by Stacey Jay
“Hi.” She holds out her hand, Southern manners kicking in. “I’m Libby … Grace’s big sister.”
I take her hand, but end our contact as quickly as possible. Libby has the dead-fish non-grip of many Southern ladies, that gentle lying down of a cold, limp palm that makes my skin crawl. “Yeah, I know, I’m—”
“Annabelle. I know.” There’s a trace of playfulness in her tone that hints at the sense of humor she has under normal circumstances. “I … We heard that you were the one … I just wanted to say thank you.” Her fingers worry at her ring finger, where a white circle marks skin usually covered by jewelry.
“You don’t have to thank me. It’s my job. I’m just … ” Hell. I’m going to say it; I can’t help myself. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” She sucks in a breath and her big, tear-filled blue eyes meet mine, punching me in the gut with her sadness, so eager to connect that I flip my sunglasses on top of my head. I can’t let her eyes be naked alone, despite the fact that the sunlight flicks at my eyeballs like the fingers of mean little boys. “I just can’t believe she’s gone. I thought she was playing one of her games … I thought we’d find her hiding out in the barn or the attic or … or somewhere.”
“She liked to play hide-and-seek?” I ask, partly because I’m curious, partly because I know it helps to talk about the person you’ve lost.
It’s one of the things I regret most about losing contact with my family. Maybe some day they would have forgiven me, and we could have talked about Caroline together. It’s no good remembering alone. It only makes Caroline feel more gone.
Libby shakes her head, a sad smile tugging at one side of her mouth. “No, she wasn’t much for hide-and-seek. She preferred magical adventures. She had such an imagination. She’d start pretending and forget there was a real world.”
There’s a wistfulness in her tone that makes me think she envied Grace’s ability to shut out the world.
“One time,” Libby continues, “she told me she’d pretended so hard that she could hear the song the mermaids in her game were singing. She sang some of it for me. It was a beautiful, original composition. I’m sure she would have been an amazing musician.” She breaks off with a breath that she holds as she fights another round of tears.
My chest aches with a combination of empathy and terror. Anxiety threads through my veins as I search for the right words and come up empty. I’m not equipped to counsel the grieving. Libby deserves better. I have to think of some way to get her in sturdy enough condition to drive out of here, and get myself out of this van.
“They’re going to catch the person who did this, Libby.”
“Is that why you’re here? Did you find something that will help them figure out who killed her?” Her words are so filled with hope that a part of me itches to tell her everything, but I can’t. I’m not supposed to be here without adult supervision myself, let alone spilling all to the victim’s family member.
“I definitely found some interesting stuff,” I say, “but … I can’t really share … if you know what I mean?”
“Right. Of course.” She twists her absent ring, and blushes, embarrassed. “I understand. I’m sorry, I—”
“No, it’s okay. Just know that the FBI is here and Cane and Abe are good at what they do and I’m going to help any way I can. We’re going to make sure this person is put away.”
She nods, sniffing. “I know. My mother said they already have a suspect in custody.”
“She did?” This is news. “Here in Donaldsonville?”
Libby nods again, and dread clutches at my throat. Fernando. He’s in custody here in Donaldsonville. But she has to be talking about someone else. Fernando would never hurt anyone, especially a child, and there’s no way Cane or Abe would have found evidence to the contrary. Still, I can’t help but ask, “Did your mother say who—”
“She wouldn’t tell me anything else. I’m too emotional to hear the ugly truth.” Her voice holds a note of “my mother makes me want to slice open a vein or drink myself into a stupor” bitterness I completely understand. I was just thinking yesterday that Barbara reminds me of my mom.
But my mom stayed in bed for a month after Caroline died. She barely ate, nearly overdosed on Valium and vodka, and lost so much weight she had to get fat injected into her face to look semi-normal again. She certainly hadn’t been running around the state Capitol building hours after her daughter’s body was found. It makes me wonder how much Barbara is really keeping from her “fragile” daughter.
