Little Voices

by Lillie, Vanessa

  No matter the history, I did help Alec get one of these grants. I could help her. And so she trusted me and put herself and her business out there and applied for the grant.

  But this time, it isn’t working out. She barely made the second round. None of the councilmembers have visited Chip. They aren’t taking her seriously because she’s alone. But I promised her she wouldn’t be.

  You never deserved her friendship.

  Ester is still asleep as I head toward Chip. An older couple in matchy puff vests holds the door for me, smiling as I pass. The place is packed. Staff swirl around the customers, who are stuffing their mouths with chocolate ganache and espresso. Everyone is in New England casual: skinny jeans, yoga pants, ill-fitting khakis, maybe a blazer or cable-knit sweater. Conversations echo about the latest play at Trinity Rep or how bad the roads are already this winter.

  Cynthia is easy to spot, steady among the chaos in her spotless white silk shirt and tan slacks. She puts her hand on the back of a customer’s metal chair as he tells her something that seems complimentary. She doesn’t fully smile, but her eyes brighten. As the owner, she’ll let you buy her coffee and her cakes, and that entitles you to quality but not more. It’s common to see her nod with acknowledgment, but she’s not a pleaser, which is the opposite of my midwest upbringing. I admired her immediately.

  That said, she usually smiles at me. But not today.

  As Cynthia’s gaze locks with mine, I remember another characteristic: When she frowns, her eyes go wide. It’s as if she’s trying to see even more of what you’re doing wrong.

  Looking me over, she frowns as deeply as I’ve ever seen.

  She’s going to kick you out.

  Like she should have done a long time ago.

  She stops by the counter, likely ordering me something, and I’m able to put on what I hope is a brave face.

  “You’re here,” Cynthia says, taking my hands, stretching them wide. “Look at you, mother warrior woman, wearing that baby.”

  There’s no trace of anger or disappointment. That’s worse. She’s blaming herself instead of me.

  “You told Jack to buy the wrap,” I guess as I kiss her quickly on the cheek. She isn’t a hugger.

  “I may have texted him the idea. You only mentioned baby wearing twenty times or so.” She steps back, still frowning. “I haven’t seen you since the hospital.”

  “I’m good,” I say in the same voice I use with Jack. “The nights are long and full of terrors, but I’m surviving.”

  She’s not a baby person but smiles at sleeping Ester. “Your order is up. Come on.”

  She leads me to a corner table in a section that’s closed. We sit down and have privacy.

  To keep your evil baby away from her customers.

  A barista brings a cappuccino and a glass of sparkling water. Sitting on the edge of the chair, I manage to balance Ester in her sleeping position without much disturbance. After a beat, I find my courage. “Sorry I didn’t call you after. It’s been hard . . . adjusting to everything.”

  “Hey, it’s fine. You needed R & R.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “You’ve got that look,” she says. “Let’s hear it.”

  “The grant,” I say. “I left you high and dry.”

  She shakes her head once. “I don’t care about that,” she says. “I built this business on my own. I can do the same with the next one.”

  “I know you can,” I say. The fact remains I really pushed Cynthia to apply for the grant. She argued the only way anyone gets it is through serious politics, which wasn’t her thing. But it was my thing. I told her if she put herself out there, I’d make sure she was covered. But she wasn’t.

  She is on the short list because she’s smart and has a great plan. But she has the lowest scores because I wasn’t able to work my angles with Uncle Cal. It was insider politics and white boys’ club nonsense. “I overpromised and underdelivered.”

  “You were in the hospital,” she says. “I honestly have barely thought about it.”

  “Really?” I say with a grin and sit forward. “Uncle Cal is having his big holiday happy hour tonight.”

  “Oh,” she says, a little flush at her neck. “I hadn’t heard.”

  “You could come and work the Council,” I say. “One last shot.”

  “None of them have been in,” she says. Her gaze shifts toward her staff, hurrying around the noisy room.

