When You Find Me

by P. J. Vernon

  “You took it much farther than a silly game though, didn’t you?” I wanted to push him, but I wouldn’t come out and say it. Not with little Susannah blinking up at me from the table.

  He stood, scooting his chair out with force. Other patrons turned towards us, startled by the commotion. “I am asking you kindly to leave me and my family alone, detective. This is entirely inappropriate.” He struggled to speak softly.

  “Matthew, what’s she saying?” Ellen asked, clearly concerned by the unfolding scene. “Why’s she asking you about Gray?”

  He ignored his wife. “Leave, Nina.”

  “I’ll leave as soon as we talk. Step outside, and then I’m gone.”

  He glanced at his family and then turned to meet the eyes of everyone staring at him. “Fine,” he shot back, throwing down his linen napkin.

  “Matthew, what’s happening?” Ellen raised her voice, glowering at me.

  “I’ll be right back,” he replied. His brow glistened.

  He had no other option but to follow me to the club house’s veranda. As soon as the door closed behind us, Matthew exploded.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His face shook. His eyes lit up like a pair of matches.

  My own fire grew. “Putting you on fucking notice,” I answered through gritted teeth.

  He threw his arms up. “For what, exactly?”

  “For the sexual assault of a minor. Gray Godfrey.”

  He opened his mouth as though he planned to shout back but stopped. He had to be careful now. He was speaking to an officer of the law about allegations against him. Allegations which were not constrained by any statute of limitations. The attorney in him took over.

  Turning a half-circle, he ran both hands through his hair. He’d become disheveled. He exhaled loudly, then spoke. “I’m sorry, Nina. I have nothing to say to you.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, unclenching my teeth. “I expected you wouldn’t. I came here to let you know what I know. That’s all.”

  He scoffed. “Gray’s a drunk. You know that as well as I. What she says can’t be trusted.”

  I stared deep into his baby blue eyes. “Like I said, Matthew. I know.”

  As I turned to leave, he called from behind. “A drunk, Nina. Probably three sheets to the wind when she said whatever it is she said. She’s sober now, though. Guess the accident scared her straight.” His voice grew fainter as I reached for the door handle to return inside. “In fact, she called me earlier today. Said she wants to catch up. Doesn’t sound like someone who’s been assaulted to me.”

  The door shut behind me. Crossing the dining room to the exit, I caught a glimpse of Susannah, and my heart clenched. As her mother leaned in next to her—maybe to see what she’d drawn—I wanted nothing more than to leap to her side. To whisk her away from the man pacing back and forth on the veranda.

  Could I tell Ellen what sort of man her husband was? She wouldn’t believe me if I did. I pushed the thought from my mind. To do so was difficult. Unnatural. It went against every fiber of my being. But I did it.

  Making my way back to the parking lot, I understood Auntie’s decision a little better. The difference between being principled and being pragmatic could sometimes be measured in miles.

  As I sank back into the driver’s seat of my car, I released a heavy sigh. Holding out my hands, fingers outstretched, they shook badly.

  Okay, Nina. Your mind’s clear. Get the autopsy report read. Then get half the rise out of Charlotte that you got out of Matthew, and you might just wind up with a confession.

  38

  Gray

  I tugged the parlor doors closed, sealing myself off in the library. We’d arrived home from the police station hours ago, but the spinning wheels in my brain were just gaining traction.

  Did Annie’s sudden presence in my life actually help me? A slanted thought. Broken. Even if Annie’s actions had pushed me closer to getting help—AA for instance—she was still a sociopath.

  Annie hadn’t really done me any favors. Not on purpose. And mutilating Hattie after killing Paul suggested she wasn’t finished. Hattie was the last of the yard cats. The only one to survive that year’s tragedies and traumas. Like me. But how would Annie know that?

  I thought of Charlotte. The way she hated Hattie. Hated when I brought her inside as children. But that was outrageous; she’d been allergic. She’d never do something so horrible. Would Mamma? Would Tilda Palmer?

