Hiders

by Meg Collett

  Arie ignored her. “Hey, Violet.”

  Her heart had grown wings and was flapping around her spine. “Good day.”

  “I’m heading over to clap and shit while Kyra cuts the cake. Oh! I have those confetti canons in the closet . . .”

  Arie’s attention snapped to Stevie. “Canons? Maybe you should—”

  “See you two later. Don’t boink on the cushions.”

  “Stevie!” Arie called after her as she disappeared into her house. “The cops!”

  Violet heard a door slam inside the house. Then the front door. Then the front gate. Then feet slapping on the sidewalk as Stevie scurried next door. Violet sighed and looked at Arie. He took the seat Stevie had vacated. “She’s had a lot of sugar today.”

  “You don’t say? I hadn’t noticed.”

  Stevie burst onto Kyra’s back porch and hopped onto Cade, her legs wrapping around his waist.

  “My grandmother is probably rolling in her grave at the impropriety.”

  Arie chuckled. “Yours and mine both. You look nice, by the way.”

  She rued choosing a strapless dress as her blush warmed the skin beneath her throat. Arie’s eyes traced the heat spreading in the hollows beneath her collarbones, his gaze only making it worse. He dragged his eyes back to hers, not embarrassed in the slightest that she’d caught him. He leaned back and slung an arm over the back of the couch.

  Violet didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she tucked them under the folds of her dress. “Thank you?”

  One corner of his mouth hooked up in a sideways grin. “You actually accepted a compliment.”

  She frowned. “Actually—”

  “Cake cutting time!” Stevie crowed from the other yard. “Let’s see what’s cooking, y’all! Gather round, gather round for the greatest show on Earth! Let’s see if Hale put a baby in there or a spawn of the—”

  Cade cut her off with a kiss. Hale just sighed at Kyra, who patted his chest. They walked to the dessert table, its soft cotton tablecloth rustling in the breeze. Maggie brought out the cake—she’d stored it in the fridge—and set it down before hugging both Kyra and Hale.

  Violet leaned forward in her seat, taking in every detail of the cake. The meringue butterflies she’d piped, the lace she’d spent hours cutting, the flowers and swirls and sugar pearls—it had all held up well. It was a three-tiered pink-, yellow-, blue-, and white-striped explosion of everything Violet had thought she could create in a night.

  Kyra had her hand clapped over her mouth. Hale put an arm around her bulging waist and hugged her. Together they picked up a knife, and after a few whispered words between them, they cut through the fondant, revealing the pink sponge cake inside.

  Kyra burst out in a half squeal, half sob, and Hale swept her up in a twirl, her blonde hair streaming and his tattoos glinting. Behind them came two heart-stopping bangs, a few screams, and then an avalanche of confetti.

  It rained down, silver and gold and every other color, a starry nebula above Kyra and Hale. Cameras flashed and people cheered. Kyra laughed and Hale pulled her into a kiss.

  It was beautiful and perfect, though no one would know what could be eaten on the cake and what was confetti. But no one would forget the moment. Stevie had made sure of that.

  “She’s done it now,” Arie said, chuckling.

  “What?” Violet asked, turning her smile on him. She felt, right then, that even though it had terrified her, she’d been right to come and sit on Stevie’s porch. That Stevie had known what she’d needed all along. That friends like this were the whole world caught in a single moment, in two backyards, beneath obscene amounts of confetti.

  Arie pointed a finger in the air. “Just wait for it . . .”

  “For what?”

  “Any minute now.”

  Violet heard it right as he did. Sirens. Her smile stretched wider.

  “Getting the cops called on a baby shower. Only in Canaan. And only with Stevie Reynolds. Do you know what you’re getting into with this group?”

  Violet laughed again, for the second time that afternoon—the most she’d laughed in years. “I think I do.”

  6

  The dust cloud rose up at the bottom of Violet’s driveway Monday afternoon.

