He’d never fainted, but had heard it described often enough to know he was on the verge.
“What truth?”
She looked around and leaned close to him, whispering in his ear. “The angel took my daddy to the bad place. Saved me. I hugged her because I knew the truth. Angels don’t tell you they’re angels. It’s a secret.”
She sat back and handed him a red crayon. “Want to help me draw some hearts? I’m making this picture to mail to heaven. To tell the angel thank you for saving me and giving me a new family.”
Like an interlocking puzzle, every piece fell into place. He’d lost perspective just as he had with Nikki. Those closest never saw the danger.
Grayson’s entire world collapsed. It was her. Hope.
“Are you okay, sweetie?” Melanie knelt down beside him, concern in her eyes. “You look a little green.”
“I think it was the hotdog we got from the street vendor. Do you mind if I take you home?”
“When we get to my place, I’ll fix you some toast.”
“I really appreciate it, but I need to go home. I’m a terrible patient and I’m not ready for you to see that side of me yet.” He forced a smile, his mind going over every interaction. It was all there. How had he missed the signs?
“Okay.” The way Melanie said the word, he heard all the shades of meaning in her voice. Just like his ex used to do. Okay meant anything but.
Grayson turned to the little girl. “I almost forgot.” He held out the red crayon. “We have to go now, but maybe I’ll see you again soon.”
She took the crayon and went back to coloring, not looking up as she said, “Okay, mister.”
After he dropped Melanie off at her apartment, Grayson drove to Lake Johnson. He sat in one of the chairs overlooking the water, his feet on the railing. People were out walking, jogging. Alone and with others. Did they truly know the people they were with?
“Excuse me, we close at dusk.” The woman from the concession stand stood there looking uncertain.
“Thanks. Guess I lost track of time.”
The feelings he had for her had clouded his ability to see her for who she really was. All the little niggling doubts came back to him. The things she said, how he saw her coming in at odd hours, Jackson telling him how erratically she behaved. Did she even have a new job in the mountains? He’d run into Jackson when he was out to dinner with Melanie a few nights ago, and he told him Hope was unhinged. How she’d been fired for throwing a pen at someone. How she was never around and he thought she was cheating.
Grayson snorted as he pulled the car door shut and started the motor. She wasn’t cheating—she was out killing people.
He would’ve never guessed. She looked so sweet and kind. Not at all like someone who could commit murder.
She was responsible for thirteen murders that they knew of. Not three shooters. Hope with three guns.
He gripped the steering wheel so hard he was surprised it didn’t bend in two. He had to tell Kevin and everyone else. While a tiny part of him admired her for doing what they could not, the side of him that wanted to help people and believed in the justice system couldn’t let her actions stand.
Grayson felt sick to his stomach as he made the call. Voicemail picked up. “It’s Grayson. There aren’t three killers, there’s one, and I know who it is. It’s—”
There was a sickening crunch. Glass rained down and pain sliced through Grayson’s body. The life drained out of him as he looked to the other vehicle. The car had run the light and nailed him in the driver’s-side door. Would an airbag have saved him? He’d had a seatbelt put in the vintage MG, but never airbags.
How fast was that guy going, to do so much damage? It was his last thought as his vision tunneled inward, going dark. His heart slowed and a moment later stopped.
CHAPTER 61
EVERYTHING I OWN NOW FITS into the back of my SUV. I knock on Grayson’s door to say a final goodbye, tell him not to wonder about the people coming in and out of my place picking up my donations, but there’s no answer. He’s probably with his girlfriend.
During the week there isn’t much traffic, but the weekends are awful, and only get worse once school is out. The drive to the beach takes much longer than normal because I’m paranoid and keep getting off at random exits. Stopping to get a sweet tea or top off the tank. Always watching.
I drive down Highway 12 feeling better. No one is following me. I follow 12 to Route 158 then back to Highway 12, passing through Cape Hatteras and ending up in Buxton.
I stop to pick up the keys from the rental office. And to pay in cash. They’re happy to get it, and while they’re probably honest, who knows? They may take the cash and only report part of it for taxes. That’s the great thing about dealing in cash.
I sign the papers and hand over the money. He doesn’t even ask for ID. I signed Caroline Pope. All he wants is the cash.
“Not too crazy around here yet.”
“Fine by me. I’m working on a book, so I need quiet. Probably be a hermit while I’m here.”
“Do people still read? Figured everybody spent most of their time binge-watching their favorite shows.”
I laugh. “You’re probably right. Anyway, this is literary fiction, so an even smaller market.” I want to discourage him from any nosy questions. The last thing I want is someone bothering me.
Predictably, he grimaces. “If you need anything, give us a call.”
I make one final stop at a small grocery and load up. It will hold me for a good week. If I only have to come in once a week over the next few weeks, maybe people won’t be too curious. By late May there’ll be so many people you won’t notice anyone coming or going.
The cottage sits nestled in the dunes as I pull up to the carport. Back and forth, I make trips up and down the stairs, carrying in my clothes and boxes of belongings. I stand in the kitchen guzzling a bottle of water. On the way here, I thought about trading in the car, but decided to wait until my beach rental is up. Once I know where I’m going, I’ll get something else. The only thing left is the hope chest. There’s no way I can carry it myself.
