by Amber Hart
“Is this a romance?” she jokes, waggling her eyebrows.
“Yeah, I suppose it is.”
She reads the back of all three, picks one, opens it, and rolls over onto her stomach so that she can place the book on the ground while she reads. Then she sits up, as if in afterthought, and pulls off her clothes to reveal a red one-piece underneath.
I take off my shorts and tank top, but unlike her, I have a bikini on underneath—blue with white stripes.
I pick one of the books she discarded and open it. Out of habit, I place a bookmark at the beginning of the next chapter. The sun beats on our skin over and over again until it burns.
Hours pass just like that. Jorie and me soaking up the day, my bookmark making its way farther and farther into cracks between pages, and not a single mention of the murders that tried to taint such a gorgeous place.
38
Beau
Making arrangements for Grandpa isn’t easy, and since Charlotte and I need a break from it, and Willow is off with Jorie, according to her text, I invite Pax and Grant over. Charlotte decides to lock herself in her room. Probably best, since Grant won’t stop staring at her.
“I’m sorry about your grandpa,” Pax says, glancing around the cabin as though he might catch sight of him one more time.
“Me, too,” Grant adds.
“Thanks.” I sigh. “It’s hard, you know? But at least Charlotte and I get the house.”
“That’s great.” Pax smiles. “You can keep your things and memories here.”
“But you’re not eighteen,” Grant says. “Think you can get away with it for a few weeks until your birthday?”
“I think so, yes.”
That’s the hope. I’ll pack Grandpa’s things away eventually. Maybe put them in the attic. I don’t think I can stand to part with them just yet, or maybe ever.
“I’m not sure what we’ll do with the spare room when his things are gone,” I say, thinking aloud. “But hey, I guess we’ll have space if you ever want to stay the night.”
It helps to think of the positive and not of Grandpa’s passing. I smile, act like I’m okay with it all. It’s better than accepting my friends’ looks of pity. Grant humors my attempt at lightheartedness.
“I’d give anything to stay here.” He glances at Charlotte’s bedroom door. “And speaking of, when are you going to hook me up with your sister?”
He attempts to smile, but I see that it’s only halfhearted. Maybe he knows just how bad it hurts to lose my grandpa and just how much I need normalcy at the moment. His jokes and cheerfulness are a routine I welcome.
“Close to never,” I reply.
“Come on,” Grant says. “You know we’d make a good pair.”
“It’s better for you if I don’t.”
“How’s that?”
We take a seat in the living room. Flip on the TV. It feels strange to not have Grandpa here anymore.
“Because she’d eat you alive.”
Pax laughs, shoulders shaking. “He’s right, she would.”
Then he turns to me, a slight smile still on his face.
“Would you hook me up with your sister, though?”
I grin. “If you’re so brave, ask her out yourself.”
I’m not the overprotective brotherly type, as they know. They need to have the guts to ask her themselves. She wouldn’t settle for anything less.
“You know I can’t do that,” Pax says, making sure to keep his voice low so Charlotte can’t hear us in the next room. “She scares me.”
I get that a lot. Not many have the guts to talk to Charlotte—girls or guys. I understand why. She can be downright intimidating most of the time.
“Not me,” Grant says. “I’d walk in there and talk to her right now.”
“I’d bet my life you wouldn’t,” Pax replies.
Grant grins and does what we knew he would, which is not knock on Charlotte’s door or talk to her but instead wish from afar.
Through the open window, I feel a draft of damp air, the kind that signals the approach of a storm, though the sky is still patched with sunshine and clouds. For some reason, it reminds me of the first storm I ever saw in the swamp. And of course, it makes me think of my parents.
The sky grows dark, getting bigger and bigger—an avalanche of clouds.
“You don’t have to be scared of it, you know,” Mom says, wrapping me in an afghan blanket on the front porch.
Grandpa’s cabin is different when it rains. I’ve only ever seen the Atlanta kind of rain. Drops that plop loudly on asphalt.
