunshine, and I feel like a jerk.
There is only one card I can deal to make up for my failings. “Do you need me to stop by the pharmacy?”
Madison Towne Pharmacy is owned by a nice guy named Tim. Tim is old-time-Southern-gentleman friendly, likable, with a soothing voice and calm demeanor. He’s always respectful to women and shakes hands with the men. He’s probably a deacon in his church. At least that’s what I imagine.
Before the pharmacy was bought by Tim, my mother and father owned it. My mother dispensed pills while my dad ran the front end and made sure the business was profitable. It was the second pharmacy that they owned. The first, which they also sold, was located in the town that I currently reside in.
Mama is the loyal sort, and since her prescriptions had been stored at Madison Towne when she owned it, she kept them there.
Besides, Tim seems to have a soft spot for her.
When I enter, he is wearing his usual—striped shirt and tie (forest green). It’s a blustery day, and the glass door snaps open behind me. I pull it shut.
“Hey, Court,” Tim says, his eyes full of sincerity. “How’s your mom doing?”
“Good,” I answer. I, on the other hand, am a mess. “She have any meds to pick up?”
He grabs a bag and pulls me to the side, away from the other customers’ ears. Tim never consults me on my mother’s meds. Heat licks up my neck as we enter the consultation area.
“Her doctor sent in a new pain medication for her.”
I frown and can feel a wormy crease sprout between my brows. “She didn’t say she was getting something new.”
He nods, mouth in a firm line. “I don’t think she knows.”
It hits me, what he m
eans. “She won’t like it.”
“That’s why I’m warning you. If she has a problem, tell her that I’ll call the doc for her, see if he’ll change it.”
I shake my head. “She never complains about her pain to me.”
“Because you’re not the one who can remedy it.”
I take the bag that he offers. “So you’re saying she might have complained and he fixed it, but she won’t like it.”
“Knowing Glenda—yeah. Oh, and the label might look a little funny. We had a problem with the printer this morning and had to create that label the old-fashioned way—using a typewriter.”
My lips quirk. “That must’ve been fun. Hopefully you didn’t have to do that with too many labels.”
He winks at me. “Nah. Just the VIP customers, the ones I know are coming in.”
I smile warmly and sign for the bag. Tim tells me to take care, gives me a pat on the back, and I head to Mama’s house.
As soon as I reveal the bag, her expression sours. It’s like watching a grape become a raisin.
She sees right away that the bag is the wrong shape. It’s all boxy and square, not sagging at the bottom like it would be if pills weighed it down.
Mom tucks a stringy squirrel-gray-colored lock of hair behind an ear. “A box? What’s it gonna be this time?”
I plop it on the kitchen table. She takes one look at the label—Duragesic.
Her mouth twists in disgust. “I don’t want those. I’ve told him before not to prescribe them. Last visit I said, just up my Percocet dose. That’s fine with me. I’m a pharmacist.”
Technically, but she hasn’t practiced in years. She keeps her license but hasn’t dispensed a prescription since the accident.
Mama thumbs her chest. “I know what I’m talking about. But he don’t listen. Thinks he knows what’s best for me.”
She punches the box back toward me. I try to straddle the line between advocate for her but also defend the doctor’s position. “Maybe he thought you’d maxed out your dose of Percocet.”
Mama’s eyes narrow. “You max out the dose when you max it out, not before.” That doesn’t make sense, but I don’t argue. “You might as well take those patches and throw them in the trash. I’d rather be in pain for the next couple of weeks.”
“Mama, you have to take them.”
“No, I don’t. I’m sure I’ve got a few Percocets stashed around here somewhere.” Her gaze scrapes over the cupboards as if there is a treasure trove of pills hidden inside, past the Hormel. “I had to do that, you know, when you were always looking for pills.”
“When Brittany was,” I correct her. “When she had the drug problem, you mean.”
Her gaze sharpens, and she nods as if chastened. “Yes, when she would steal them. Of course. Not you, Court. Never you.”
I spend the next hour prepping her vegetables for the week. True to form, the old veggies have been swept from the fridge as if she ate them. Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t. All I can do is make it easier for her.
I pick up a tomato and slice it one way, then crossways. I do this over and over, with at least five of them, not talking, not listening. My thoughts are a funnel, going back to the letter, lingering there, and picking at the scab of it.
In the distance Mama says my name loudly. “Court!”
I jump, spin around. “Ma’am?”
Her eyes slit to wedges. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I wave my hand in a silly-me gesture. “Just caught up in cutting tomatoes.”
Her lips tighten to a button. “Hon, what’s going on with you?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Of course, nothing.”
Mama frowns. “I’m not letting you out of here until you tell me what’s bothering you. Now, sit down and talk.”
“Really, it’s nothing.”
If I could run from the house, I would. I’d grab my purse and go. But Mama is not taking no for an answer.
She glares at me with ice-pick eyes. “Court, what does someone know?”
And I buckle.
Chapter 5
I only tell Mama that there’s stress in my life, not going into specifics. There are things that children don’t tell parents because of embarrassment and shame.
So like a good child, I keep some things to myself and get on with my life for the rest of the week.
