I narrow my eyes at Jackson, who studiously avoids looking at me.
Poor Grayson. He can’t win today. Gotta give him credit as he wades in and tries to smooth over the bad feelings floating above us all.
“So your friend Lisa adopted one of our senior dogs.”
Relieved at the benign topic, I smile. “That’s great. I remember you saying they’re the last ones to get adopted if they ever do. What do you think of her?”
“Are you playing matchmaker?”
The wine slides down my throat. Cool and fruity. “Well, she’s single and you’re single. You’re both reasonably attractive and interesting. Why not?”
“I don’t know. There’s something about her…like she’s always comparing herself to everyone else. I really don’t want any drama, and she strikes me as the dramatic type.”
I can’t help but grin. “You’re right about that part. But some guys like the drama, and from what you’ve told me, your ex was a drama queen.”
He gets up. “Want another?”
I nod and he grabs another beer out of the cooler and takes one to Jackson. When he comes back, he has the wine bottle, which is now half empty, and tops off my glass.
“You’re right, my ex was a drama queen. I’m trying to make an effort to pick a different type in the future.”
I raise my glass. “To becoming the best version of ourselves.”
“I’ll toast to that.”
“How about you, Jackson?” He’s pissed but doesn’t usually stay angry long. If I can distract him with sex, I might avoid an argument later tonight.
“I’m already the best I can be.” He chuckles and turns the steaks on the grill, making them sizzle. The smell of meat fills the air, making my mouth water.
“Looks like they’re about ready.”
To celebrate the break in the heat, I’ve gone all out. Tomorrow will be hot again, so better take advantage. Jackson is used to his mother and her garden parties, so he didn’t even grumble when I asked him to carry all the stuff down. I made a tablecloth and matching napkins from vintage sheets. Then set the table with a set of old chintz dishes.
“Are we supposed to use these? I’m kind of messy when I eat. You better give me a roll of paper towels.” Grayson looks dubiously at the cloth napkin.
“Don’t worry, they’ll wash. We always use cloth napkins at home. You’d be amazed how easily stuff comes out. Plus they’re good for the environment. Not so many paper products going to the landfills.”
“But don’t you have to wash them? Doesn’t the water usage sort of even out?”
I sit back and grin as Jackson expands on his whole “let’s save the planet” tirade. It’s one of the things I like about him. He honestly believes the world can be saved.
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. These baked beans are to die for.” Grayson sits back and pats his belly.
“I know, right? Everyone who tastes them wants the recipe.” Jackson takes another spoonful of potato salad and passes the bowl.
“I don’t cook.” Grayson takes a bite of his steak, satisfaction filling his face as he chews.
“Well, I guess you just have to come over and eat whenever I make them.” It’s nice sitting outside with candles on the table and the three of us talking. I think we’ve gotten past Jackson being mad at me, or at least I hope so.
For the first time since everything happened, I relax just the tiniest bit. There’s a possibility I can have a semi-normal life. Superheroes do it. But not without great cost, says the voice in my head.
CHAPTER 37
LAST WEEK JACKSON AND I spent the long Fourth of July holiday at the beach house on the Isle of Palms. After a lot of discussion, he agreed not to say anything more about me learning to shoot. Said he wouldn’t go with me but he also wouldn’t give me a hard time. He only asked I didn’t tell his parents. They wouldn’t understand. Fine by me.
I had to reassure him there’s nothing between Kevin and I. Though if our situations were reversed, I’d dump his ass. The unexplained absences, the evasion. I would swear he was cheating on me. He also found out I was no longer going to art class when he showed up on a Tuesday night with an armful of roses. The instructor told him I hadn’t been there in months. He gave her the flowers and then stormed in my door.
For a moment I was a child again, listening to my parents go to war. We’re at a tenuous place in our relationship. Unable to let go yet, I was making things worse. Why he hasn’t walked out is a mystery.
The beach trip helped a little. It won’t last. How could it?
