by Rachel Hanna
Instead, I take a breath. If he hadn't thought I could do the job, he wouldn't have dumped it on me. Everybody needs a little OTJ training.
"Everything OK with you and Kellan?" Reed asks as we walk meanderingly toward the street where he left his car. The day is hot and windy. Summer is unrelenting, fall a dream.
"No, it's not, thanks for asking," I say without elaborating.
Reed, after pretending to duck any blows I threw his way, loops a friendly arm over my shoulders.
"Everything all right with you and the blond with the legs?" I ask.
Reed lets go of me. "Hard to say," he said without elaborating any more than I had.
"Journalists at work. Such wordsmiths." I shove my hands in the pockets of my jean shorts.
"I was going to chide you for being a chatterbox," he says.
"Chide?" I ask. "Chatterbox? You OK, Grandpa?"
"Wordsmithing, that's all."
He leaves without telling me anything about the blond. That makes me uncomfortable. If she were a fixture –
We could double date! Like with Emmy and the guy she thinks she might have met!
If she were a fixture, I'd be comfortable that Reed's coming to Charleston was to check on his beloved station and his friend, Willow. If she were a fixture and she lived in Charleston? So much the better.
The lanes leading to the beach are full of people. Families heading for Sunday on the beach. Kids with Frisbees. Dogs with Frisbees. Dogs with tennis balls. Dogs with no way of reading the No Dogs on the Beach signs or the Dogs on Leashes signs. Dogs on leashes causing bondage screw ups as they wrapped around their humans' legs. Small children with ice cream cones. Old couples strolling. I wonder if some day I'll be part of an old couple or if I'm just going to go on screwing things up forever.
"You OK?" Reed asks, bending a little to look into my eyes. "The break-in shake you up that much or is it Mr. Tall, Dark and Silent?"
I blink, looking around. I've been pretty far into my own thoughts. The street's still full of people. There's a guy on the steps leading to one of the big luxury apartment houses just up the street talking on a cell phone and staring at us. A camera hands around his neck on a strap. Two girls in tiny bikinis and flip flops flip flop by him and he doesn't even blink. His eyes stayed riveted on us, making me uncomfortable.
I shake it off, meeting Reed's eyes. "All of the above. Plus the huge responsibility of the station that this guy who ran off to Boston seems to think that I, a delicate flower, should be handling."
He struggles not to grin. "I was wrong. You suck at words. Delicate flower? You? You're a Valkyrie."
It's silly, but I like it. Reed unlocks his car door, turns back to me, grinning, and I go up onto tiptoes, kissing the edge of his mouth.
From the edge of hearing, I catch a sound, maybe the sound a camera makes, but when I turn around, the apartment building stairs are empty.
Paranoia. My old time best friend. Not so good to see you again.
I wave to Reed, and amble back to the beach by myself.
* * *
Kellan relents, or something, at the tail end of Sunday. He comes downstairs and together we find steaks in the freezer, thaw them out and barbecue them. We don't talk much and since every time I do talk to him I seem to set him off, I'm fine with that.
We sit on the porch, eating steak sandwiches, the barbecued steak tucked into crusty bread, and sipping lemonade. We're still there when Mom and Bruce get back, looking much more relaxed than they had when they left.
"Did you save us anything to eat?" Mom asks, carting into the house the whole of several department stores.
"There's two cooked steaks keeping warm in the oven."
That surprises her. She pauses, kisses me on the cheek, drops a couple of the bags in my lap, drops some more on Kellan's, and follows Bruce into the house.
"She bought me presents?" Kellan seems almost stunned.
I laugh. "She always brings stuff back." I'm already digging into the bags. It's never anything big that she buys. Just that she does it. This time it was an elegant blank book I'd never have the guts to write in (and besides, any time I had for extracurricular writing I usually typed it) and new flip flops, insanely bedecked and bejeweled.
"She knows you, fluffy bunny," Kellan says.
