Not One of Us(18)

Welcome home, I thought sourly as I reentered the house. It suddenly felt too crowded, too stuffy, too warm. Mimi stomped into the den, Zach close behind. “They gone?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I had the feeling she was about to let loose on me.

Zach loped over to the window, staring after the cop car. “All gone,” he pronounced after their vehicle was out of sight. Although he spoke in his usual flat affect, I could tell he was pleased. He sauntered down the hallway to his room. Once he’d shut the door behind him, Mimi rounded on me.

“What the hell were you doing talking to Raymond Strickland, of all people?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. I’d been drinking too much,” I admitted with a wry smile.

“You could ply me with all the whiskey in that bar, and I’d still never speak to that lowlife. He ruined my sister’s life. Don’t you have any family loyalty?”

Her words stung. “Of course I do. That’s why my besotted brain thought it was brilliant to confront the guy and let him know how his murder hurt Aunt Tressie.”

Mimi’s anger thawed; I could see it in the relaxing of tension in her shoulders. “Humph. Let that be a lesson to you. You hang with trash, it will bring you nothing but trouble. No good ever comes of it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’ll speak no more about it.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Raymond Strickland got what he deserved in the end.”

I couldn’t argue with her logic. Nor could I fault her anger. Some might call my grandmother cold and unforgiving, but they didn’t see the soft side to her that I did. She’d nursed my mother through a terminal illness and then raised her challenged grandchild without a single complaint. I doubted I’d ever possess half her fortitude and compassion. Lately, I’d done nothing but throw myself a big ole pity party while moaning and groaning to Dana at every opportunity.

I resolved to do better by Mimi and Zach. They were family, and family stuck together. No matter what.





Chapter 5


JORI


I crept through the house, careful to avoid the wooden planks in the hallway and den that I knew creaked the loudest. I hadn’t sneaked out of the house since I was seventeen, yet I remembered every inch of these old floorboards and how to escape with no one the wiser. If I lived to be a hundred, I’d never forget my old, intricate tiptoeing choreography as I slipped out to be with Deacon. The weather was never too cold or too rainy or too humid for those late-night rendezvous.

Carefully, I lifted the latch and opened the door. The yard and trees were etched in silver shadows from the full moon. I probably didn’t even need the flashlight clutched in my right hand. Tonight held none of the wild, frantic excitement of my youth, when I’d exalted in temporary, stolen freedom and raced through the woods to meet Deacon in our secret place. Back then, I could never get enough of him.

But now there was only a gnawing hunger to revisit and remember.

I deserved this respite.

Despite my sincere intention, formed only this morning, to be more compassionate with Mimi and Zach, my patience was shot by evening. At long last, they slept soundly. As I’d lain in my old childhood bed, I’d been awash with a painful nostalgia that insisted I return to the old smoking shed on the Cormier property. Rather, what used to be the Cormier land.

Over the years, their showcase home had switched hands several times. Each time the house was resold and inhabited by new owners, its grandeur had sunk, until at last Uncle Buddy bought it and expanded his thriving tourism business to include vacation forays for fishermen. He’d bought it at a steal and restored the interior to cater to his clientele. But the upkeep, especially of the outside grounds, never lived up to the standard Clotille Cormier had set. Her old rose garden was reduced to weeds and patches of invasive saw palmetto. Only a few dead shrubs remained, pitiful brown stumps that did not flower, their branches barbed with thorns. The house itself was no longer the modern, gleaming structure of its heyday. Instead, it was decorated in a hunting lodge style, replete with mounted deer heads and bass, and lots of leather and dark paneling. A taxidermy wonderland that its former mistress would have despised.

Twigs and leaves snapped beneath my feet as I marched the abandoned dirt path. Vines and lowlying tree branches clawed at my clothing, scratching into my flesh. Years ago, the path had been wider, but now it was almost entirely closed in as nature did its work, expanding and creeping over man’s attempts to carve order. A pungent smell of damp earth combined with the briny air. It pressed upon me as thick as the smothering vegetation scraping against my body. Thorns, spindly branches, and the sharp edge of palmetto blades sliced my skin like a rebuke and a warning to retreat.

Even now, thirteen years later, I shuddered at the memory of that innocent, naive version of myself tromping about these woods by the Cormier house property, blissfully unaware of hidden danger. Had I missed the kidnapper—or killer—by mere seconds? Fifteen minutes? An hour? Or had he still been around, lurking out in the shadows—watching me—ready to slit my throat if I caught a glimpse of him?

I realized I should be grateful for having been spared whatever mysterious fate had been dealt the Cormiers that long-ago night. But even though I’d been spared the tragedy that had played out in their beautiful home, I lived with this omniscient unknowing, a vague uneasiness that anyone close to me, at any moment, could be snatched from my life—devoured in a black hole of silence, ripped from the fabric of my life’s familiar landscapes.