Every night after work for the past week I’ve followed Frank Pearl. And from everything I’ve found out, humanity won’t miss him at all. In and out of trouble with the law since he was a teenager. Everything from breaking and entering to drugs and assault. In and out of prison several times. He makes me nervous. All the others so far have been lowlifes, lacking the predatory look in their eyes. Not Frank. I need to be on my game.
Grayson is to thank for alerting me to the story. A family farm backs up to Frank’s trailer. One day while drunk, he stabbed a cow and a pig. The two little boys who lived on the farm were heartbroken. Both animals were considered family pets.
Frank’s defense? They woke him up every day and smelled. He paid a fine along with compensation, and agreed to move to a trailer at the opposite end of the trailer park. The family could purchase another cow and pig. While they were upset, they said they felt justice had been served, as Frank had begged them for mercy. Swore he was getting help for the drinking. Going to church and turning his life around. The kindhearted family bought his bullshit, hook, line, and sinker.
Not me. It’s funny how you come to recognize lies. When you start telling them to everyone around you, they’re easy to spot in others. There’s a news clip online that I’ve watched over and over. The same thing. He isn’t sorry. Not at all. He’s trying to save his sorry ass. Frank is a drain on society. The family might have forgiven him. I hadn’t.
The teary-eyed boy told the reporter how he’d raised the pig from a piglet. The animal would follow him around, letting the boys dress it up in all kinds of ridiculous costumes. There’s a picture on their social media page showing the boys sitting under a tree, the pig stretched out at their feet, the cow wearing a wig. The pig wore a hat, sunglasses, and a scarf.
The mother said the boys loved to spend weekends outside, reading out loud to the animals, coming up with elaborate plays in which everyone had a part. The cow they purchased at a fair with plans to send it to the butcher when it was fully grown, but the children became so attached that they decided not to, instead treating the cow like a very large dog.
The cow would come to the door and press his nose against a large bell they had hung there, making it ring. His way of asking to come inside. He hung out in the great room with them. The family admitted it wasn’t a situation for everyone, but the boys were ecstatic. One child wanted to be a veterinarian when he grew up. The other a doctor.
That Frank would take such innocent pure joy away from the boys is enough to send me into a black rage. And that is why I find myself walking along the wooded trail at Lake Johnson, looking for my target. He likes to rent a canoe, take it out on the lake, usually close to closing time. A random person would think he was sincere in trying to turn his life around, but I know better.
Three days ago I caught him sitting still in the canoe, a pair of binoculars in his hands. But they weren’t trained on something in the trees or water; no, they were focused on the apartments backing up to the lake. He was looking into windows. The next day, I brought my own binoculars to see what was so intriguing. The deviant was spying on young women.
A peeping tom was another black mark against him. I saw the predatory hunger when he removed the binoculars. It was only a matter of time before this man moved from stabbing an animal to stabbing a person. Another in a long list of deficiencies in his psyche.
Not on my watch. Today I walk along, earbud
s in, Duran Duran playing. The park closes at dusk. People are already leaving. And while folks are generally friendly, saying hello or waving when they pass each other, I’m careful to keep a laser-focused look on my face. Giving the barest of nods and briskly walking so no one tries to start up a conversation. To the casual observer I look like someone completely focused on my health.
Up ahead is a break in the trees with a clear view of the lake and apartments. I slow my pace, the black messenger bag slung across my body, lightly banging against my hip. The blue gun nestles inside, waiting.
The black wig is a bob, reminding me of flappers from the twenties. It itches in the heat, my antiperspirant working overtime to keep me from sweating buckets. There are entire dresser drawers devoted to items for my uniforms. The cheap sneakers in boxes are stacked on the floor of the walk-in closet.
There he is. Pretending to fish. Soon a whistle will sound, calling everyone in. Frank will have to return soon. A jogger runs past and I turn my face away. When the woman on a bike goes by, I kneel down to retie my shoes, keeping my face turned away.