Tomorrow I’ll call the rental place to see if they know of a couple of guys wanting to make a few bucks. I jog downstairs to shut the car doors and hear a voice.
A guy is walking his dog, an aging retriever who looks happy to sit down and relax.
“You moving in? Odd time of year for it.”
“I prefer the beach when it’s not crowded. Gives you time to think.”
He peers at the car. “Looks like you could use a hand.”
“Wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“No trouble at all. Bessie would be happy to take a break.” He kneels down and strokes the dog’s ears. I can see the love he has for her.
“She’s welcome to come in.”
“No. She’ll be fine here, but if you have a bowl of water…”
“Of course.” I start to walk to the house then turn around when I realize he isn’t following me. He looks to be early seventies, with a craggy face, and perpetually tan.
“Might as well carry this in while we’re going.”
I suppress a grin. Empty, the chest doesn’t weigh that much. More that it’s awkward.
“Where do you want it?”
“In the bedroom.”
We put it at the foot of the bed. I find a bowl and give the man two bottles of water.
“For you and Bessie.”
He looks at his watch. “I’ve got to get back. The missus will be wondering where I am.”
I trail after him to close up the car. The dog laps up the water and we stand there quietly waiting for her to finish. I like a man who doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence with needless talking.
A howl breaks the silence.
“Was that a coyote?”
The craggy face splits into a grin. “You’ve been welcomed. It’s a red wolf.”
“Here? I thought they were on the mainland.”
�
��He showed up a few weeks ago. If you’re lucky, you might see him. Around the gloaming.”
“The gloaming?”
“Twilight. Dusk.”
“I’ll be on the lookout.”
He hands me the empty bowl and bottle. “Appreciate it.”
“Anytime. It’s the least I can do after you helped me.”
I say goodbye and go back inside. He looks like he’s lived here his entire life. And his dog looks positively ancient. It takes a nice guy to keep an old dog like that. The guys after me…I’m certain they aren’t nice at all.
The next morning after an early walk on the beach, I make oatmeal. Sit on the deck wrapped up in a blanket. I love the sound of the waves and the wind. The gulls calling to each other.
I finish putting my belongings away and arranging everything the way I want it. Making a home, albeit a temporary one.
The voice speaks up. You know there’s evil everywhere. You only have to open your eyes and look.
I will the voice to go away. To be quiet and leave me in peace. Just for a little while.
That afternoon I take a long nap. After a dinner of spaghetti and garlic bread, I decide to take another walk on the beach. There are a few people out. We nod as we pass each other. My skin drinks in the salty air. By the time I’ve turned around and come back, I have sand up to my calf. The outdoor shower is icy cold, making me gasp.
Being at the beach calls for a lighter drink, so I mix St. Germain and champagne. Instead of pouring it into a flute, I pour the drink into a large cup. One of my favorite Tervis tumblers. The one with the hot-pink flamingo on the front. I take my drink and blanket and go back outside. Settle into a rocking chair to watch the waves. To recharge and refill my soul with something other than darkness.
A howl echoes across the dunes. Staying still, I scan the beach. A flash of movement and I see the animal, a fish in his mouth. He turns his head. Looks straight at me. While it may be a coyote, I believe it’s the red wolf the man told me about.
It’s only a moment, but some kind of communication passes between us. Change is coming.
CHAPTER 62
JACKSON CALLS. I ALMOST IGNORE the call, but change my mind after the wolf.
“I went by your place. They said you’d moved.” Our relationship seems like it was years ago. “Have you heard?”
“I’ve been busy unpacking. Haven’t heard from anyone.”
He sighs into the phone. “Grayson was killed in a terrible accident. The guy that hit him was texting and driving. Ran the light.”
“I didn’t know. I’ve completely unplugged, so I don’t know what’s going on in the world. I needed a break.”
From what Jackson tells me, it was right before I left town.
“Who did it?” I can punish the man.
“It doesn’t matter. The guy was driving one of those big Hummers. With that old MG, Grayson never had a chance. He was killed on impact.”
“I’m so sorry to hear. He was a good friend.”
“Are you coming to the funeral? I can text you the details.”
“I’ve just started my new job and I can’t get away. You’re going, right?” It’s okay to lie. Better than saying I can’t go back.
“Of course I am.” The censure in his voice comes through loud and clear.
“I can’t. After losing Gram…I just can’t go to another funeral. Will you please take flowers for me?”
“Of course I will. Hope…I could come up next weekend and see you.”
My heart thumps. “No, Jackson,” I say softly. “It’s not a good idea.”
“I’d hoped you’d come to your senses, but I can see you haven’t.”
“Don’t call me again, okay?”
He swears and ends the call. When I get rid of the Jeep, I’ll get new phones. With new numbers.
It has become my nightly ritual to make my new favorite drink and watch the sunset. Most nights I stay outside until stars come out and it’s full dark, or until the chill from the wind off the ocean drives me inside.