“I bet I can find out who they’re holding this afternoon and let you know,” I say, throwing out the friendship rope before I think better of it. “I mean, since your mom already knows and everyone will know if charges are filed.”
“Really?” Libby grabs the rope and holds on tight. “Would you do that?”
“Sure. I have to meet the FBI at the station anyway. I’ve got a few connections. I’m sure I can get someone to spill something.”
“I would really appreciate it,” Libby says. “I just … want to know. The waiting is killing me. My brother, James, too. He hasn’t slept in three days.”
“I’ll do what I can. Do you want me to give you a call after?”
“Could you stop by the house? I used to have a cell phone, but my mother took it away,” she says with an awkward shrug. “After I quit the symphony, no one really called me anymore.”
Her words end in a sigh and an eye roll befitting a younger girl. But then, it seems her mother has done her best to keep Libby young and fragile and dependent. There’s something a little off about the woman next to me, and I’m betting her controlling mother has something to do with it. I have no idea how that might factor into Grace’s murder—I don’t get a killer vibe from Libby, that’s for sure—but there’s no way I’m passing up the chance to observe the Beauchamp family up close and personal.
“Sure, I can stop by. Maybe sometime this afternoon?”
“Afternoon would be fine. Or you could come for supper. We serve at six. Girls usually do dresses, but business casual would be fine,” Libby says, sending a lightning bolt through my gut. I haven’t dressed for dinner since I was fourteen and started eating all my meals in my room. “Percy’s making shrimp and grits and she always makes way too much for just the five of us.”
“Thanks, but I’m severely allergic to shellfish. I’d swell up and die,” I say, grateful for the excuse. Sitting down to a formal dinner with a grieving family sounds about as fun as taking Stephanie for a beer after my official review.
Ugh. Review. I glance at the dashboard clock. Eight-fifteen. I have plenty of time before I have to meet Stephanie, but I should probably get busy with the whole bail issue before Fernando’s hearing. Despite my delinquent youth, I have no idea how one goes about posting bail.
A part of me hopes the judge will be reasonable and release him on his own recognizance. With a potential child murderer also in custody, surely Fernando’s been downgraded to threat level not-very-serious.
“Well, that’s a shame.” Libby wilts, narrow shoulders hunching. “You know, you don’t have to come over at all if it’s a bother.”
“It’s no bother.”
“No, I know you must be really busy helping the police and the FBI and the whole town, really, so—”
“Libby, really, it’s no big—”
The sound of a car horn blaring in the near distance makes us both jump. It’s just so out of place. I’ve lived in Donaldsonville for years and never encountered this much action outside the iron gate. On instinct, I draw my gun and turn, catching sight of a long, metal storage container behind the driver’s seat. It looks a lot like the one Cane uses to store his metal suit, but shinier, newer.
I know the Beauchamps are loaded, but seriously, an iron suit’s a pricey item, one that’s usually reserved for law enforcement and research facilities. Very few private citizens own them. Most people who are that rich and afraid of fairies either move north
or invest in an iron-lined underground bunker.
So what’s with the suit? Does someone in the Beauchamp clan like tromping about in nature? Hunting? Fishing? Enough to risk their lives outside the gates? No matter why they purchased it, the suit certainly would make it easier for one of them to dump Grace’s body outside the iron gate. What if Benny is right? What if one of the Beauchamps …
Beside me, Libby presses herself against the driver’s side door, obviously freaked out by my firearm. “Please, you can put down the gun down. It’s probably just my brother. He hates it when I come out here.”
Seconds later, an iron-plated BMW with a fairy-repelling floodlight mounted on the roof pulls up behind the van and slams to a stop with a crunch of gravel. As Libby predicted, behind the wheel is an angry James Beauchamp. His usually carefully feathered blond-brown hair sticks up on one side as if he’s slept on it wrong, and his face is flushed and puffy. He tugs off a pair of sunglasses as big as my own and glares straight down the barrel of my gun, blue eyes so bloodshot I can see the red from seven feet away.