  She expected to see the dark shine of Arie’s work truck, but the soft hum of an engine and the expensive glint of chrome took her a moment to process. By the time she realized her mistake, it was too late to hide.

  The woman stepped out from her Cadillac SUV—matte white and blacked out wheels, like she thought highly of herself—and adjusted her pencil skirt. There was no time to put away the birdhouses Violet had been painting. No time to do anything but stand up from the porch and watch the woman strut over, red-soled shoes flashing and her shirt tight enough to show the outline of her lacy bra. Violet knew who she was even without an introduction.

  Francesca Morgan.

  She whipped off her sunglasses—her face as perfectly done up as her outfit—and smiled up at Violet. “Miss Relend, I presume?”

  This was a big problem. Violet had a thing about strangers. They made her heart beat too fast and turned her blood too fizzy. Her thoughts all jumbled together, and she could hear nothing over the ringing in her ears. She wanted to crawl away or grow small enough that no one could see her standing there barefoot on the porch in her mother’s tights and her father’s baggy shirt, her wet hair drying down her back.

  “Miss Relend?” the woman asked again, because, of course, Violet had taken too long to answer. The more aware she became of the time it took her to come up with something to say, the longer it took, because she was thinking of the seconds ticking by. There—she was doing it again. waiting and thinking about waiting and waiting longer because she was thinking about thinking about waiting.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?”

  Francesca’s face couldn’t quite manage the creases needed to frown, but her mouth attempted to pull down at the corners. She glanced around as if she wasn’t talking to the right person and there was someone better suited to the task.

  “Yes.”

  The word was a scratch. A blip. Barely there. Nothing at all.

  The woman cocked her head, and Violet could only think of a vulture—a big head on a too slender neck, with a darkness in its eyes and blood on its beak. Red, red like Francesca’s shoes and lipstick. Violet trembled.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. You are Miss Relend then?”

  “I am.”

  A switch flipped in Francesca. Violet imagined a fluorescent light coming on in the woman’s face as she powered up similar to one of Violet’s father’s inventions. It was terrifying.

  “Miss Relend! So good to meet you. I’m Francesca Morgan with Teller Morgan Group. We procure investment properties across the southeast region for upcoming developmental interests. We’ve recently recruited a few parcels in the area—”

  “No.” Violet had been shaking her head from the beginning of this woman’s glassy-smooth delivery of shiny words that sounded nice together but didn’t actually make real-life sense. “No,” she repeated, just in case the earlier word had only been in her head.

  Because that was all she heard—one long string of “no.”

  NoNoNoNoNononononononononono.

  Francesca’s smile didn’t falter. “It has come to our attention that this property will be on the market shortly. We want to initiate an advance offer—a sizable one. One you might be quite taken with—”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “—as it is far above what the market trends in your area would value the available property in its current state. I’ve brought a diagram with me to illustrate trending prices on the island and how our offer will be far and above the best you’ll—”

  “I don’t think you’re listening,” Violet said louder this time. She was uncomfortable around strangers, but this woman acted more robot than human. Even now, with the second interruption, the woman’s face didn’t change. Violet har
dly caused the flow of her words to falter. “It’s not for sale.”

  “—receive. While you look through the material, I would love to take the opportunity to examine the premises. We are interested in soil and air samples. But I must say, Miss Relend, your estate lawyer described this place in much better condition than it actually is.” Her contact-lens-blue eyes swept off Violet and picked apart the house around her, mentally checking boxes and tallying up the marks. The house didn’t pass. “Actually, I think you’ll find our offer to be considerably above what you would receive for the land with the house still standing on it.”