I go into town that evening to stock up on another week’s worth of groceries. As I turn the key in the door, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Something is wrong. The wind makes the house moan, and lightning flashes in the sky, turning the interior of the house to daylight. The man stands there, feet shoulder width apart, gun leveled at my black heart.
The man doesn’t say a word, simply stands there watching me. I recognize the scar. I’ve glimpsed his face so many times over the past months. He’s the guy in the black Maserati.
I was right. He’s been following me. So many thoughts drift through my mind. I thought I’d been so careful. Gotten away with the things I’ve done. And I know deep in my bones he’s going to kill me. Since I’ve been here at the beach, I’ve let down my guard. Keep a gun in the bedroom and one in my purse. No longer carry them everywhere.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen, bags of groceries in my arms, staring out at the ocean. All those years ago, on Friday the thirteenth, if I knew that was the last day I’d see my mama alive, I would have begged that big ole gator to swallow me whole.
Snap.
No more Hope.
Could I have made different choices? Ended up in a different place than where I’m standing now?
I don’t know. What I do know is that I would give anything for one more day with my mama and Max. One more day with Gram. But it seems I’m out of time.
Or perhaps this was meant to be my fate from the beginning…spared by the gator to do what was necessary.
Thunder cracks, the boom echoing across the beach. Finally he speaks.
“Bad little girls always get what they deserve.”
Sooner or later, everyone pays. I close my eyes and wait.
CHAPTER 63
MY GRAM USED TO SAY, “Alligators are the harbingers of violent change.” I never knew what she meant until years later. And by then, I knew all too well. Some things can’t be unseen. Our actions leave a ghostly imprint on our souls. Waiting for the worst possible times to come back and haunt us. I have come to accept there will be no forgiveness for me. How can there be when I grew to relish taking life from those I deemed damned? Justified my deeds, fully knowing the day would come when I’d pay for what I’ve done. If only I had more time…
“You know why I’m here.” It’s not a question. The man looks like he’s in his early forties. With the body of an elite soldier. He looks comfortable with a gun in his hands.
I jerk my head toward the bags of groceries, my arms shaking with the effort of holding them so long. “Mind if I put these down?”
He arches a brow that I take as a yes. As I put the groceries away, I feel the gun between my shoulder blades. I’ve gotten careless. I stuck the gun in the oven instead of taking it with me to the store, figuring I could relax just a little.
I reach in the oven and he makes a noise. Halfway between a bark and a cough.
“Looking for these, or planning to bake a cake?” He holds up my guns. “What’s with the color-coding? Were you planning to bedazzle them too?”
I press my lips together so tightly I can feel the edges of my teeth. If I bite down, will my teeth come through my lip?
“I was going to bake you some cookies.”
This time he does laugh as he places them on the table next to him. Out of my reach.
The man turns a chair around and straddles it, the gun in his hands as he crosses his wrists over the back of the chair.
Finished putting the groceries away, I make myself a drink. “Want one?”
The corner of his mouth barely twitches, but I have the feeling he’s highly amused.
“No, I’m good.” He watches me fix my drink and continues to watch me as I walk into the living room and sit down on the sofa facing the big bank of windows. I want the last thing I see to be the ocean.
“Are you going to apologize for killing Henry?”
I take a swig of my drink and force my jaw to unclench. “
No.”
There’s a lot of attitude in that one word, and I know he hears it. It isn’t wise to piss off this man, but if he’s going to kill me anyway, what does it matter?
“Why did you do it? You didn’t know him.”
I stare at the ocean, watching the waves break on the shore. Pretty soon it will be too dark to see anything. I yearn for each flash of lightning as it illuminates the beach.
“You’re right. I didn’t know him.” I curl my legs up under me, noticing the gold toenail polish. It’s funny the small things you pay attention to in moments like these.
“I would’ve thought you knew why I did it.” I look at him but only see blankness in his eyes. “He was using dogs, making them fight. Some of the dogs were in terrible condition. He even hanged two of them where the other dogs could see them. A warning that if they didn’t win, the same would happen to them. Three of the dogs were starving. I guess they hadn’t won any matches, so he didn’t feed them. One of the dogs died, and the only way these two were still alive was because they had eaten the dead dog.”
I have to take another drink. My throat is closing up as I recall the horror of the scene. When I got there, everything had been removed, but I could picture it all too clearly from the story in the paper.
“The other dog they found had a cat that was dyed blue. Henry had given that tiny little kitten to be a dog’s chew toy. It was a miracle the kitten wasn’t dead.”
He sits there not moving, and yet I can tell if I make the slightest move, anything he considers a threat, I’ll find myself dead before I can finish the thought.
He doesn’t say anything else, so I finish, “So I killed him. For what he did.”
“He already faced justice in a court of law.”
The comforting blackness floods through my veins, clogging my nose and throat.
“Justice.” I spit the word out like it’s a mouthful of raw liver. “He can’t own an animal for two years. That is injustice. That’s a travesty. There are mountains of corpses and no one pays.” My hands shake as I take another drink. It’s not from fear; it’s from rage. Black, primal rage, bubbling up through my body, desperately looking for a way out. A target.
There Was a Little Girl Page 27