I slap at his arm, but he dodges away. "Shut up. I hope she got you – " I sputter, unable to think of something Kellan wouldn't be able to make look masculine.
She's bought him t-shirts, comfy stripped things for beachcombing, and the newest Stephen King novel. Not a bad haul. I'll definitely be borrowing the book.
Kellan sees me eyeing it and whisks it out of my reach. "Cost you a pack of smokes," he quips. He's never made a voluntary reference to his prison time, or any kind of joke about it.
"How about protection in the shower," I ask, winking broadly. I hope he won't ask what I mean, because I'm not sure.
He doesn't. He just laughs, reads the jacket flap, nods, passes me the book.
We're on good terms again. Which means whatever happens next, I'll move carefully. I want to help. Not make things worse. But I definitely intend to do something.
* * *
Monday brings school and station. I go in before classes to see how the weekend went. There are enough people present for an impromptu meeting. I end up promising Tabby again that I'll check into getting some stipend pay for us if nothing else, as soon as Zach and Tyler finish the proposal. When Tabby goes on about it, I interrupt.
"We're on the same side, Tabitha. There's only so much the University is going to do. Give me a little while and I'll see what I can do. Have you asked Tyler and Zach how the proposals are coming?" I asked.
She relaxed, and we fell to discussing the next documentary series that might make the University treat us all a little more seriously and after that, the break-in.
Nobody else had been there for any of the other break-ins. We bat the topic around for a little while and decide to put together a couple short special reports that could air on the topic.
Then I head to math class where I utterly bomb on the test. After all, my studying was relegated to the very last hours of Sunday.
Oh, well.
* * *
The Coffee Mug seems like the most logical place to go. It's got free wi-fi and passable coffee. Reed introduced me to the place and Emmy and I have come here. I don't know that many people on campus, so it's a logical destination.
Ordering a latte, I choose a tiny table with a table top almost smaller than my laptop where I can put my back to the wall. Probably doesn't matter if anyone can see over my shoulder, but the fact that the brown paper package to Kellan was delivered in person so to speak has my paranoia bells jangling.
David Reynolds doesn't have a Facebook page. That was my first and easiest guess. If Aimee had one before her death, it would probably be taken down by now. There isn't anything there anyway.
Biting a thumb nail, I sit staring at the door, watching two girls discuss what must have been a first date for one of them. They're breathless, giggling, probably around 17 years old. I missed all that. Until Kellan came home and Reed came into my life, I'd have thought I was ruined because of what happened with my father. I've been struggling for a while now to actually recreate a life. Kellan's fighting to get his life back. I want to help him.
Think, damn it. I stare past the girls, not quite seeing the campus beyond the bright windows. Probably David Reynolds' new wife, Heather Wilkins, has family, but I met her when we were doing the interview. She's bright, bubbly, happy. Why would she dig up David's past if he didn't?
I stare at the computer screen. Stare out the window. Great, Willow, you're going to be a fantastic reporter. You really know how to investigate, if by "investigating" you mean staring blankly into space.
"Seriously, what about it?" one of the teenaged girls asks the other, their voices louder as the one asking the question rises to go up to the counter.
"It's not like I'm
going to marry him," the one still at the table calls.
Just like that, I have an idea.
Chapter 10
Charleston, South Carolina, lists wedding records online. Out of curiosity and to see how it works, I type in my mother's name and come up with the record of her marriage to Bruce. Which is great, only David Reynolds got married in Atlanta, Georgia, and Atlanta wants to get paid for providing such info. All I want is her name, for goodness sake. I stare at the form. I could fill it out, preferably not on wi-fi since I'll be providing a payment. Or, if I had a driver’s license, I could drive there and check it out. I understand why public agencies charge for their information, but it's less the fee and more the wait that bothers me.