  In the grand scheme of things, Paul’s death had been easy. Nina said so herself. A quick knife to the neck. All his suffering had ended days earlier. Me on the other hand? My pain had only grown since Christmas morning.

  I had to do something about her.

  Annie wanted me to panic and grieve and writhe. Like a hook-pierced worm. She wanted fear to permeate my flesh every waking moment—right down to the muscle like a confined veal. Everything she’d done had been designed that way.

  The phone call, vague and cautious, with no information or callback number. She meant to send me off the path, and she’d succeeded. When I played her message for the police, I took them with me on a wild-goose chase assuming my husband had run off to the Caribbean or the Azores or Italy with his mistress.

  Wincing, I let my leather purse fall from my unbroken shoulder. I sat it atop Daddy’s claw-foot desk.

  Then there was Cirilo’s. Annie didn’t merely know how to push a person over the edge—she seemed to know exactly how to push me. And she pushed and pushed and pushed. The Riesling brought to my table courtesy of the house. Had Annie arranged that, too? No. That had been Luca Cirilo himself. The waiter had verified as much. I couldn’t fall into paranoia on top of everything else.

  I shuddered as Annie’s email came to mind. The wild-goose chase to find Paul had only been half of what we thought. Maybe he hadn’t run off with her, but she was his mistress. Or they’d slept together in the past, at least. The fact she’d saved the photos to send me meant she’d been planning this for quite some time. If not plotting to murder Paul outright, then torturing me in some way.

  And now she drew closer. So close she’d stood on this very property. She’d likely watched me in my bedroom from the courtyard while Hattie bled out atop the inlaid brick.

  I took a seat in the leather high back chair, sinking into its worn cushion.

  My arms goose-bumped, and I grew expectedly thirsty. It was the afternoon, and a drink was completely out of reach. The pain pills burned off some of my anxiety, but I craved the glug glug of an upside-down bottle. My thoughts darted to hand sanitizer, mouth wash, maybe even rubbing alcohol. If I just smelled it, I might feel better.

  I’m coming apart.

  I placed my palms to my cheeks and pressed inwards, shaking my head. I also craved information. I wanted to know who this woman was. If I stood any chance against her, I needed to know.

  And I planned to put up a fight. It had taken Paul’s death and Matthew showing up at my bedside, but now I spoiled for one. For once in my life, I refused to go down easy. I wanted to get better—like Barbara. And I wanted to fight Annie—to the death if I had to.

  Daddy’s portrait over the mantle caught my eye. Billowy tufts of white gave him a look like Teddy Roosevelt in need of a trim. I hadn’t noticed it since being back. The last time I stood in the library—when Charlotte told me Paul hadn’t come home—my mind had been twisted with panic and pills. A wet rag wringing fear from itself. No surprise I’d missed Daddy looming over the mantle.

  His nose, Roman like all the men in my family, was capped by gin blossoms. What an ordeal that little detail had stirred. He’d demanded the artist touch it up, but Mamma insisted it stay. The woman who polished the family’s reputation so fiercely had passed up a chance to spit-shine it further. I’d always wondered what her motives had been. Why she’d wanted to reflect life as it was, rather than as Daddy wanted it to be. Likewise, I questioned why I’d been drawn to this room in the first place. I’d grabbed my bag containing my laptop
from my bedroom, but rather than opening it there, I’d come down here. I’d walked past the landing mirror—this time looking into it—and come to the room where Daddy’s portrait hung.

  I came down here because I wanted to rip the band-aid off. I needed to confront my enemy—Annie—and I wanted Daddy to see me do it. The man who’d buried everything so selfishly. Who’d encouraged Mamma to do the same. Whether he’d be proud or turn in his grave, I wasn’t sure.

  I didn’t fucking care.

  I closed my eyes, recalling what Daddy once said to me in this room. Late at night.

  “You have to fight, Gray. Somebody knocks you down, you gotta fight.” He’d slurred his words. The smoky tang of bourbon on his breath had stung my young eyes. I hadn’t been sure to what or whom he was referring to at the time. It could’ve been anything. Contention had filled his life. His career path had been littered with fallen foes. “We’re Kings, you hear me? We weren’t put in this world to live up to its expectations. It’s the world that needs to live up to ours.”