“We’ll be visiting for the next five days, and if we’re lucky, you’ll see more,” Dad says, joining Mom.
I watch their faces, serene. Dad likes the storms here, I can tell.
“Reminds me of my childhood,” he says.
“I’m not scared,” I say, even though I’m only seven and I might be a little scared.
It doesn’t take but a couple of minutes in the downpour for the waters to rise. Mud gurgles and plops, an alive thing.
Charlotte bounds outside just then, a smirk on her face.
“Look at that lightning,” she says.
It rips open the sky. Illuminates the monstrous clouds.
“Perfect weather for family,” Mom says.
I learn that night what she means as we play board games by candlelight, the power having gone out with a blown transformer. Mom tells stories of how the power used to go out all the time when storms passed over her island as a child. Grandpa claims he can get the generator, but we don’t mind the candles.
The rain calms me.
I don’t mean to think of my family, but the rain brings them close to me.
“What happened to you, man?” Grant asks. “You zoning out?”
“Smells like rain,” I reply.
“Shit, I gotta go, then.” Grant looks warily at his Jeep.
It’s open all around. I keep telling him to bring the cover. Swamp storms are beasts no one wants to get caught in without shelter. But as usual, Grant doesn’t listen.
“I told him,” Pax says, shaking his head.
Since Pax rode with Grant, he doesn’t have a choice but to leave, unless I drive him home later.
“You need a ride?” I ask, secretly hoping that he’ll decline so I can spend time with Willow when she gets back and her friend goes home.
My look out the window betrays me. Pax sees.
“Nah, I’m good. Go see your girl. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
It’s strange to hear my friends talk about Willow as mine when they wouldn’t normally refer to any girl that way.
Grant reaches into his pocket for his keys. He doesn’t even make it off the couch before there’s a knock at the door.
“Looks like the perfect time for me to go,” he says, eyeing the visitors, who are visible through the open window.
“I’ll catch you later,” I say.
They leave in a rush. Pax offers a final wave, and Grant guns it out of the swamp, trying to outrun the storm.
I face the arriving visitors.
The police are here. What do they want with me now?
Charlotte strides out of her room just in time to see Grant and Pax leave and the police step onto our welcome mat.
“Can we help you?” Her voice is sweet, but her eyes are bitter. Every instance that’s brought police has also brought more suspicion on me.
One officer nods in greeting. The other stands stoically, his expression unreadable.
“Do you have a moment to chat?” the officer asks.
“Not if it involves you carting my brother off to that station of yours again. We’ve been several times. We’ve answered your questions. He didn’t do it, so leave him be. And in case you haven’t heard, we recently lost our grandfather. We’d like to have a little peace.”
If the situation weren’t serious, I’d smile at the fierceness in Charlotte’s tone. Her gaze is perfectly icy. Her protectiveness freezes the warm air a
round us.
“You have my condolences. And I’m not here for your brother.” The officer motions toward our living room. “May we sit?”
Charlotte answers immediately. “No.”
“Okay, then.” The officer shifts, and my eyes are drawn to the gun at his waist. “We wanted to inform you that there’s been a break in the case. The toxicology came back on the second victim. She was drugged, which explains how the culprit overpowered her without a fight.” His stare swivels from Charlotte to me, while the other officer remains quiet, allowing his partner to do the talking. “I’m sorry you got mixed up in this, Beau. We finally know for certain, thanks to a DNA swab from the last crime scene, that you are not involved, though we were quite sure you weren’t when we discovered your fingerprints didn’t match. This is the final evidence.”
I perk up at the mention of a DNA test. My feet carry me closer to the officers. I stop just inches shy of the one speaking. I wait for him to say more, my heart in my throat.
The officer places a hand on my shoulder. Pats it gently. “Thank you for cooperating. I know it didn’t always look good for you.”
“What did you find?” Charlotte’s voice is edged with tension. “What did the DNA tell you?”
The officer doesn’t show Charlotte the same warmth he shows me. I wonder why that is.
