Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  “That’s actually terrifying.” Leo shifts closer to me, more obvious about it this time.

  “What he said,” I echo, feeling more nauseated than nervous this time. “But seriously, are there some kind of classes I could take?”

  “No.” Daria smiles for the first time since we came in, watching me with a thoughtful expression this time. It’s one that makes me uncomfortable—as though she’s just figured out how to milk her prized dairy cow. “But I could let you tag along with some of my clients, if they don’t mind. Kind of walk you through things. See what type of medium you are.”

  “We’ll see,” I mumble, unwilling to commit. Not because it’s not intriguing, but because it’s another step forward. More people who will know that I’m not normal. That I’m odd, separate. Apart. In the end, I guess I am those things, whether people know about them or not.

  An image of Beau flickers through my mind, all hazel eyes and dimples and tanned skin. It morphs into one of him in a suit and red tie, poised behind a podium as he gives a speech in front of the South Carolina state flag.

  The man in that glimpse needs a girl on his arm who will help him. Who can boost his career and inspire people to vote for him, not a woman who people would tug their kids across the street to avoid. Unless they have a ghost problem.

  But if I’ve learned anything these past few months it’s that nothing can be more important than me right now. My life has been turned upside down and inside out in pretty much every way possible, and the one thing I know is that pretending to be that perfect girl just to hang on to Beau won’t end up well for either one of us.

  As much as I like him, as much as I might even love him, I’m not willing to be anything other than myself to keep him. I’ve made that mistake, and even though some people might call me a slow learner, that’s not a lesson I need to learn twice.

  Chapter Four

  Amelia

  This is my third therapy appointment in less than a week, counting the first one in the hospital. I’m more than ready to graduate to once a week and then once a month and then once a never. It’s not that I don’t like Dr. Farmer or that it’s not amazing that he keeps his air conditioner set to arctic—Gracie refuses to turn the one on at the house, which means to a woman who’s seven months pregnant, I might as well be living in hell. But I don’t like the feeling that sitting on his hard couch with my swollen feet up on his sleek coffee table gives me deep down in the pit of my stomach.

  The one that says I’ve lost control of my life.

  Being here, sitting across from the man tasked with putting my head back together, is just the reminder, of course. I lost control of my life the day I decided that the good things about Jake, about marrying into the Middleton family, outweighed the negatives.

  The negatives. The kosher word for abuse and manipulation so strong I still feel it tugging at me months after his death tightens my throat. I remember Dr. Farmer is watching every tic and swallow hard. Breaking down over a puny little thing like word choice will only draw out this whole process.

  “Do you want to talk about the falling-out between you and your cousin?” he asks, bright eyes peering at me like they can see through my thick skull.

  The answer to all of his questions that start with “do you want to talk about” is no. I don’t want to talk at all. I want to go home and ignore the world, crawl under the purple quilt that still smells a little bit like my grandmother and sleep until I can’t remember the past five-plus years of my life.

  Of course, I can’t sleep. Whether it’s the trauma or the sex sounds from Grace’s room or the baby or the fact that I wake up sixteen times a night terrified a nasty voodoo witch is going to send me sleepwalking into the river, I can’t do it.

  At least I’ll be ready for the baby.

  Thoughts crowd in, shoving at each other for space. Some are about being a mother, others about the Middletons and their lawsuit, Mrs. LaBadie and her curse, Anne Bonny and her legacy, and it takes all of the effort in my exhausted mind to lock them up tight.

  I meet Dr. Farmer’s eye. Swallow. “Sure.”

  “Okay. You said it started the night of your family wedding shower in Charleston.”

  “Yes. She was in town from Iowa and we hadn’t seen each other in a long time. She hadn’t even met Jake except for a tailgate during junior year, but I could tell she didn’t like him.” I do smile now, because the memory is kind of funny in its tragedy. That’s me these days. A hilarious tragedy. “None of my smart friends liked Jake. The only ones who liked him were the shallow, stupid girls who assumed getting married to a family like his mattered more than anything else about him.”

