It's One of Us(92)
Her heart breaks a little. She stands the pain. Relishes it. She is being forged; she will be stronger on the other side.
No, it’s the letter that she’s worried about. That’s something she would never, ever remove from its hiding place.
Olivia stops once, south of Montgomery, Alabama, checking her phone at the gas station she finds just off the highway. Park has texted several times, but she ignores them, instead sends a note to Annika Rodrigue, apologizing for the late hour and that she is taking her up on the offer to redo the house. Annika is, unsurprisingly, thrilled.
Yippee! We’ve already headed back to Nashville, so you’ll have the place to yourself. All I ask is no grass mat. It’s just too ironic for me. The rest is up to you. What do you think we can do with 150k? Though I did promise a blank check...
Perfect. No grass mat and a starting budget of $150,000 leaves a broad canvas to play with. She’ll be able to source materials from new places along the beach, will live in the reno, as much of a pain as that is. This is freedom, she reminds herself. The media will have no idea where you are. Six weeks, maybe eight, and you’ll have most of it finished. Then, and only then, will you talk to Park. And Perry is off your radar for good. You just can’t drag him into this again. It’s time to go it alone.
She feels a spike of pain thinking about losing Lindsey but knows in her heart of hearts her best friend is going to side with her brothers. With her family. It’s what Olivia would do in her place.
The pain and planning settle her. She eats a granola bar and drinks a Coke Zero to stay awake the rest of the way. It’s after two in the morning when she arrives, yawning and exhausted, her shoulder throbbing.
Annika’s house is in Alys Beach, a popular place to have a second (or third) home among the Nashville aficionados of the 30A beaches. A European-style enclave, the houses are nestled together as if they were perched on a Mediterranean hillside instead of the flatlands of the Gulf’s beaches. The exteriors are a pristine Greek white; the interiors are designed by a veritable who’s who of Olivia’s world. Honestly, she’s been dying to get down here and make her mark. Who knows, maybe she’ll move here, live among the white-peaked homes and sparkling blue waters.
She finds it—the biggest one on the street, naturally; Annika is made of money and then some. The code works. She stumbles into the foyer, drops her bag, makes sure to lock the door behind her. In the darkness, she can hear the ocean lapping against the shore. She follows the noise out onto a deck that juts over the house-edge of an infinity pool. There is a boardwalk just beyond the gate; solar lights glow along the wooden path to the beach. The air is soft and sultry, smells of brine and limes and a hint of mold, that unique scent only found oceanside.
She inhales deeply, letting the aroma and the calm permeate her body and skin inside and out.
Yes, she can escape here. Leave her marriage, leave her business, leave her friends.
Leave her life.
Start over.
41
THE MURDERER
He’s always loved open spaces. The peace, the quiet, the stillness. He stands at the entrance to the rundown barn, watching the afternoon unfold. Birds chirp and flit in the trees. A frantic carpenter bee buzzes industriously by the door. A barn cat slinks through the tall grasses by the rusted tractor, happily stalking field mice that she brings back to his bed at night, dropping their half-eaten carcasses on his rough pillow before curling up on his legs, sated and purring under his ministrations. The day has been warm, the humidity heavy and thick, the sun traversing a hazy blue sky.
He doesn’t have access to the internet, or to television. This place is as tranquil and calm as he can make it. There’s been so much noise in his head lately, a buzzing almost as audible as the bees’, and the more he’s alone, the worse it gets. He’d searched for weeks to find someplace he could use to escape, finally found this place. It’s perfect for his needs.
The barn floor is littered with tools, chisels and plowshares and old bits of harness. It has been deserted for years, and he’s made it as cozy a home as he can, sweeping away the moldy hay to make room for his things. The television in the corner—hooked up to nothing, there is no electricity in here, but a television always makes a space feel more like home. A small scratched café table and two cane-backed chairs. His old couch against the wall looking at the falling-down horse stalls—currently a woman reclines upon it, watching him with fearful eyes. His bed, the mattress on the floor, trash bags underneath it to keep it from being infested with bugs. The cat helps keep down the insects, though ants climb over him in the night sometimes, maybe a spider or two; he had a bite on his side that got infected, but he knew his way around the first aid kit, and the fever receded the following day. He knows enough about curing sickness to be dangerous. All those first aid and CPR classes his mother made him take.
And then there are the treats. His prizes. He uses a Jenga-stacked set of old fence posts as bookshelves, lining things up tidily. Knickknacks and old clothes, silverware, jewelry trinkets, a book now and again.
He’s gotten very good at getting in and getting out of houses. He’d started sneaking into places in high school, using talents he’d picked up at the hospital, especially how to bend a bobby pin and insert it into a lock. Later, he saved up and bought his own set of lock picks. He had a rake, but it was much too noisy for the quiet places he preferred to investigate.