“Please, put the gun down!” Libby turns to wave frantically at her brother, almost as if she fears retaliation. Is her brother armed? A part of me wants to keep my own gun right where it is just to find out. “I’m fine! We’re just talking!” Libby calls, her shriek shrill enough to make my ears ring. Her bony fingers are on my arm a second later, clawing into my skin with more strength than our handshake revealed. “Please, I don’t want him to get out of the car. It isn’t safe.”
“It isn’t safe for you, either. You shouldn’t be out here if you don’t have to be.” I shove the gun back into its holster and give James a wave. He doesn’t wave back. Or smile. Or stop glaring at me like he’d like to peel pieces of skin from my face with his surgical knife. But he doesn’t get out of the car, either. After a few seconds, Libby’s hand slides from my arm with a shaky sigh.
“I know,” she says, still staring at her brother though her hands come back to worry her ring finger. “Sometimes I just feel so trapped, especially since … since Grace went missing. It helps to go for a drive. You know what I mean?”
“I don’t own a car, but yeah, I know what you mean.” And I do. If I were a different kind of woman, I might even give her a hug. Instead I reach for the door. “I’ll see you this afternoon, okay?”
“Yes. Thanks. Wonderful.” Libby stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Would you mind telling James I’ll see him at home? Tell him I’ll drive straight there.”
Great. Silently, I curse Libby’s mother for taking away her cell phone.
“Sure thing.” I flip my glasses over my eyes, hop out of the van, and wave as Libby starts it up.
She won’t be going anywhere until James backs away since he’s blocked the path back to the road, but I’m glad she’s taking the initiative. A part of me hopes James will get the message and head for home. I certainly won’t be offended if he bolts without saying “hello.” But he stays, BMW idling at a low purr, pinning me with a “what rock did you crawl out from under” look as I amble toward the car.
I’ve never been officially introduced to James, either, but we’ve exchanged words at the shuttle station a few times. He’s always been friendly and pleasant, if a little bland. But there’s nothing bland about him now. He looks like someone rammed a pole up his ass. A hot pole.
This is going to be fun.
I reach for the door, but the passenger’s window zips down a few inches before I can open it. Guess James isn’t worried about fairies this early in the morning. Or maybe he’s just that determined to keep me out of his fancy car.
“What were you doing with my sister?” he asks.
I force the smart-ass remark on the tip of my tongue back into my mouth. I have to remember this man has been through hell and has a good excuse for being a dickweed. “I was out here for work and saw she was upset. I thought she might want to talk.”
He laughs, a short, ugly sound. “Libby doesn’t talk. Not to strangers.”
It hits me as a condemnation, not a warning.
“Okay … ” Looks like brother is on the Libby-is-too-fragile-to-live bandwagon, too. Charming, the way families get together and decide what you are and aren’t capable of, whether you’ll be the golden child or the drunk, misfit loser.
Or maybe I’m projecting … the tiniest bit.
“Just leave my sister alone,” he says, a protective note in his voice. “You have no idea what she’s been through.”
“Actually, I—”
“And please tell her to come straight home. The FBI is at the house.”
The FBI? The Stephanie-flavored FBI or the Hitch-flavored FBI? Or both? Hmm … this doesn’t bode well for me delivering my new evidence before the meeting and getting my bonus points for kissing up. Dammit.
“Would you mind? Please?” he asks, when I tarry too long before rushing to do his bidding. “She doesn’t have a cell.”
“I know. She told me.” I smile, enjoying the irritation on his face. Take that, Mr. My Sister Doesn’t Talk to Strangers. “She also said she’s going straight home, so—”
“Good.” James zips up the window with a suddenness that makes me start. Before I can close my mouth, he’s shifted into reverse and backed away. Libby follows, raising her hand in one final, limp salute, and mouthing “thank you,” before hurrying down the gravel road after her brother.