  “It’s not you,” I say, hating myself even more. “It’s all the stupid reasons you didn’t want to apply for the grant in the first place. But I can help now.”

  Her stare is back on me, and it’s unconvinced, which is fair.

  But she also has to weigh an evening of ass-kissing Uncle Cal types over her need for the local endorsement and support. Coffee isn’t getting cheaper. The liquor license is tied up in serious red tape. The banks will have heard about her not quite getting the green light.

  Winning the grant clears the way for her second location. She’d not only get the major upsell of booze, but she could buy it at a reasonable cost with her new connections. This holiday happy hour will likely have all the members of the Economic Development Council. Or at least those who are in Uncle Cal’s good graces. In other words, the important ones.

  You’ll just fail her again.

  It should be easier for Cynthia. She’s a well-educated, successful business owner, but as a black female she has to work harder in one month than most of the people at that party will in their whole lives. It certainly isn’t fair. But I’m not a teenager anymore, so I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about fair. Not when I can actually do something about it.

  Her gaze returns to mine. “I want that grant.”

  I run my hand down Ester’s back. “You deserve it. Let me try to help. Again.”

  She should never trust you.

  No one should trust you.

  She nods, and I can see some relief. She was holding back her disappointment. We’re silent briefly, sipping our coffees, but then it’s time to pivot.

  “You’ve got that look again,” she says.

  “It’s your brother.” I dig into the diaper bag and grab my cell phone out of the side pocket to pull up the article. I hand it to her.

  Cynthia glances at the headline on the screen, Blogger Breaks Hot Nanny Murder. “Phillip’s getting attention again,” she says. “He says this story could be his Amanda Knox. National byline or book deal.”

  “He’s reporting rumors. Like that Belina was a slut who got herself killed.”

  “He said that?” Cynthia’s mouth ticks up, but then she shakes it off. “Forget it, Dev. I’m not getting involved.”

  “Did you go to the funeral?”

  “No, we were short staffed and really . . .” Cynthia pauses to breathe deeply. “She liked double espressos and ordered Emmett a mostly water apple juice. That was about the extent of our relationship.”

  “What if this happened to me? Or you?”

  “Phillip needs this story.” She refolds her white cloth napkin. “He was talking about moving back in with our folks before this heated up.”

  I like how much Cynthia watches out for her younger brother. When I forced Phillip to quit pursuing the Economic Development Council lead on Uncle Cal by basically blackmailing Phillip, she didn’t get angry. Or at least, she said she understood why I did it. That I was trying to protect Phillip.

  And maybe that’s part of why I pushed the Economic Development Council grant. Thinking if she took my help, then everything would be forgiven.

  “I want him to have this story,” I say. “With Belina’s side of it. Not as some hot nanny slut. Which is incredibly sexist by the way.”

  “It is,” Cynthia says.

  “He’s rebuilding his reputation on fake news and misogyny. I thought better of him.” I shift forward in my seat, putting my hand on Ester’s back to be sure I don’t bump her against the table. “I can help him.”

  “You burned that bridge,
” Cynthia says, a protectiveness flashing in her eyes. “His sources dried up. He didn’t work for almost a year. It cost him a lot.”

  “It would have cost Phillip a lot more if I hadn’t stopped him,” I say. “He went after Uncle Cal. That’s never ended well for anyone.”

  “I want to stay out of it,” she says.

  “It’s a little late for that.”

  She sits back in her chair. “Is this happy hour invite conditional on my cooperation?”

  I continue patting Ester. “Does it have to be?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Text Phillip to meet me.”

  “Why?” she says. “Really, Devon. Why?”

  She knows you don’t have what it takes anymore.

  “I will solve this murder,” I say. “Belina wanted me to help her.”

  Her brown eyes go wide for a moment, her anger giving way to alarm. “What does Jack say?”

  “Go to group therapy,” I say too quickly, too emphatically. “I’m supposed to be there now.”

  “You lied to Jack?” She sighs but reaches across the table, squeezes my hand. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “I can’t tell him how much I hate it,” I whisper. “Can’t stand how he’d look at me.”