“It told us enough to absolve Beau of any wrongdoing,” he replies.
The officer next to him watches Charlotte with an inquiring gaze, tracking her every move—the way she leans against the wall and flips her hair to one side.
“How is that possible? Do you know the identity of the killer? Who is it?” I ask.
They’ve just admitted they have solid evidence, and I want to know who’s responsible.
“We don’t know. At least, not yet.”
“Then how do you know it’s not Beau?” Charlotte asks. “I mean, obviously it isn’t my brother’s fault, and I’m glad he’s been cleared, but what led you to this decision?”
For the first time, I notice another van beside the police car.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like you to please come with us.” The officer is no longer talking to me. His words are directed at my sister.
“What for?” I ask, stepping in her path. I know the look the officer wears. It’s the very one he not so long ago reserved for me.
Suspicion.
“Nothing that concerns you,” he says to me. And then to my sister, “If you’ll please go over to the van there. We have someone waiting with release forms for you to sign. They need to swab your cheek.”
“Why?” Charlotte glances quickly at me, worry etched into the line between her brows. “What do you want with my DNA?”
“That’s the breakthrough. The sample left at the crime scene told us something we hadn’t suspected before. The killer is female.”
The only females around the swamp are Willow and Charlotte.
Charlotte walks to them on trembling legs, straight out the door, and all the way to the van. She says nothing, leaving silence in her wake. I am too stunned to follow her. Too shocked to completely understand the officer’s words. I replay them, a skipping record in my mind.
The killer is female.
Charlotte is gone for no more than a couple of minutes while they swab her cheek. She returns visibly shaken.
“Charlotte.” I watch her approach. “Are you okay?”
She nods but says nothing.
“Here’s my card.” The officer still waiting at the door hands me his contact information. “Just in case. We’ll be in touch.”
He walks back to his cruiser. The van and police car pull away from our house, dirt kicking up behind their tires.
Charlotte shuts the door and walks straight to the kitchen. She pulls pork, onion, and tomato from the fridge and gets to work heating up beans. On the stove, she cooks the meat in oil, garlic, tomatoes, spinach, watercress, and salt. She’s making another family recipe, Munggo Guisado.
“What happened back there?” I ask, taking a seat on a stool at the island.
I watch her work, knowing this is what she does when she’s upset—cooks. Sometimes for hours on end.
“They swabbed my cheek,” she replies.
I wait for more, knowing she’ll talk when she’s ready. In the meantime, I watch her methodical movements.
“Do you want coffee or tea?” she asks.
“Tea,” I say.
I don’t offer to help, knowing she needs a moment to herself. Charlotte boils water and before I know it, there’s a steaming cup of tea in front of me, sweet enough to leave a syrupy taste in my mouth.
She scoops out the meat and ingredients and piles them on top of the beans. I pat the stool next to me, and Charlotte drops into it with an exhausted sigh. I eat a forkful and almost groan at the deliciousness. Charlotte eats, too, taking bites until about halfway through her portion, when she finally lets her fork clatter to the plate. She places her head in her hands and massages her temples.
“They made me promise not to leave town.” She finally speaks, but her voice is void of all emotion. “They think I did it. I saw the way they looked at me. I have to stay close until the results from the swab are in.” She rubs her forehead gently. “God, I’m a suspect. Go figure. Wonder if they’ve questioned Willow, too. Where is she, anyhow?”
Just then, realization hits me.
“Charlotte. What evidence was left behind? Did the police mention it to you?”
I stand up quickly, abandoning my meal.
“I don’t know, something with DNA. They didn’t say exactly what.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, glancing at the card the officer left behind. I quickly dial. Outside, the sky fills with clouds.
“Officer Brown here.”
“It’s Beau.” I speak quickly, cell to my ear, suspicion surging through me like an avalanche. “I meant to ask what type of evidence you found at the scene of the crime.”
I hold my breath as my suspicions are confirmed.
“A wad of gum.”