  I’d never made anything easy for anyone. I certainly wasn’t going to stop now. Not with Annie. Not when it came to taking me down. As my computer powered up, I considered the possibilities; what were the sorts of questions police asked during homicide investigations? First, they always suspected the victim’s significant other. The boyfriend or girlfriend, the wife or husband. But I didn’t kill Paul.

  Then they inquire about enemies. They ask if the victim had any. Paul undoubtedly had enemies. A liberal lobbyist throwing his hat in the ring for congress? There’d be enemies on every corner.

  But Paul wasn’t the only intended victim here. The question now was, what enemies did I have?

  With my drinking, I’d managed to anger more than a handful of folks up and down the east coast. But my run-ins were of the casual sort. Nothing resulting in a burning desire for me to suffer endlessly. The D.C. museum director who fired me, for example.

  Only one person kept coming to mind. One person I’d angered enough—and enough times—to want me dead. That person was Paul.

  And if I’d made him mad enough, then maybe he communicated that to Annie. When he wasn’t mockingly calling me Hummingbird during pillow talk, he might’ve expressed his fatigue with my behavior.

  I found myself back at square one. The lover was usually guilty, and this case seemed no different. More than likely, Annie had killed Paul.

  But who the hell is Annie?

  I stared blankly at my welcome screen. A balmy sixty-eight degrees according to my weather app. Partly cloudy. No new emails. Headlines from around the world, the typical mix of depressing and even more so.

  As I bit my thumbnail, a thought occurred: the security firm. The one Laurence Cooper hired to assist with Paul’s case. I assumed they’d been called off because Paul was no longer missing. They worked for Laurence, not me, so it didn’t seem strange to not have heard from them and besides, my mind had been so frantic, they might’ve checked in with Mamma, and I missed it.

  But none of that mattered. They’d been working alongside the police. How much coordination occurred between their contractors and the Elizabeth County Sheriff’s Office? Were they still on the case? Did Nina tell them about Annie? They were an unexplored lead, and if I could get an investigator on the phone, I could ask what they’d learned. Maybe they’d IDed Annie, or at least had a short-list.

  I couldn’t recall the firm’s name, so I typed “Cooper and Waters, security contractor, Paul Godfrey” into my search browser. Surely there’d be an article or something naming them in the context of Paul’s case. I’d spoken briefly to a man who said he planned to travel to Elizabeth himself. If I couldn’t remember the name of his company, I certainly wouldn’t know his. But if I saw a list of employees, perhaps I could pick it out?

  Bingo. Security Solutions. I clicked on the link to their website. I scrolled through contact information for Security Solution’s investigatory services. I recognized Andrew Huang’s name and dialed his number.

  An administrative assistant answered on the third ring. “Andrew Huang’s office, Robin speaking. How can I help you?”

  During my brooding, my throat had grown dry, and my voice caught as I started to speak. I coughed instead.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. Hello.” I cleared my throat. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Huang. Please.”

  “I’m afraid he’s on a call at the moment, can I take a message?”

  I hesitated, suddenly feeling a bit foolish. “Sure,” I answered. “Could you tell him Gray called.”

  “Gray Godfrey?” The woman—Robin—asked. She sounded taken aback. The clamor behind her abruptly stopped.

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “Hold please.” She clicked off, not giving me the chance to respond. A soft concerto played from the other side of the line.

  As I waited, Mamma peeked in on her way out the front door. Cora and the twins trailed her. “We’re taking the boys for an outing. Ice cream sundaes and a movie. They’ve been through the wringer themselves this past week,” she said. “I’ve also got some shopping to do. We may be gone for quite a while. You’ll be alright alone?”

  I nodded.

  “Charlotte should be back from the sheriff’s office before long. Nina had a few questions for her. Nothing too serious, I’m sure,” Mamma added before heading out. Cora locked the door behind them.

