Not One of Us(28)

“The sooner that snake is out of here, the better we’ll all feel.”

I hung up the call and headed to the door. Zach was seated at the kitchen table, tasting a small bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream Mimi had placed before him.

“How’s it taste, Zach?” Mimi asked. “Is it good?”

“Good,” he confirmed, shoveling down spoonfuls. He held out the empty bowl. “More.”

“Coming right up.”

As always, there was something very comforting about Zach. No matter my level of anxiety, Zach’s focus on the here and now was a beacon of calm.



The sheriff’s office was in the same location it had been all the years I’d grown up in Bayou Enigma, one block east of the courthouse downtown, a redbrick, two-story, no-nonsense type of building with a modest sign out front and a parking lot filled with patrol cars. I’d never had reason to visit until now.

Inside, the place was brightly lit from unforgiving fluorescent fixtures. The walls were a dull green, and the floors were a worn, speckled linoleum. I walked into the lobby and noted the metal folding chairs where nearly a dozen people slouched, sporting various expressions of boredom or anxiety. Across from the chairs was a glassed-in booth where a receptionist sat.

“Got an appointment?” she asked in a bored tone when I walked over.

“Deputy Blackwell is expecting me.”

“Name?”

“Jori Trahern.”

Without responding, she pressed a phone button and murmured a few words before speaking to me again. “Deputy Blackwell will escort you back in a moment. Have a seat.”

I took my place among the weary, the despondent, and the agitated. Evidently, there was no happy reason to be in this place. The only person immune to the atmosphere was a young boy who ran back and forth from the water cooler to his mama’s lap, shrieking with laughter.

The door off to the side opened, and we all turned expectantly. Deputy Blackwell scanned the crowd, then nodded at me. “This way, Ms. Trahern.”

I stood, catching the scowl of a young man decked in camo and exuding a surly attitude. His lower lip protruded farther. “I been here two hours. This ain’t right.”

Pretending not to hear, I quickly strode to Deputy Blackwell and followed her down a long hallway. The farther we walked, the louder the muffled noises emerged. She caught my puzzled look. “We share a wall with the county lockup. It can get really rowdy at times. This way.”

She beckoned me into a small office devoid of everything but a metal table and chairs. Not even a window to dispel the stark institutional vibe.

“What’s this? An old prison cell?” I joked.

“Sorry. It happens to be the only room where we can have a modicum of privacy at the moment.”

I gingerly took a seat, the cold, hard metal unwelcoming to my bones. “Is this where you interrogate criminals?” I asked, serious this time.

“Sometimes,” she admitted, smiling kindly. “Certainly not the case now, though.”

Sitting only a foot apart from one another in the cramped space felt surprisingly, uncomfortably intimate. A slight citrus smell wafted in the air, refreshing and incongruous. She wore no jewelry, only a touch of mascara and a subtle lip color. In spite of the shapeless uniform and the hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, I was surprised to discover she was quite beautiful, even though she seemed at pains to downplay it. Couldn’t blame her, though, in this type of job.

“How did you get interested in law enforcement?” I blurted. “I mean, I know it’s not unusual for women these days, but you must get sick of dealing with all the creeps.”

My question didn’t faze her. She must have been asked hundreds of times before. “Same reason any person, male or female, chooses this for a career. We want to catch the bad guys and help the good guys.” I flushed at the asperity in her tone, but she shot me a conspiratorial grin. “Plus, it pays the bills. I have two kids and a mortgage.”

Kids. She appeared only ten years older than me. Not for the first time, I wondered if my life had been in a state of perpetual hold since high school. These days, a woman didn’t need children for validation, but I had to admit my life often felt pointless, as though I was merely going through the motions. College, then work. It wasn’t that I still grieved for Deacon, even if I thought of him often in odd, lonely hours of the night, but none of my relationships had ever lasted more than a year. I felt as though I floated from one day to the next, planning events that other people went to and enjoyed and returning to my solo apartment in the evenings. Hell, I didn’t even own a cat.

Blackwell placed a manila file on the battered table and opened it up. The photo I’d sent her was printed out, blown up to eight-by-ten size. “We’ll send an officer to your house to dust for prints and take photos. We’ll remove the carcass and secure it in our evidence room in case we discover any suspects.”

“Thank you.” I was relieved I didn’t have to deal with getting rid of the thing.

Blackwell folded her hands on the desk and regarded me soberly. “What was written in those journals?”

“The usual teen stuff. Nothing earth shattering.”

“No potential blackmail material?”

“None.” Relief washed over me again that I’d long since destroyed the pages that were the most painful. Keeping my secret buried deep inside felt right. What had happened was nobody’s business. Just my own private grief.