by P. J. Vernon
I’d broken out in a sudden fever. My cheeks were flushed, hot to the touch. A tear rolled down my cheek, and Matthew caught it with his index finger.
“Hush now, Gray,” he cooed. “Hush now.” I thought he might’ve sucked his finger—the one with my tear on its tip—but I couldn’t be certain. I breathed in staggered heaves.
He knelt, pulling me down halfway in his lap. I lost my balance and turned, catching myself with my right palm pressed against the ice-cold floor. When I looked up, I saw my reflection in the cracked mirror again. “I saw him. I saw the Devil.”
“Shhh … quiet down now.”
“I saw the Devil, and now I’m bad. I am a bad girl.”
“You are,” Matthew said, his cheek pressed to mine. “I can’t tell you otherwise. I’d like to, but I can’t. I can’t change that you’ve seen him.”
I coughed and a dollop of spit ran down my chin.
Matthew went on, “I gotta ask you a question now, and I need you to tell me the truth. It’s very important you be honest with me, you hear?”
A broken nod.
“I know you saw him, but did you look the Devil in the eyes?”
The fire was so hot, I’d clenched my eyes shut. But then I’d opened them. The blinding streaks that floated before me had formed an image—a face. And the face had eyes.
“I … I think so.”
Matthew breathed heavily. “This is serious.”
His words spiked my pulse. I’d never heard him so worried before. I couldn’t collect my thoughts. I couldn’t tear the image made in the furnace’s flash from my mind’s eye. Matthew’s face. My cousin, who I sat clinging to like a life raft.
“We’ve gotta get him out of you, Gray, do you hear? We’ve got to get the Devil out.”
I didn’t know what he was saying. His words became distant and garbled. I watched Matthew speak, as if from afar. Another nod. Empty. Blank.
My throat had tightened. Breathing became almost impossible. Matthew paused as though searching for a solution, a cure. Should I tell him the Devil looked just like him? I opened my mouth to speak, but he turned my head back towards the glass.
As my eyes readjusted, my cheeks now appeared splotched and wet in the mirror. I clenched my hands.
“Look at yourself, Gray,” Matthew whispered. For a flash, his wet breath seemed … wetter. Queasiness rippled through me. Did he touch my neck with his tongue?
“Look at yourself,” he said again. My eyes met themselves in the glass. Damp, wide with terror. “Look at yourself, and tell me what you are.”
I’d never stared at anything so hard before.
“Tell me what you are,” Matthew repeated. “Tell me you’re a bad girl, and we can get the Devil out. We can leave him in the mirror. Trapped.”
My voice caught in my throat. I couldn’t form words. Nothing Matthew said made any sense.
“Tell me what you are. Tell me you’re a bad girl.”
“I…,” my voice cracked, “I—I’m a bad … girl.”
“Say it again.”
“I’m a bad girl.”
“That’s right. You’ve seen the Devil. You’re a wicked little girl now.” Matthew’s breath grew hotter on my neck. Then his lips pressed against my skin.
My eyes remained locked on my reflection, my mouth repeating the phrase over and over and over again. Matthew’s icy fingers ran beneath the elastic waistline of my skirt. The girl in the mirror became magnetic. We shared an unbroken stare.
“I’m a bad girl.”
26
Nina
In the hospital corridor, Matthew King stumbled towards me. Even from yards away, he appeared distraught. An unusual look for someone like him. He must’ve just left Gray’s bedside. He held his head down, and I doubted he even saw me.
“Matthew…” I said. He ignored my greeting and pressed onward to the elevators, brushing my shoulder as he passed by. Why was he so obviously upset? From what I’d heard, his request for the county prosecutor to decline charges against Gray had been successful.
As soon as I’d finished with the crime scene team, I’d learned the exact circumstances of the accident. Her blood alcohol content—taken in the emergency department—measured point three. She’d been behind the wheel of a large SUV possibly going in and out of consciousness. It was a goddamn miracle that a streetlamp had stopped her—and not a pedestrian.