  “I don’t care what your offer is—”

  “But you’re in luck today, Miss Relend! It can be our little secret.” Francesca winked, and the gesture plucked at Violet’s skin like hungry fish with tiny, razor-sharp teeth. “We don’t have to tell anyone the offer is too high. I believe in you, and I believe in this land. It’s worth every penny, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No, I—”

  “Oh! Don’t sell it short, ma’am! You must be feeling so trapped with this awful, ramshackle house falling in around you. You thought no one would ever buy it, right? But don’t worry. There are a few redeemable qualities to the estate. I’m sure in its day, the place was beautiful. I’m sure that type of stone was popular at some point. I mean, perms were popular once, right? Anything can be! You—”

  “Get out.” Violet’s fingers clenched the porch railing so tightly splinters dug under her fingernails.

  The woman’s smile finally leeched away. Her face pinched up, her head still cocked. “Out? Out where, Miss Relend? Are you okay? Perhaps you need some water. You can show me inside, and I’ll help you cool down. Maybe you just need a good stiff drink? You look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Violet bit off any politeness the words would have implied. “Now leave.”

  “Of course! You’re busy, then. I understand.” The woman stepped back and looked up, craning her long neck back to take in the upper levels of the house. “Let me just take a quick look around for my notes, and I can answer any questions you have on the offer. Then I’ll be off, and you can return to your finger paints!”

  The pressure in Violet’s body built until she was struggling to breathe. There was a bright, hot spot in the middle of her chest. It was so tight, so clenching, she saw stars. The vise grip of anger in her throat was a building scream, but she held it back. She swallowed it down.

  Violet had found over the years that there was a fine line between anxiety and rage.

  While Violet was fighting back her panic attack, Francesca Morgan had stepped over to the intricate carving beneath the front window, the one Violet’s mother had often sat at to read while sunlight streamed in through the stained-glass panes. I could just sit here forever, little spider. Come sit forever with me. The earliest Relends had soldered the glass together centuries ago, and the paneling around it was hand-carved scrolls and whorls from a solid trunk of an American chestnut tree. There was nothing exactly like it in the world and never would be in the future.

  Then the woman stuck out her red-clawed hand, grabbed the wooden window ledge, and pulled.

  A chunk crumbled off in her hand. She tsked and tossed it to the ground. “Rotted, just as I thought. Miss Relend, it appears you have some water damage. That will have to go in my notes, of course, but it can be our—”

  “Get the fuck off my property!” Violet screamed. Her legs were moving, her feet flying over the ground. Her palms were on the woman’s inflated chest, shoving her back. Francesca’s heels caught in the gravel, and her arms pinwheeled. She collapsed onto her bony ass with a screech.

  “It’s not for sale! Nothing is for sale! Don’t touch anything. Just leave! Just leave!”

  The woman stayed down and held up her palms to examine the blood pooling across her torn skin. It trickled down her wrists in thick globs. Three acrylic nails were bent back and broken off on her left hand.

  Violet picked up the piece of wood and cradled it to her chest, her body trembling. “Just leave,” she whispered this time, her voice cracking around the words.

  With practiced eased, Francesca angled her legs beneath her and stood. She pushed her hair back, her hands leaving a streak of blood across her cheek.

  She smiled at Violet and said in a smooth, flat tone, “Thank you, Miss Relend. You just made this so much easier.”

  Violet gulped in some air, her body shaking. “What?”

  Francesca picked up her purse from the ground and pulled out a phone. Violet knew what was about to happen from the three numbers she punched in.

  “Yes,” Francesca said into the phone, her voice going wobbly with tears. On cue, fat tears rolled down her cheeks, through the foundation and blood, and dripped pink off her chin onto her blouse. “I need to report an assault. Please,” she said, sniffling, “help me. I was just attacked!”

  Violet’s mouth hung open. “You wouldn’t leave!” she finally managed. She reached for the phone to stop Francesca from giving the operator Violet’s address, to make her just leave. As her hand closed around the phone, Francesca screamed.

  And she didn’t stop.

  Only once the cops came, and Violet was handcuffed and put into the back of a cruiser, and an officer had his jacket wrapped around Francesca’s shoulders and his handkerchief wiping at her blood and tears did she stop screeching. She leaned into the officer as if she couldn’t stand, the top button of her blouse undone and a hint of her white bra peeking through the gap.