  “Go easy on yourself. Maybe getting involved in this investigation right now isn’t—”

  “It is the best thing,” I say, pulling back from her. “For me. Right now.” I swipe a tear, clearing my throat, trying to tamp down how kindness almost breaks me. “I used to be able to do this. Phillip and I were good at it.”

  But you chose Cal over him.

  “Why don’t I call Jack?” Cynthia says, handing me a tissue. “He’ll understand.”

  She doesn’t know what those words mean. What I’d have to admit to Jack. To myself. What I could lose.

  I shove the tissue into my pocket. I am stronger than this voice. Stronger than the headlines that parrot what trolls and gossips are saying about Belina. Stronger than whoever thought they had the right to take her life.

  I find Cynthia’s frowning gaze and begin. “Text Phillip that I’ve got Belina’s planner. We have to meet today. Now, if possible. If you reach out, he’ll listen.”

  “He’s still angry,” she says gently. “He’s a long way from forgiving you.”

  “I don’t need forgiveness,” I say. “We can help each other. We were really good together once.”

  “Dev, I don’t think now—”

  “I’ll get you the invite to the happy hour. You can still get that grant.”

  She swears under her breath. “This white woman privilege shit gets a pass because I love you.” She shakes her head lightly, pulls out her phone, and starts texting as she talks. “I’m not doing it for the invite. I’m doing it because you asked. That’s how friendship works.”

  She hates you now.

  While she texts Phillip, I send a quick email to Uncle Cal, asking him to add Cynthia to his guest list.

  Cynthia’s phone buzzes. She shows me the texts.

  Cynthia: Dev needs help.

  Phillip: No.

  Cynthia: I need you to do this. Please.

  Phillip: Swan Point in half hour. By the river.

  Chapter 10

  I pack the memos I wrote after studying Belina’s planner. The theories are hopefully strong enough to convince Detective Ramos that Alec is innocent. I drop them into my old messenger bag along with a bottle of breast milk and changing supplies. Tapping my finger on a copy of Belina’s journal, I’m unsure if I should bring it for Phillip, if I can trust him. He may hate me for slamming the brakes on his career. I’m ready to explain myself. Ready to let him see it doesn’t have to be over between us. We can still help each other.

  You’ll just use him again.

  As I walk toward Swan Point Cemetery, I review my strategy, ordering my tactics from friendly to aggressive. I pass by Alec’s house, and it’s quiet. I snatch two bags of poop from the lawn and throw them into a trash can along the boulevard jogging path.

  I go faster than I should and have to pause, almost breathless, huffing by the red mums wilting in a semicircle at the cemetery’s entrance. Huge boulders loom with letters spelling Swan Point in bronze that has turned a magnificent green with age.

  I wipe sweat from my heated face, perspiration dripping between my swollen breasts. But I don’t dare unzip my coat. Ester could chill and get sick and end up in the hospital.

  What if she’s too hot?

  You’re smothering her.

  What kind of mother walks this far in the winter?

  A terrible mother.

  I adjust her knit hat. One side of her face is cool but not cold. The cheek against my body is warm. I hurry along the asphalt road, nearing where the tape showed Belina’s final moments.

  The wind picks up by the river, whipping my long coat against my jeans. I trudge through the muddy grass, avoiding headstones, toward the large wooden gazebo. I stand at its center, and with the trees bare, I can see all the way to the river.

  My mind flashes images from the video of Belina there in the dark, tombstones all around, completely alone at the end. I imagine her in the water, cold and drained of blood, body abandoned, eyes open in darkness.

  My vision blurs, the panic attack completely cutting off my air. Even though I haven’t had one since I was a girl, I remember to stick out my hands. But there is Ester now, and I shift to clutch her instead, falling onto my bottom with a thud. My head reels back until it connects with the corner of a bench.