I turned the corner, noting the room numbers painted above each doorway. Through the open door of what I guessed was Gray’s suite, a custodian swept broken glass from the floor. Another wiped down the wall with a wet rag. A nurse appeared, drying his hands off with a paper towel.
“This isn’t a good time to visit, ma’am.” His face was worrying.
“Detective Palmer.” I flashed my badge. “What happened in here?”
He sighed. “There was an incident. Mrs. Godfrey had an outburst and broke a vase against the wall.”
Did she and Matthew have an argument? That would have fit with his demeanor in the hallway.
“I still need to speak with her,” I said, looking over his shoulder.
Gray’s chest rose in regular intervals. She was awake but appeared dazed. Her eyes were purpled with bruises—likely caused by the airbag—and a sling held her left arm up by her side. Her cheeks glistened from sweat, and the tips of her ears reddened like they were on fire.
“I have to tell you she’s been given an antianxiety medication and additional painkillers, so nothing she says can be,” he hesitated, “you know, used or whatever by you folks.”
“Not a worry of mine,” I replied, waving him off.
I stood to the side, allowing the custodial staff to leave with a garbage bag of clattering glass. When the last person exited the room, I gently closed the door. Gray and I made eye contact.
“How are you doing, Gray?” I asked, stepping closer to the bed.
Her dry lips twitched as though she intended to speak, but she stopped short of words.
“I’m here to tell you we made an arrest. Jacob confessed to assaulting your husband early Christmas morning.”
Still only silence from Gray. My words seemed to have no affect on her. I decided not to disclose the blood we’d found in the marsh. Now wasn’t the time for that.
I continued, “I thought maybe if I told you Jacob had admitted to being on the highway that night, you might remember more. A new detail?”
Her eyes remained trained on my own in an unsettling way. Every time we’d spoken over the past week, she’d avoided my eyes. I’d chalked it up to anxiety, or perhaps the drinking. But now those dark eyes seemed to want to say something to me. Something she couldn’t bring herself to speak aloud.
I smiled as best I could and took a seat in the chair by her bed. With my elbows on my knees, I leaned closer. “Do you recall seeing Jacob on the highway that night or what he did to Paul?”
When I reached to take her hand, she finally spoke. “Why did he do it?” Her palm was frigid and clammy, and I gave her a reassuring squeeze.
“Why did who do what?” I asked, eyes narrowed. “Why did Jacob attack Paul?”
She glanced towards the freshly cleaned wall. “Why did Matthew do it?”
What had the two of them fought over? What could have prompted her to break a vase despite her own injuries? Unease washed over me.
“Do you want to tell me something, Gray? Is there something you’re struggling with?”
She fell silent again.
“Look, I know about the drinking. I know it’s a significant problem. Do you want to tell me what’s been happening? Did Paul hurt you? Did you argue with your cousin over it?”
Her hand clenched at my last question. “Gray, you can talk to me. We’ve known each other a long time, and I’m here to help you. Tell me how I can help you. Did Matthew hurt you in some way?”
Her breathing became erratic at the second mention of his name. She needed rest, desperately, and my presence wasn’t helping. The nurse had tri
ed to caution me about the drugs and their effects, but I hadn’t listened.
She wasn’t going anywhere and neither was Jacob Wilcox. There’d be chances to talk tomorrow. A pang of guilt struck me for visiting her now. My burning questions no longer justified being here, torturing her. I stood to leave.
“Nina, wait,” Gray called out. I stopped, and she added in a shaky voice, “I want to talk to you. I want to tell you what happened.”
* * *
I sped down the highway on my way back to Auntie Tilda’s, the revving engine barely keeping pace with my thoughts. Pine trees flickered by my window as Elizabeth’s steepled silhouette grew smaller in the rearview mirror.
Gray’s allegations reverberated in my mind. Matthew King, respected defense attorney and her first cousin, sexually assaulted her in her own home when she was nine years old, and he was a senior in high school.