I step off the path, into the trees.
CHAPTER 38
IT’S COOLER UNDER THE TREES, everything in shadow. And quieter even than the trails. A beautiful place I hate to taint with violence. But it can’t be helped. Where the damned go, so do I. Walt has showed me the home isn’t necessarily the best choice.
The mantra to overcome all hindrances to my success and to protect me from danger goes through my mind. It’s what I’ve been repeating each time I make myself ready. Not what Buddha would have had in mind, I’m sure. But we all use the tools we are given. Repeating it shifts me from Hope Jones, beloved granddaughter, girlfriend, and upstanding professional, to the sword of justice.
Frank is intently staring at the apartments. He’s in my sights. I pull the trigger at the same instant the whistle sounds, telling everyone Lake Johnson is closing for the night. Damn it. The crack of the gunshot echoes across the lake and I miss him, but I must have been close the way he jerks. The abrupt move makes him lose his balance, the binoculars going into the water with a splash.
I turn to run, not wanting to risk being caught. My foot sinks into the muck at the water’s edge. The slight delay is all he needs. Pain slices through my bicep as I hear the answering shot.
My fingers come away red. Dizziness threatens to take me down. It looks as if someone has taken a knife and sliced across my upper arm. He grazed me. As I stand there like a deer waiting for the hunter to make the kill shot, another shot rings out, tree bark exploding near my head. Hitting the ground, I roll over, frantically scrabbling for the gun, losing the wig.
Shit. I can’t leave either behind. He’s paddling furiously toward the shore and me. The darkness takes over and I lose track of time. My ears ring as I look down to see the gun in my hands. A splash and the canoe is empty. I still don’t know how I shot him. Shouting and the cracking of twigs pushes me into action.
I jam the wig and gun into the bag and run toward the voices, screaming at the top of my lungs.
“Help! Someone’s been shot.”
Two young guys are crashing through the brush. I run the opposite direction, jamming a hat on my head. My arm throbs. They are going to find my blood at the scene.
I hear them talking to someone. “We were running and heard the shots. It came from the water. There’s a canoe but no one inside.”
A man speaks up. “We’ve called the police. Wait here.”
I keep moving away from them, making my way back to come out further down the path.
“He’s wearing a gray hoodie. Went that way!” A woman runs by, oblivious to my presence, screaming. “There’s a madman on the loose. A guy on the lake was shooting at people! Everyone out of the park.”
Close to the pavilion, I slow my pace, put the earbuds back in, and keep moving. I can see workers trying to get everyone to come under the shelter, wait for the police to arrive. Dirt and leaves are stuck in my hair and I look like I rolled down the path. Thank goodness for always wearing black. My long sleeves are soaked. To others I’ll look sweaty after a workout, unless they get too close and smell the blood.
Not thirty seconds after I pull out of the parking lot, two police cars come screaming by. All I can think about is my blood at the scene and if anyone saw me. I know Frank did. Is he still alive?
I keep driving, needing to get away. The buildings downtown are empty for the weekend. All the workers at home. There are usually events, so I need to avoid the main downtown area, move further into the sketchy sections. There’s a boarded-up warehouse of some sort, and that’s where I stop. If there are people about, they’re inside their homes. In the back seat, I change, wincing as I bump my arm.
The wound is about the width of a pencil and hurts like hell. After disposing of everything, I go home to clean up. No way can I go into a store looking the way I do.
Adrenaline wearing off, I’m exhausted and fall asleep on the couch. When I wake, I check my arm. It’s throbbing with every breath but at least it isn’t bleeding. Once I clean up the bit of blood on the sofa and throw my clothes into the wash, I pop four ibuprofen to take the edge off.
The shower is torture. My arm starts bleeding again, but I can’t sit around with smudges of dirt on my face and leaves in my hair. What a disaster.