  The other cop slammed the cruiser’s back door, and Francesca looked up, her eyes meeting Violet’s through the thick glass between them.

  Tucked beneath the cop’s chin, Francesca smiled, white teeth gleaming.

  Violet knew what had happened, what she’d done. She couldn’t take the last twenty minutes back. Her chest heaved. The cruiser started up and turned around in her yard, beside the stack of wood she’d begun last week and needed to finish. As the car drove down her drive, she couldn’t catch her breath.

  “You’re fine,” the cop droned from the front seat. “Just breathe.” He didn’t even look back.

  At the bottom of the hill, a black truck swerved into the ditch. The driver’s door swung open and Arie surged out. His eyes scanned the cruiser and landed on her face in the back. He ran at them, limping slightly and yelling, but the cop just pulled onto the main road and accelerated toward town.

  Violet leaned her forehead against the glass and just held on.

  * * *

  They kept her in a general holding cell for hours before moving her to a narrow overnight cell with two other women, both of whom were drunk tourists. They puked on the mat a guard had given Violet halfway through the night. There were no blankets and only tiny bottles of water to hold them over. She sat in a corner while the two girls slept curled around their puke.

  When they weren’t passed out, the girls in her cell asked her if she was retarded, and when she refused to answer, they laughed at her. They did it over and over, as if it was a joke. Like calling her that word was hilarious.

  Violet wrapped her arms around her legs and kept holding on.

  After nearly fourteen hours in jail, the officers walked her out of the cell. The judge had finally driven in from Savannah, and Gregory was waiting for her. She was numb and holding on with the last scrap of will she had. She couldn’t spare it to talk to him, to explain, to accept the coffee and bagel he’d picked up for her, because apparently he’d had time to stop at the coffee shop this morning. There wasn’t much else she could manage besides staring out his Buick’s window as he took her home.

  Back home, he opened her passenger door and reached in to help her out. He must have sensed she couldn’t stand on her own. “Violet. Tell me what happened.”

  He’d asked a million times during the drive, and over time, the question had become closer to a plea on his chapped lips, his breath smelling of coffee and toothpaste. He’d dressed in a hurry this mor
ning; his suit tie was crooked, his jacket rumpled.

  “You saw the report,” she said, easing her stiff body from the car, his hand wrapped around her arm to steady her.

  “Do you understand what’s happened?” Her attention snapped to him, her nerves still raw from what the girls in the cell had called her, but he hadn’t said the question to suggest she wasn’t capable of understanding. “Francesca Morgan filed an assault charge against you. You’ll have to go to court again and pay some sort of fee, Violet. This could get very expensive if Teller Morgan Group doesn’t drop the charges.”

  She pulled her arm free from his grip. Above them, the clouds were low in the sky, heavy with rain. The birdhouse she’d been painting when Francesca showed up yesterday had been put away, the paints sealed back up and neatly stacked next to her door.

  Off to the side of the house, she spotted a tidy rick of split wood. It was more than enough for her to get through winter, and the pile wouldn’t be falling over anytime soon. Her bloody ax was sticking out from the middle of the cutting block.

  Arie had apparently stayed yesterday evening, and he’d improvised his list of tasks.

  She remembered his stricken face as the cruiser rolled past him. The way he’d surged forward, limping, as though he could stop it from taking her away. As if he could’ve made a difference.

  “You shouldn’t have shoved her,” Gregory was saying. She eased toward the stairs, her focus locked on the front door. “She said you were screaming and acting—” He bit back the word—crazy. “Like you were going to kill her. Violet, she’s saying you’re mentally unstable.”

  Violet paused on her porch, turned around, and stared down at her family’s lawyer, her father’s friend. He looked gray around the edges, frazzled with worry over her. She couldn’t bring herself to care.

  “She knew so much about me,” she said, “for having met me only once.”

  He fidgeted. “I only mentioned you struggle with some anxiety issues. I was trying to protect you.”