Friday finally arrives. I’m supposed to leave for a girls’ weekend and feel hella guilty about it. Yes, I need to get away. But do I deserve it? I just dumped ten grand in Bitcoins in some asshole’s bank account.
No, I don’t deserve to get massages and eat birthday cake.
But I have to go. I made a promise, and canceling now would look strange.
“Are you excited about your trip?” Tal asks that morning while I’m rolling leggings into a duffel bag.
I’m not a diva. I can live in leggings and sweatshirts—which is the plan for the next two days. The temperature has dropped the past few days, but we’ll be heated and snug inside Paige’s mountain cabin.
“I’m excited about it,” I lie.
He runs his palms over my shoulders. “You’re so tense.”
“Nothing a massage can’t fix.”
Tal’s breath tickles my ear. “Gladly.”
I moan while his fingers knead my flesh. For the first time all week, I genuinely smile. “Now this is heaven. Maybe I should stay here instead of going to the mountains and meeting Paige’s masseuse.”
“Be careful,” Tal says. “They’re saying it might snow.”
I pull away from his fingers and laugh. “They always call for snow, and it never happens.”
He spins me by the shoulders to face him and brushes his lips against mine. He tastes of morning coffee. I drink up as much of it as I can.
Tal tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Well, maybe it’ll snow this time and you’ll get to enjoy it.”
I sigh. “Maybe so.”
A couple of hours later I’m driving Faith and Blanche into the mountains, the very stumpy foothills of the Appalachians.
I brush my fingers over the dash. I’ve done this maybe a thousand times since we entered the vehicle. My anxiety is worse in the car—worse in a confined space. At home I can pace to work out my bunched-up nerves. Here, there is nothing to do except stare ahead and listen to the quiet of my friends.
Beside me, Blanche speaks. “You’ve done that”—she sweeps a hand over the plastic dash—“enough. I think it’s clean.”
“I swear I missed a smudge.” I try to make it sound like a joke. Maybe it works.
“The only thing you missed was a speck of dirt in your mind,” Blanche teases, though she says it with bite, as is her way. She is nice to patrons of her boutique, big smiles, but to those of us who know her, she is prickly, her wit a scalpel.
She hoists her Louis V bag from the floor and grunts as it falls into her lap. She starts digging through it like she’s searching for gold.
“Where are they? I put them right here, right here, damn it. They should be here.”
I steer the 4Runner onto the interstate. “What should be?”
Blanche smooths dark, silky strands from her face. In its normal state, her hair is coarse, wild. In high school Blanche swore that the straightening iron was the greatest invention of man—or woman, because she was just about convinced a woman was behind the creation.
I agreed with her.
Blanche’s fingers scuttle through her bag as she turns and mouths, Smokes.
I hike a brow. “Did you just say what I think you said?”
She drops her voice. “Don’t tell Faith.”
“Don’t tell Faith what?” Faith pops into view between the seats. “Who isn’t supposed to tell Faith what? And what are you looking for, Blanche?”
“Nothing,” Blanche says.
Faith’s head whips toward me. “What is she searching for?”
“I plead the fifth.”
Faith occupies the entire rearview mirror. S
he nibbles her dusty rose–colored bottom lip. I can tell that her mind is searching through all possible scenarios of what Blanche could be needing so furiously.
Faith has to know everything, not be left out of the loop.
Blanche, however, keeps a stony face, her sharp features (nose, cheekbones, and chin—like a model’s) neutral. She will not tell Faith what she is looking for because she doesn’t want it to be a big deal, and I say nothing because I want to stay on Blanche’s good side.
Finally Faith blasts, “Cigarettes? Are you looking for cigarettes?”
Blanche bursts. “Goddamn it, how the hell did you figure that out?”
“Language,” Faith scolds.
Blanche raises her hand in apology. “Sorry, Lord,” to God, then to Faith, “but how do you know these things?”
Faith plumps her hair while Blanche smooths hers. “For goodness’ sake, you’re searching your purse like you’re trying to dig to China. You’re either looking for booze or smokes.” Faith pokes the air triumphantly. “I know it’s not booze, because I don’t hear glass tinkling, so it must be cigarettes because you smoked right up until you had Eliza Kate. Such a sweet little girl.”
Blanche shakes her head. “You’re like the female version of Sherlock Holmes. It’s so annoying.”
In the rearview mirror I see Faith smile proudly.
“Must be why Faith can thrift store shop and find amazing deals,” I add, trying to turn the conversation away from Blanche, to get Faith off her back.
It works. Faith’s hands flap excitedly. “Y’all, you would not believe what I discovered at America’s Thrift last week.”
“A body?” Blanche jokes.
“I’m going to ignore that,” Faith says. “No, I found Eileen Fisher.” She nearly explodes with excitement—hands batting, voice shrilling. “Got two hundred dollars for the top and bottom on eBay.”
“Wow,” Blanche says, impressed. “I need to shop at the thrift store.”
Faith laughs. “You have your own boutique. You can go home with anything you want.”
Blanche swats playfully at her. “That doesn’t mean I don’t like a deal.”
Don't Trust Her Page 3