  There’s pain, but I can focus only on Ester, my hands searching her. She’s silent, shockingly so, and I wonder if somehow I hurt her. I breathe and breathe and breathe until I see stars, then the blurry ground, and finally reality.

  Standing up, I brace myself against a beam and check her until it rouses her awake. She begins to cry.

  You’re the same weak little girl.

  I whisper how sorry I am to Ester, fighting the pain in my chest from the attack and my own terror that they’ve returned. I bounce us both around and around the gazebo for maybe a half hour. I’m connected only to her, not time or place, until finally, we’re calm.

  I know why I used to have blackouts. I told myself they don’t have to be so terrible. Sometimes your mind must leave. It’s better to go away, and when I returned, it was all over, buried deep.

  I shouldn’t be surprised or as scared as I am that the blackouts have returned. They’ve been back before, while I was in DC. Jack knows about them. But I guess I hoped it’d be only the voice. That I’d have to deal with only one terrible thing from my past at a time.

  You’re getting exactly what you deserve.

  But I’m not a terrorized girl or an obsessed DC lawyer. I’m a mother, and it’s only Ester and me here in the cemetery. I’m not sure why all the old reasons must return with the new. What my mind is trying to hide. What it thinks I should forget.

  Blotting the tears from my face with the edge of my coat, I force myself to remember Belina. Remember why I must find out the truth. And that I need Phillip’s help.

  On unsteady legs, I follow the path Belina took. It’s less than a quarter mile until I reach Cynthia’s old VW sedan parked at the top of the hill. She gave it to Phillip when she upgraded to her BMW. I see my face in the car window reflection, blotchy from tears and yet pale from almost passing out.

  I spot him first, sitting down on a bench near the crypt where Belina was murdered, stabbed once, deeply, in the chest. According to Phillip’s reporting, she bled profusely before her body was dragged down the hill to the muddy riverbank. There the killer cut open her right arm in diamond patterns. Some of her skin was taken by the knife, some by the water, like most of her blood.

  Phillip will never trust you again.

  You threatened him for trying to tell the truth.

  My chest tightens, still sore from my attack. I have to get it together. Phillip needs to see me as a capable partner, not a sobbing, emotiona
lly unstable liability.

  He glances up as I approach, puts his phone away, and waves. He’s in his reporter uniform, head-to-toe black, the slacks and dress shirt, skinny tie, and plastic-rimmed glasses. His hair and beard are all the same short length.

  The Hale frown quickly appears. “Are you all right?” he asks, alarmed, as if he can see that I blacked out. That my mind was fighting with my consciousness to escape. It’s not as bad as it used to be in DC. Or when I was a girl. But it’s not good, that’s for sure.

  “I’m fine,” I say too brightly.

  “Hold still. You’re bleeding.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket.

  His face nears mine, and there’s kindness and concern in his dark-brown eyes. He touches the cloth to my forehead and wipes blood along my hairline. He continues to dab along my scalp, all the way to the back of my head. We’re silent, except for the sound of our breath mingling. He puts pressure on a sore spot, and I hiss, but he continues his focused attention.

  After dabbing a few more times, he nods once and steps back. “The bleeding stopped,” he says, refolding the handkerchief to a clean side. He wipes a few tears from my cheeks. I didn’t even realize they were there.

  I want to say, I’m not doing well. I want to say, Help me. I only mumble, “Thanks.”

  He hands me the cloth, and I brush it over my cheeks. He takes a long step back. Straightens his sleeves and clears his throat. “How did that happen?”

  “I slipped earlier,” I say. “At the gazebo. We’re fine.”

  “Good,” he says. “The baby—”

  “Ester,” I offer. “She’s fine. Sleeping now. We both had a cry.”

  “I can see that,” he says. “Well, I’m here. What do you want?”

  “I need your help,” I say. “I don’t think Alec killed Belina.”

  “Okay,” he says, scratching at his temple, a tell that he’s annoyed. “I hear an arrest is imminent.”

  “I’m speaking with Detective Ramos in a few hours.”

  He crosses his arms. “You’re being vague.”