So where else? Wedding announcements. And thanks to the interview, I know when David and Heather got married. I enter it and, ignoring a horribly named website called CheckMate for investigating whether or not someone you're thinking of dating is already married, I find the announcement within about 20 minutes of phishing sites, catfishing sites, sites that flatly lie about what they can do, and popups, by going directly to the newspapers and looking there.
Bingo. David Reynolds' late wife's maiden name is Shelton, and her sister Stacee was her maid of honor back on her wedding day. And from there within instants Facebook is asking if I want to "friend" Stacee Jacobs. I don't, but happily I don't have to. Like most people who have nothing to hide, or who don't believe the social media site is capable of hiding anything anyway, her settings are pretty much open.
Especially the photos.
Feeling a little like a voyeur, I head into the family photos. Aimee and David, looking radiantly happy. Aimee and David and the first of the babies and then both babies. There are family pets and family events. And family.
In more than one photo there's a girl a little older and a little heavier but otherwise she looks like Aimee, with the red curls and porcelain skin David had mentioned. Captioning the photos: Stacee and Aimee. Dates, locations, times.
Sisters.
* * *
It's a shock to realize I recognize her. Can't quite figure out where. I can't remember seeing her the day I did the interviews with Emmy manning the camera. I haven't seen her around the station. Or on campus.
Or anywhere near the house? The benefit of living right off the beach is living right off the beach. Not such a benefit is having all and sundry people right outside the house. The beach outside Bruce's house is public.
I'm certain I've seen this woman. On the beach.
Right outside our house.
And then, with a sickening feeling, from the photos in the box she sent Kellan.
* * *
So now that I know, what do I do?
Find her. Talk to her. Try to reason with her.
Right. Because people who leave threatening notes on your doorstep are always reasonable, right? Of course she'll want to help Kellan overcome his past and go on to make a difference in the world. I'm sure that's the reason she's "reaching out."
Everything going right as planned.
Only the more I think about it, the more sarcasm fails me. Because what she's sent is a threat. I have no idea if Kellan is taking it seriously. I tend to think he is, the way he's reacting.
The way he's pulling away from me, for one thing. As if he's protecting me.
But for himself? Will he take precautions? What precautions do you want him to take, Willow? He can't very well call the police. David Reynolds was one of their own. Not in Charleston, maybe, but police probably don't see municipalities as enough division to stop them from caring for another officer. They might not actively want Kellan dead, but how invested are they going to be in protecting him from a threat I can't even enunciate?
Find her. Talk to her. Or talk to David Reynolds.
That idea flares into life and goes dark instants later. Mr. Reynolds has been the soul of kindness, but I can't go back to him with this. I have no proof. Not to mention I'm asking him to protect someone who did great damage to his life from someone who probably is at least in some way still a part of his life.
"Willow!"
I jerk out of my thoughts. Ashley and Zach, the A to Z anchors (and I swear I am going to stop thinking of them that way before anyone starts making a case again for saying it on the air). "Hey, what are you two doing here?" Now that's a stupid question, but I'm just out of it enough lately to worry that we had a meeting I managed to forget.
"Coffee," Zach says very plainly, as if humoring me.
I laugh at myself. "I hear there's a good coffee shop somewhere near here."
Ashley sits down across the table from me. "Homework?" She indicates the laptop.
Zach liberates a chair from a nearby table, sits next to Ashley and nods at the laptop. "Porn?" he asks understandingly.
I laugh at them both. "Which will get me more cool points?"
The conversation turns from what I was doing on the computer, which I sidestep with a vague social media reference, which I was, after all, looking at. Not that I have any accounts. I've kept that part of my life walled off. Facebook is all about connecting to people from all over the place, including one's past. My past needs to stay past, no matter how many people know about it. It's mine to accept or wall off. Maybe some day I'll try to track down the two girls I was friends with in Seattle in high school before my life and I turned upside down.
Sure, I tell myself. Not believing it for a minute.