  “More than how he treated you.”

  “Yes. But in those days it wasn’t really that. It was the hint of it. The stink of it.” My nose wrinkles on its own, but I straighten it back out. “There was something off about him. I explained it away, forgave it when he made me uncomfortable, but Grace sensed it, too. I hated her for not letting it go.”

  “For tainting your happiness.”

  “No. For not letting me be happy.”

  “She told you she didn’t like him? Didn’t approve of the match?”

  I have no idea why Dr. Farmer talks like he’s auditioning for a part in Downton Abbey. Oddly, it’s one of the things that makes me like him a little bit more.

  “She didn’t have to say anything. Grace and I were closer than sisters growing up, and every single thought she’s ever had parades straight across her face.” I close my eyes, reliving that night. My cousin, the person I loved most in the world, coming to me an hour after we’d gotten back from the bars. Tears streaking her face, hair half torn out of its long ponytail, flimsy tank top ripped so one of the thin straps flopped over her shoulder. “But she said something later, after Jake tried to rape her.”

  That gets him. His eyes widen, the first sign of surprise I’ve gotten out of him in three sessions. And we’ve already covered three years of physical abuse and more than one of my own rapes.

  I never knew you could be raped by your own husband, but according to Dr. Farmer, no means no even if there’s a ring on your finger and a signature on the dotted line. It’s interesting information, but it wouldn’t have made Jake act any differently so it’s not much good to me either way.

  “I knew she wasn’t lying. In my gut, in my heart. Grace would never lie to me about something like that, and unlike Jake, she’s not a manipulator. A whiner, sure, and a bit of a baby when she wants her way, but she was telling the truth.” Tears fill my eyes at the memory of her face when I accused her of trying to sabotage my happiness. Of being jealous. The betrayal, the hurt, the way her eyes went wide and she shook her head, as though maybe her ears weren’t working. “It was the easier road, sending Grace away. Not having to look at her and know she was right about Jake.”

  “Easier for whom? Jake?”

  “Easier for me at the time, and you know, I think part of me knew that apologizing to Grace and having her forgive me would be a simpler prospect than breaking my engagement and dealing with the fallout from that.”

  “And you were right, at least about your cousin. The two of you are living together and you’ve said she’s the biggest part of your support system.”

  Sadness like I’ve never felt, the kind that I’ve been trapping inside me with smiles and sarcasm and I’m fine’s, wells up. It’s hot and oily and burns like acid and for several minutes, eating away my ability to respond. To even think about anything other than what I did to Grace. What I did to our relationship and how I still haven’t apologized.

  It spills out of my eyes as I gulp air, unwilling to voice my most desperate fear to this man who is still a stranger. Then again, who else will I tell? Grace? She’ll wave it off, tell me all is forgiven, but I know it’s not. Know it can’t be, not really, because when you explode a relationship into that many pieces it’s impossible to find them all. Impossible to put the ones you do find back together in a way that makes the
feelings and trust and easiness between you the same as it was before, and I’m scared.

  My parents will always be there for me financially and even with advice, if I need it, but Grace? She’s the only person who loves me. If I apologize, if I have to look closely enough to see the cracks and missing pieces and drips of glue holding us together, I’m going to really lose it.

  “Grace is wonderful.” My insides are disappearing. Being eaten away. The baby moves, a reminder that I’m not alone in my body, and I cringe. “But I don’t deserve her forgiveness.”

  “Maybe not, but you’ll never know if you don’t ask for it. Have you apologized?”

  I shake my head, wiping tears with the back of my hand before remembering that I keep a stash of my grandmother’s embroidered handkerchiefs in my purse. Not Grandma Harper, Grandma Cooper. Grandma Harper wasn’t the embroidering type. “I’m not ready.”