Did I believe her? What reasons would she have to lie to me? Of course, if she did have anything to do with Paul’s disappearance, a story like this would be both distracting and paint her a victim. Or had her medication simply led her to allege something so unexpected? But then remembering the look on Matthew’s face as I passed him in the hallway … One word came to mind to describe it: shame.
Her nurse said she’d been medicated heavily after the incident during Matthew’s visit. After the incident. That meant something had incited the hostility, independent of any drug. I considered the possibly that the medication might’ve coaxed her to tell me. The visit from Matthew combined with lowered inhibitions could’ve spurred the disclosure.
And if it was true, then had her parents known? Or suspected, maybe? A tingle swept over my shoulders. Auntie was more a caretaker to Gray than Joanna or Seamus, would she have something to add to any of this?
But as disturbing as Gray’s allegations were, they got me no closer to determining what had happened to Paul.
Then there was still the matter of Annie. Gray’s accident only occurred because she’d gone to meet the woman. A shaken Gray had told me so afterwards, played the second voicemail she’d received from her. Annie didn’t seem to fit anywhere.
My own phone rang from inside my bag. I started to reach for it, but thoughts of Gray’s car wreck had me pulling over before answering. Andrew Huang. Again.
“This is Nina,” I said, making no effort to hide my exasperation.
“Hello, Nina,” Andrew said. “You’re a very difficult woman to get a hold of.”
“Do you need something?”
“It would benefit you to meet with me,” he answered. “I have information that’ll help you.” His voice had an earnestness I hadn’t detected when we first met in the street.
“Then tell me right now. We don’t need to meet,” I said. What had his message said he wanted? A drink?
“It’d be far easier in person,” he replied. “A lot of nuance to discuss.”
“I bet. You’ve got me on the phone. Give me something. Make me want to meet you.”
“You’re finally speaking my language,” he chuckled. “For starters, Jacob Wilcox isn’t your guy.”
“You’ve been keeping informed, then.”
“Doing my job, same as you,” he answered.
“He confessed to assaulting Paul Godfrey on the highway where we found his rental. A physical confrontation moments before a person vanishes is a tough thing to look past, Andrew.” I glanced at my watch. I needed to be back at Auntie Tilda’s in less than half an hour.
“He’s not your guy, and I can prove it,” he replied, his tone certain. “And I’ve got more for you. We’re on the same team, Nina. We want the same thing more or less. Will you meet me tonight?”
I challenged him to make me want to meet him, and he’d done just that. No matter what my opinion of the guy was, I’d give him a chance to talk. More than likely, this was an opportunity to ply me for information, not the other way around. But after today? Between blood by the marshes and Gray’s allegations, I’d give Andrew a shot. Nothing he said could make this day any more surprising.
“When and where?” I asked.
“I’m staying at a hotel right off the interstate. The James Plantation Inn.”
“I know the place.”
“There’s a bar downstairs, the Magnolia Lounge. Seems to be about as classy as it gets in Elizabeth. Can you be there in an hour?”
“No. I’ve got something. How about ten o’clock?”
“See you then, detective.” He hung up.
* * *
The hotel was two stories of white siding and black shutters. Four pillars stood in front of the main façade, evoking the look of a neoclassical plantation.
Each Sunday, the hotel’s restaurant, a country buffet, became a popular lunch spot for the church crowd. I’d been once, but watching the all-black waitstaff scurry to fill sweet teas for dressy whites kept me from ever going back.
The deviled crab wasn’t so bad, I thought, walking up to the entrance.
Sammie wouldn’t like the idea of me meeting Andrew. I didn’t tell him about our first encounter outside the pharmacy, but he’d seen Andrew’s business card. We’re partners, Nina, I imagined him saying. When it comes to a case, we tell each other everything. It’s the only way we’ll get it done right.
He might make a connection where there wasn’t one between our—or rather, my—hesitation to contact the Kings about their missing rental and this city-slicking former agent from D.C. And would he be right? Was I overcompensating for bungling the start of the investigation by giving in too much now?
The darkened restaurant’s French doors had been closed and locked, but the bar next door was alive with piano music and soft, yellow lighting.