We talk about the station, and about people we have in common from journalism courses. We talk about Reed, because Ashley and Zack are still excited about the job Reed was recruited for. I think Henry Tate Miller's little ploy of "rescuing" his son from the clutches of the evil girl from Seattle has planted the hope in some of these people's minds that eventually they'll be recruited without ever having to go through the job hunt, and hired to jobs farther up the food chain than most people get right out of college.
Well, maybe. But probably only if they're at risk of a relationship with me and have parents who can pay for those jobs.
I can't believe Reed's never questioned that, I think, and zap back into the conversation, which is about Tabby and other station matters, before it goes on to the new club Emmy and I visited over the weekend, and then to other clubs and music and fashion.
It's like being part of the world again. I close my laptop unobtrusively, even though I'm back on a Google homepage, and for the next half hour, I just enjoy myself. This is what college is supposed to be like. I feel normal. Maybe normal is starting to figure out where I live after all.
It's nice.
* * *
When Ashley and Zach take off, I've kind of lost my train of thought, but at the same time, the few thoughts I did have are now more clear. I'll wait and see what happens with Kellan. He's a big boy. He survived five years in prison. Very likely he can figure out what to do about Stacee Jacobs for himself. I wonder if he knows who it is that's sending him stuff. He had access to limited online stuff in prison. He might have done research or he might have done it since he got back. Maybe he waited until this started. Maybe he never looked up anything to do with Aimee's family. It bothers me that I don't know what he'd do.
If she really means to come after him, there's nothing I can do. Even the police can't act until a stalker does something other than linger where they're not wanted. I can't stop someone from shooting Kellan short of chaining him to the bed, a thought that derails all clear thinking for several minutes.
All I can think of to do for now is be vigilant. Watch out for anything weird. Watch Kellan. Try to patch things up and if I can, see if he's doing anything
Because what worries me more than not being able to do anything myself is wondering whether or not Kellan will do anything to protect himself.
Guilt is hard to overcome.
* * *
When I get home from classes on Wednesday there's nobody there at first. Fine by me. All I want is to go lie on the beach for a little while, then ge
t my homework out of the way, eat something, go for a run, take a shower, whatever. Just some normal life for a little while. The normal life bit at The Coffee Mug was enticing.
Entering the echoing, tile and wood and green plants living room I call out a cheerful hello. Carmelita answers back, her voice singsong and happy as always. She's adopted me even faster than mom's new husband. A minute after I step inside she comes out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel, beaming at me.
"There's a pie on the sink," she tell me. "You have some. With a glass of milk."
Ugh. Milk. No, thanks. Pie, though.
"Thanks, Mama Lita." I've started using Kellan's name for her. "What kind of pie?"
"Peach. Lots of peaches, very ripe. Juicy pie. I'm going to the grocery. Do you need anything?"
Can't think of anything. The fridge is stocked with Diet Coke. I'm good. "Mail here?"
"On the table," she calls, disappearing down the hall.
"Anyone else home?"
"You're all alone," her voice comes back cheerfully.
No reason that should give me a little chill. Just echoes of my first life, I guess. I walk over to the sofa table by the door and start going through the mail.
Bills for Bruce. Cell phone bill for me and either I'm going to have to make that stipend for DCTV a reality or I'm going to have to somehow add a paying job to the mix of this semester. That's an exhausting thought, but my savings account, with money my grandmother left me and from the few jobs I had in Seattle before everything went to hell? It's dwindling fast. There's a letter from my great-aunt to my mother. Catalogs, many and varied and some to people who couldn't possibly have lived in this house for at least 10 years.
And something to me. I stop and pull the envelope from the mix of everybody's mail. There's nothing in particular that's strange about it. Nothing to signify alarm or explain yet another chill that rolls through me, other than the post mark from Atlanta.
Which shouldn't worry me too much. It's not like I haven't been there. I went with Reed not long after school started, for the broadcast conference. I've gone there a couple times with my mom to shop, and with Bruce and Mom once on a business trip of his.