  It’s true. I’m not ready to look my sins in the face, and maybe that’s the most telling thing of all. I used to think I was brave, that the whole world was at my feet ready to be stomped into submission, but right now, the thought of that girl makes me want to laugh. She’s someone else, some stupid, naive child that I want to slap some sense into but it’s too late. She’s already ruined.

  “That’s fair. And no one is going to force you, but I think that apologizing to your cousin so that the two of you can move past this moment in your life is going to be a big step in you starting to feel like you can be that version of Amelia again. The one who feels like she’s in control of her life.”

  I nod, willing the tears to dry up. It takes forever these days, which is why it’s best to hold them off if at all possible. It could be blamed on the baby, and that’s part of it, but the truth is that I’m just as much of a mess as Grace and my mother and Mel—and Dylan—think I am.

  “Okay.” Dr. Farmer reaches out and pats my knee, managing to not seem like a creeper in the process. Practice, probably. “Our time is up. I know this is a struggle for you, and I’d like to remind you again that we can discuss the benefits and drawbacks of starting an antidepressant during pregnancy…” He trails off as my head shakes on its own.

  I’ve made it this long without it and there are only a few months to go. If nothing else, I’m going to take care of this kid until he’s out of my body and has a fighting chance. No promises after that. “I’ll be okay. He’s more important than anything else. I’ve never lost sight of that.”

  Dr. Farmer nods, looking less than convinced but resigned, since this is our third time having this discussion in as many appointments. It’s not worth it to me to take the chance, and I’ve done enough soul-searching to feel sure that I won’t hurt little Jack by hurting myself. Not now.

  Once he’s born, all bets are off.

  The day seems brighter and more full of oxygen outside of the small strip mall that houses Dr. Farmer’s office, along with an insurance office and a dance studio. It also seems a bit scarier out in the open without four walls and people I’ll have to smile at and lie to if we pass on the street. We need a few groceries—we’re out of milk and the granola bars Grace lives on in the mornings—so instead of heading straight for my car, I turn toward the center of town. Heron Creek doesn’t have a lot of conveniences, large grocery store included, but the little market in town stocks the essentials and a few things the owners know are popular with certain people.

  Grace thinks everyone in this town thinks she’s turned into a big weirdo since she left and returned, but those granola bars? I know the Baileys buy them for her. The truth is that Grace has always been weird in one way or another, and so is everyone else in this town. And every town, I suspect. No one, aside from perhaps Mrs. Walters who has apparently never chanced upon a mirror, would turn Grace away from dinner or a cup of coffee because she sees ghosts now. In fact I suspect most of them would revel in the gossip and maybe even ask my cousin to come over to see if she can ferret out any lingering spirits in their own aging homes.

  The day is nice, making me a tad sorry that it was wasted indoors at the library even though the job there is easy and even, on the days when the children come in, fun. Working with Grace gives us more time together, which I enjoy, and most of the townspeople who happen by on occasion have a kind word for me and the baby. If Grace thinks they’re all judging her for her broken engagement or her ability to walk the line between the dead and the living—in more ways than one—then what must they think of the girl who shot and killed her husband after years of abuse?

  There are still people like those shallow, stupid girls in college who undoubtedly think that Jake’s family name and the amount of zeros in his bank account should have earned him a free pass in all things. I grew up in Charleston, where the only thing more important than money is your last name, except maybe how many generations before you are buried in the local graveyard. It doesn’t surprise me that there are those who would create their own roles for Jake and me, their own version of what our marriage was like and of the events that ended it.

  If Beau and Grace hadn’t been there to witness the majority of it, and if he wasn’t the mayor and from a good, old family himself, there’s not a doubt in my mind I’d be sitting in a jail cell right now. It would have been a strange kind of irony, me following in Anne Bonny’s footsteps so closely, but I can’t say I’m sorry to have missed out on it. Even if being in prison would be easier in some ways.