  “Mrs. Godfrey?” A man asked, cutting off the hold music.

  “Yes,” I repeated.

  “This is Andrew. It’s nice to hear from you.” He paused for a moment. “My sincerest condolences to you and your family. I’ve been keeping tabs on the news out of Elizabeth.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered as his comment sank in. “You’re no longer investigating? If you’re only watching the news, that is?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Godfrey—”

  “Call me Gray.” The taste Paul’s last name left in my mouth had only grown sourer, curdling like month-old milk.

  “Of course, Gray. As I said, no, we’re no longer providing services. Not since news of Paul’s death surfaced.”

  “I see. That makes sense.”

  “Is there anything I can help you with?” He sounded genuinely eager.

  I stiffened my back in Daddy’s chair. “Yes, actually, there is. I was wondering if you might’ve found anything over the course of your investigation that pointed to Annie’s identity?”

  Andrew hesitated. “I’m sorry, who?”

  “Annie. The woman who’s been … terrorizing me.”

  “A woman’s been terrorizing you?” His surprise came off as real as his eagerness had.

  I dug my nails into the palm of my free hand. “Didn’t you know? The phone calls, the car accident? The photographs?”

  Another hesitation. “Mrs. Godfrey … Gray, could you tell me what happened? Precisely how this woman—Annie—has been tormenting you? If you don’t mind.”

  I started from the beginning. From the innocuous voicemail left on my phone on Christmas Day. As I recounted the events for Andrew, my cheeks grew hot. First from the shock of hearing myself say them aloud, then from shame. As I finished with what happened to Hattie, anger supplanted all other feeling.

  A pause lingered on Andrew’s end of the line. I assumed he took his time digesting the whole story. If it sounded crazy to me, I could only imagine how it came off to him, hearing it all for the first time.

  “And you knew none of this?” I asked. Nina must’ve withheld news of Annie from him. It had been withheld from the public, too. A police trap, maybe? If it came out someone knew about Annie, then they must be involved in Paul’s disappearance.

  “No,” Andrew finally answered. “No, I didn’t.”

  As silence resumed on his end, I spoke up. “I’m sorry to bother you. I thought you might be able to help me identify the woman—”

  “I can.”

  “I’m sorry?” His response jarred me. Surely, he meant
to say …

  He repeated himself with certainty. “I can help you identify the woman. Annie.”

  I said nothing, but my blood began to rush, reddening my face further. As my breath quickened, the receiver played my exhalations back like a static-filled echo.

  “I don’t believe Annie’s name is actually Annie,” he began as I held my breath. “What do you know about Paul and your sister? How much do you really know about Charlotte?”

  39

  Nina

  As I turned the corner towards reception, I spotted Gray’s sister. Charlotte leaned on the front desk with one elbow as she signed her name onto the clipboard sitting there.

  “Charlotte,” I said tersely. “Follow me, please.”

  “Hello, Nina.” She started to smile but stopped when it became clear I wouldn’t be returning the gesture. As we strode through the office, we passed the Fish Bowl to my right. Her head turned as though she expected me to lead her into it.

  “Are we not speaking in there?” She asked, her tone wary.

  “No,” I replied.

  She hesitated, my answer clearly unsatisfying. “But didn’t you ask me here to talk? That’s where we spoke last time. And that’s where you’ve spoken to the rest of the family.”

  It was unusual for someone to show concern for where I opted to speak with them. But Charlotte wasn’t usual. She had something to hide, and someone with something to hide would be shaken by the unexpected. Even something as insignificant as a room change.

  It only solidified my read of the woman. At the very least, she had conducted an affair with a married man. Her sister’s husband. Her sister’s dead husband. And the worst-case scenario?

  “We’ll be chatting in a formal interview room,” I replied, holding open a heavy door to a second hallway. As I beckoned her through, she fidgeted with the strap of her purse. Her eyes darted from one direction to another.

  “A formal interview room?” Her voice cracked like a fallen vase.

  “Yes,” I answered matter-of-factly. “This is a formal interview. Recorded, etcetera.”