“I think I know who did it.” I race out the door and to the boat, the phone to my ear, my heart pounding wildly. I accidentally drop the card on the dirt ground. Charlotte is on my heels, pulling at the ties and pushing us into the water. “It’s Jorie, Willow’s friend. She’s always around. She was always staying the night at Willow’s when the killings took place. And she’s always chewing gum.”
“Shit.” The officer’s curses begin to break apart, static turning the line fuzzy. “Hang on a minute. I’m placing a call to dispatch.”
“I don’t have a minute,” I say. “I’m in the boat, in the swamp, going after Willow. She’s with Jorie now. Follow the water to the bend and take a left. Willow and Jorie are at the hill there. Hurry.”
39
Willow
“Can you believe I finished this damn book?”
Jorie is holding up the romance as though she’s holding a dead snake. Above us, the sun begins to dim, a wide band of clouds taking over.
“How you got me to read a whole book without my brains falling out from boredom is beyond me,” she says.
“You liked it and you know it,” I tease. “I have another one if you didn’t get your fill.”
“Nah. We need to get in soon anyway. You’re looking like a roasted tomato. Ever heard of sunscreen?”
I take out my phone and check the time. Has it really been three hours?
“You think your grandma will still give us lunch?”
“Probably, but we’re late,” I reply. “Though knowing Gran and her hurt feelings when people don’t eat her meals on time, she may make us eat it cold as punishment, since we didn’t get there when she made it good and hot.”
Jorie rolls up her tan towel, dirt and twigs pinned to it like notes on a corkboard.
“Fine by me. I’ll eat it cold, as long as she cooked it. Bound to still be good.”
There’s truth to her words. Many nights I’v
e opened the fridge, found Gran’s leftovers, and eaten them cold so as to not wake the house by cooking with clanging pots and pans.
I roll my towel up, too, and place all our belongings in the bag, aside from our clothes, which we throw back on over our suits. Jorie carries it to the boat and loads everything up. Just then, I remember my phone.
“I’ll be right back,” I say. “Forgot my cell.”
“Oh, I got it,” Jorie says. “Saw it lying on the ground. Don’t want to leave that behind. Never know what could happen with the murderer still at large.”
Her voice drops a few notches, and she looks around as though he might just pop out at us from the trees. But there is nothing. Only leaves and swamp and the memory of a day well spent. Even still, Jorie’s look says that she doesn’t trust the bog as much as she once did, and that’s a shame.
“I think we’re safe,” I say as we head toward the boat. “We can’t let him take the swamp from us, Jorie. We can’t.”
Her look changes. “You’re right. So what if he’s dangerous? We have a gun.”
She steels herself, standing taller, though I can see traces of fear still in her eyes.
“So what if he tried to terrorize our town? We can’t let him win.”
“That’s the spirit,” I reply.
She nods. “He left bits of his evil here, right? But we can choose to not see them. We don’t have to think about the girls or the fear or the amber earring or the bruises.”
It’s like she’s giving herself a pep talk.
“Right, we really don’t have to…”
I trail off.
“What’s wrong?” Jorie asks.
My eyes settle on a spot over her shoulder. Fear leaks into my veins.
“What is it?” Jorie looks over her shoulder, but there’s nothing there. “Talk to me.”
The clouds thicken, and shadows crowd the trees.
I never told her that the earring was amber.
I don’t know which direction to move. I need to get to the boat, to wherever Jorie put my phone, to my shotgun, but Jorie’s blocking me.
I rack my brain, trying to remember what I’d said. I mentioned the earring to her, but I never told her what type of earring.
Jorie steps closer to the boat. My mind spins around little details. Jorie lives in the swamp. Jorie is always around. Jorie spoke with the police officers—eating breakfast just fine while the rest of us could hardly stomach it—claiming to know nothing. She spent the night with me several times. I found her at the window one evening. A bad dream, she’d claimed, but she looked wide awake. The next morning, a dead girl was found. Dead girls kept being found, and Jorie was always there in the aftermath.