  A breeze kicks up, washing Heron Creek with the salty scent of the waterway, and my feet take an unauthorized detour toward the Charles River. The riverwalk is well kept, with the wooden planks power-washed once a quarter and the benches repainted a color we call haint blue around these parts. It smells like autumn, with a hint of burned leaves and cooler weather tangling with the normal scent of the water, and the stillness of the scene encourages me to take a seat.

  I don’t want to think about anything at all but worries crowd my mind. Grace knows about the nightmares that seem real, because she has them too, but she doesn’t sleepwalk. We lock my door at night now, fire hazards be damned, and that’s kept me in one place. I can’t help but worry that if they’re really planted by Mrs. LaBadie and they’re really part of the curse that’s trying to end little Jack’s life, there are probably plenty of things in my own room and en suite that can kill me. Who’s to say she won’t have me fill up the bathtub and drown myself, no one the wiser?

  That damn curse scares the shit out of me. Grace believes it and so do I, but it’s easier most days to pretend it’s a bunch of poppycock. But there’s always the memory of ghostly Anne’s face, the sorrow and anxiety twisted together on her weathered expression, and the truth of the curse punches the air out of my lungs. People don’t hang around for hundreds of years, don’t go to the trouble Anne Bonny did, for something that isn’t deadly. There’s no doubt that even if the curse isn’t a real thing Mrs. LaBadie believes it is, and believes voodoo can kill me, and believing has the strange ability to make things real even if maybe they’re not.

  Some people on the internet say voodoo can only hurt you if you believe in it, and if that’s true, I’m well and truly fucked.

  “I’d say a penny for your thoughts but that’d probably be really cheesy.”

  I look up, knowing who the owner of the deep southern drawl is before the town’s newest detective smiles down at me, the sun at his back. His accent isn’t local—I’d guess Tennessee, if I cared enough to guess—and since I also don’t care enough to ask, it remains a mystery. It’s not as though there’s anything offensive about Dylan Travis. In fact, he’s quite handsome, has a nice smile, and has been kind to me when he certainly didn’t have to do a thing. It’s just that there’s already two people in my personal space right now and with everything going on, that seems like more than enough.

  Grace likes him, even if she doesn’t want to and may never admit it. She thinks it’s good for me to have as many people on my side right now as possible, and she’s likely not wrong, which is why I’v
e been friendly with Dylan instead of surly, which is my inclination.

  So, I smile even though he’s interrupted a perfectly good wallow. “Hello, Detective Travis.”

  The slightest flicker of exasperation flits through his stormy gray eyes but it’s gone before it materializes. He motions to the bench. “Mind if I sit?”

  “It’s a free country. Last time I checked.”

  He settles next to me, leaving a foot or so between us but not scooting toward the opposite end the way he could. His bulky frame relaxes into the wooden slats and his gaze skims the calm, saltwater river and the empty boardwalk before settling on me. Dylan doesn’t have to stare the way Dr. Farmer does, with all that intensity. I get the feeling the detective reads everything he needs to know in a couple of seconds.

  Whatever he sees now twists his lips in a wry expression. “You’re looking fine. For a woman who’s barely sleeping.”

  “Who says I’m barely sleeping?”

  “The dark circles and your general air of exhaustion.” He waits for an argument but doesn’t get one. “It’s normal, I hear, for the last trimester. My youngest sister is on her third already.”

  Pregnancy trials is safe ground. Despite the supernatural forces after my son and the trauma he suffered with me at the hands of Jacob Middleton, my pregnancy has been relatively calm. It makes me feel better, most days, that Jack seems to be as strong as his ancestor and his namesake.

  “I can’t say I’m enjoying every bit of the process,” I admit. “When he really gets to moving I feel like the scene from Alien is imminent. But overall, I have no real complaints.”

  “Hmm.”

  Travis’s hmm says a million things. It’s one of the aspects of the man that makes me think I would like him, if I let myself…that he’s a man of few words but many thoughts. We sit in companionable silence for several minutes, another bonus of spending time with Dylan, and his presence is so unobtrusive I almost forget he’s there.