It isn’t until I’ve wandered back to my bike and bent down to pull a fishing lure from Gimpy’s mouth—because apparently plastic and fake hair taste better than the perfectly good food I’ve offered—that I realize neither of them offered me a ride.
“So much for Southern hospitality,” I say, earning a growl when I toss the fly Gimpy was gnawing into my tackle box. I push the untouched can of cat food closer to his paw, and the growl becomes a full-fledged, teeth-baring hiss.
Satan’s Helper. Hmph. Indeed.
Seventeen
These are amazing. Thank you so much,” Dom says, fondling my camera in his long fingers, hazel eyes shining suspiciously. For a second, I’m afraid he might cry, or try to hug me, or something equally scary. Instead, he punches my arm and gives my braid a tug for good measure. “You done good, Lee.”
“Thanks. I try.” At least I’ve started trying. Harder, anyway.
“Hey … ” Dom’s hand moves to my shoulder as he peers into my face. “Are you all right? Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay … it’s just, your eyes.” He leans closer, until his nose almost touches mine. “Your pupils are huge.”
“Yeah, I know.” I laugh as I pull away, and flip my sunglasses back down with a self-conscious twitch. Rocking the sunglasses-indoors look is awkward, but better than being stared at like some sort of specimen. “It’s a head injury thing, totally normal. I feel fine.”
Mostly fine. Except for the light sensitivity, the slight, lingering headache, and the occasional auditory hallucination. All the way back to town, I swear I heard whispering in the trees, soft voices saying things I could almost understand. Things about “going away” and “staying away” or … something. But every time I stopped, straining to hear, the sound faded. By the time I reached the gate, the voices had vanished completely.
I’m probably just suffering from brain damage. Or finally losing my mind. Both are comforting thoughts.
I make a mental note to get to the doctor after my afternoon social call if things don’t improve. I still plan on visiting Libby to fill her in on whatever I learn, despite the fact that her brother’s about as friendly as my cat—who’s outside chewing a patch of grass by the front door instead of eating the cat food in the trailer. I’m beginning to think the Gimp has an eating disorder.
“I’m going to go download these right now,” Dom says. “Is that cool?”
“Very. That’s why I stopped in early.”
He cocks his head. “I thought you were here to give me your statement about what happened last night
. Dicker’s been up my ass about it all morning.”
“Um … I don’t remember anything about giving a statement.” It makes sense, and is probably something I should do, but Cane didn’t say anything about it when we talked. Had he? In all the excitement of the sort-of marriage proposal, that’s the kind of thing that could have slipped my attention.
“Dicker’s been calling your house for an hour.”
“I haven’t been at the house. I was out accomplishing great things.” I point to the camera in Dom’s hand. “Why didn’t he call my cell?”
“I have no idea. Because he’s Dicker? Because he can’t imagine anyone being out of the house before six o’clock?” Dom rolls his eyes before glancing back at the camera’s viewscreen, zooming in on one shot. For the first time, I notice how rough he looks, dark-circled and sallow-skinned, like he’s been up half the night. Which he probably has if they brought in a murder suspect sometime this morning. “Honestly, I think it can keep. You’ll be here at noon, anyway, right?”
“I’ll be around all morning. Either here or over at Swallows grabbing some breakfast.” And coffee. God, coffee. I need it in a major way. My stomach has finally settled and I’m feeling the caffeine withdrawal at a cellular level.
I need a strong cup, especially if I’m going to give an official statement about what happened to me and Hitch last night. I’m already planning to leave out the part about the invisible man—mostly because I’ve convinced myself my head injury is to blame for that particular bit of weirdness—but I should think hard on what else I might want to leave out.
Such as the fact that I was carrying Hitch’s gun in a concealed-type fashion, which I’m not legally entitled to do.
“Good. I’ll catch up with you later. I want to blow these up on the big screen and get a closer look.” He squeezes my arm with a tired, but excited, smile. “I didn’t see you. You dropped this off and were out the door before I could stop you.”
“Right,” I say, catching a bit of his excitement. “So you think the pictures are going to help with the investigation?”