At the beach, cuts always heal faster after you’ve been in the ocean. After filling a canning jar with warm water and sea salt, I put the lid on and shake it vigorously until the salt dissolves. I take a tiny sip to see if it tastes like the ocean, add more salt, and think yes, this time it does. I drop the towel and climb into the wet tub. With a deep breath I pour the entire jar over my arm. The scream tears from my throat, the pain sending me to my knees, panting.
“Hellfire and damnation, that hurts.”
CHAPTER 39
TUESDAY AT WORK, I REACH up to write on the whiteboard and wince.
“What happened? Get into a bar brawl or something?” Lewis points to my arm.
“I went to Seagrove this weekend and tripped over a rock. A branch got me pretty good.”
“Glad you’re okay. I’ve never been to Seagrove. Is that where all the local potters are located?”
“It is. You should go if you like that kind of stuff or need to send a gift to your mom or someone.”
I’ve been scouring the news, reading every account and piece I can find about Lake Johnson. Police recovered evidence but won’t say what kind. They do say there’s a person of interest. The two college guys from NC State provided the description of the man in the hoodie they saw running away. Others agreed the man in the canoe was shooting at people on the trails. The body has been recovered. A single gunshot wound to the neck. There’s no way I could have made the shot, but somehow I did it. The belt caught on a tree limb and held him under until he drowned or bled out. So technically the drowning may have killed him. Screw that. He’s going on the list.
There are no other details at this time. The man’s name will be released pending notification to his next of kin. Of course they ask for anyone with any information, no matter how small, to come forward. Soon enough, the public will find out what a horrible person Frank was. I smile, glad he’s dead. My blood is at the scene. Have they found it? Or with everyone running about, is it ground into the dirt and the muck? I know I’m not in any databases, but I hate the thought of them having my DNA. Which one do they know about?
That night after dinner, Jackson and I are at his place in bed together. He touches my arm below the bandage. Every night I’ve repeated the salt water, believing it will heal me faster.
“I still think you need to see a doctor. You don’t want it to get infected. Who knows what kind of bacteria was on the ground.”
“You’re so sweet to worry about me. It’s scabbing over nicely, so I think it’s fine. But I’ll keep an eye on it.”
Jackson picks up the bracelet on the nightstand, touching each of the six charms.
“Is this one new?” He points to the Darling Daisy Meadow charm.
“You’re so observant. You should have been a private investigator or a cop. I got it to remind me of Gram.”
“No way. Neither pays enough to suit me.” He stretches, showing off his six-pack. “Why don’t you pick out a couple you’d like? I want to get you something.”
“You don’t have to do that. I don’t need anything else.”
“You’re one of the few women I know who says she doesn’t need gifts. Just for that, you have to pick out five charms.” He touches the charms. “I’ve seen these in the store. They’re not cheap. So promise you’ll pick out five, otherwise I’ll pick out the ugliest ones I can find and you’ll have to wear them or risk hurting my feelings.”
“You win.” It isn’t like I can’t use them.
Jackson hands me the bracelet. “I’m going to make us some popcorn.” He hands me the iPad. “Start looking. I want to order them before we go to sleep tonight. Otherwise I’ll forget and you won’t remind me.”
“Yes, sir. Now go make us some popcorn. It’s my turn to pick the movie.”
I make a show of staring at the screen, trying to decide what to pick. When in reality I’ve already picked out the charms I want next.
The smell of popcorn fills the room. Jackson tastes like salt and butter when we kiss. He hands me another glass of wine.
“We could be Olivia Pope.” He laughs. “Wine and popcorn, right? Though you’re too nice.”
I hand him the tablet. “You could be the guy running for senator.”
“In another year or two, I hope to be.”
My stomach clenches. Don’t let him suffer because of my choices.
“These are the ones you picked out?”
“Do you like them? If you don’t, I’ll pick others.”
“This Around the World charm. We should commemorate it. What do you think about going to Italy? We could go on a vineyard tour.”
There Was a Little Girl Page 16