The Magnolia Lounge was more bustling than I’d expected. Clinking crystal met with laughter, as a sonata played from a baby grand. Ornate potted palms sat on the burgundy carpet, and the tabletops were all oak.
My watch read nine forty PM. I came early on purpose to pick our table. I wanted to make sure I had a line of sight to the bathrooms and the exits. If Andrew excused himself at any point during our chat, I wanted to see everywhere he went. I didn’t care where Andrew was from or what he’d done before coming here. He was in Elizabeth now. My town, my turf. I’d worked too hard to get where I was to cede ground to anyone.
An enormous portrait stared out from behind the piano. Scarlett O’Hara, in a pink ruffled hoop skirt, stood beneath an arching oak. Only instead of Tara, the house in the background mimicked the front of this hotel. I returned a pastel Vivien Leigh’s smirk with one of my own.
“Can I get you something to drink, ma’am?” A waiter asked as I took my seat at a corner table.
“What blushes do you have?”
“We’ve got a zinfandel ’05, and a ’99 white merlot,” he replied, uncapping his pen to take my order.
“The zinfandel would be great.”
“And will you be having something to eat, as well?”
“No.” I smiled. “And do me a favor. I’m meeting someone. Don’t offer him a menu when you take his drink order, we won’t be staying long.”
Moments later, my drink sat before me. As I sipped it, my head tingled. I didn’t often drink, but a day like today didn’t come often, either.
As I swirled the pink wine by the stem, my thoughts went to Gray. What was only a simple drink to me, to so many people, was everything to her. Did I believe her allegations? Were they relevant to Paul’s case? If anything, her near-constant inebriation seemed to be her alibi.
But at the same time, I got it. I understood what drove her to drink. Life was overwhelming at the best of times. And at the worst? I took another swallow, allowing myself to enjoy the euphoric warmth.
“Hello, Nina.” Andrew cracked a wide grin as he took a seat across the table. His hair perfectly shellacked into place. The cologne he wore, too strong.
“Good evening, Andrew.” I failed to blunt the sardonic edge in my voice. The waiter had followed him to the table
.
“Balvenie scotch, neat,” he ordered. “No more than a finger or two, please.”
“A conscientious drinker?” I laughed.
He smiled sideways. “All things in moderation, detective.”
I got right to the point. “Why is Jacob not my guy?”
Andrew straightened the silverware in front of him as he answered. “His truck. He bought it used in Beaufort. One of those guaranteed credit lots. They finance high-risk customers, but the catch is a starter cut-off device.”
“If someone skips a payment, they shut the car off remotely,” I concluded. With the sorts of problems Jacob had, why hadn’t I thought to look into this?
Andrew went on. “And nearly always, these devices include GPS tracking for the repo folks.”
“Which you checked…”
“Which I checked. I’m not quite as regulated as an officer of the law like yourself.” Was he offering me an excuse for my oversight? Reaching into his pocket, he produced a piece of paper. Printed coordinates covered both sides.
A sinking feeling gripped me. “Jacob’s truck didn’t make it to Paul Revere Highway, did it?”
“No. Maybe his intention had been to follow the Godfreys, but he didn’t make it that far.” Andrew pointed to a single line he’d highlighted. “All the way to a second bar a few blocks south, in fact.”
“Shit.” The sinking feeling began to turn my stomach. He’d let his temper get the best of him. It wasn’t the first time he’d been hauled in, so the idea probably didn’t frighten him like it might someone else. Not while his head was hot, anyways. He was likely revising his story to reflect to truth as I sat here. The chance to laugh at me may’ve even been worth it to him. Sheriff Burton’s going to have a coronary.
Andrew shrugged. “Probably couldn’t stand the idea of someone like Paul taking what he believed was his.”
“It fits with everything else I know about him.” My cheeks grew hot. Partly from Jacob’s dishonesty. Partly from embarrassment that this man had been the one to figure it out. “Shit.”
“Sorry, detective.”
Eager to move on from my mistake, I spoke forcefully. “You said on the phone you’ve got something else?”