Chapter 4
“He doesn’t look like a serial killer,” I say, holding up the photo. It’s a grainy copy of a black and white mug shot. He’s not attractive. Kind of hard looking, but it’s hard to tell with such a bad picture.
My mother keeps her eyes on the road, obviously already having seen the photo. “They never do. But this guy was bad. Really bad.”
I flip through the papers she gave me when we left the camper. “This guy seems a little more serious than some of your other subjects,” I note.
“How is one more serious than the other?”
“You know what I mean, this one is an old case and not nearly as sensationalized as some of the others you’ve written about recently. The ones with the high-profile divorces and crazy families in court. This says they think he killed over a hundred people!”
She shrugs. “I’m trying for something different this time. See how the publisher and readers like it. After seventeen books, I just needed a change.”
She pulls the car into the parking lot of a small brick building with block letters on the front that spell “Florence County Records”.
We get out of the car and quickly walk to the door, hoping to move out of the heat as fast as possible.
Summer in small town South Carolina is hot.
By the ocean there’s a breeze, but an hour inland, things are blistering.
For a fleeting moment I think of the French Alps and wonder what I’m doing here—how I can get back to the city to make my flight. There’s still time.
“I just want to gather everything we can from here. I know most everything is on the internet these days, but I feel better making sure I’ve connected all the dots. We may be able to find more details in the local papers or even police reports.”
“Right,” I say, following her inside. The cool air-conditioning hits my face and I take a deep breath.
I wait in a hard, plastic chair while my mother talks to the lady behind the desk.
My phone buzzes, letting me know I have a message, and I check and see it’s from Mason.
Again. He’s been calling every day, saying the same things, trying to get me to go on the trip.
For me to come back. For us to talk. I delete the message, knowing there is nothing to talk about that won’t lead us back down the same road.
“She said we can go to the back and look through the papers,” my mother says, waving me over to the counter.
I follow her down the long, narrow hallway to a room with rows of filing cabinets.
I’ve done this job with her before. Research, filing, organizing notes, it’s definitely not glamorous.
“I want anything that mentions Gaskins.”
We work steadily for an hour, only stopping once to get a Pepsi from the vending machine.
Pepsi, ugh. Welcome to this part of the south where you can’t find a Coke.
I pop the top and lean back in my plastic molded chair and say, “So tell me more about this family you have around here. Why the big secret?”
We haven’t talked much about Cousin Jimmy since we got here, but my mother’s unspoken familiarity with the community is unnerving. She knows this area inside and out, taking back roads and mentioning long-gone places.
“No secret,” she says, pushing her glasses to the top of her head and rubbing her eyes. “I just grew up and grew apart from these people. When Mama and Daddy died I didn’t have a reason to visit. I had you and your father and this career…”
She trails off and she absently rubs her chest. I decide to probe a little further. “But now?”
“I remembered hearing the tales about Gaskins from the older cousins as a kid and I thought it would make an interesting story. There’s nothing sinister going on, Summer.”
“It’s weird finding out you have family I never knew about, that’s all I’m saying.”
“I know, and I just never thought it was a big deal. It wasn’t exactly a secret, just part of my life I’d moved away from.” She looks guilty enough admitting that, so I let it go.
We’re on the drive home when she says, “Speaking of secrets, when are you going to tell me what happened at the end of the school year?”
I look out the window at the passing fields and ramshackle farms. “There’s not much to tell. I just wanted a fresh start—get away from everyone after four years of same-old-same-old.”
“From France? You really expect me to believe that?” I glance at her but say nothing. “You worked so hard for that trip.”
Tears build in my eyes and I keep my face turned away.
I did work hard for that trip. I had to apply for a scholarship through the school.
I put together a presentation and wrote an essay.
I babysat, worked weekends, and saved for the past three years.
Unfortunately, even though I worked hard, I worked harder getting into a relationship with a totally-off-limits guy.
I suck the tears back and say, “I know. I realized it was just too far away. I want to be here now. Maybe next year I’ll be ready. ”
I barely get the words out. If my mother knew how deep I’d gotten in this relationship. If she knew who I’d gotten in a relationship with…
She can’t ever know. No one can.
My mother must sense my panic because she lets it go, neither of us ready to spill our secrets.
The gravel in the lot crunches beneath my tires and I pull the SUV into the empty lot. It’s early, barely after six, and I’d laid awake for an hour, unable to go back to sleep before finally changing into exercise clothes and driving over the bridge to the beach.
It’s cool out and I zip my hoodie mid-chest and walk down the path to the beach. The fresh air and isolated shore reenergize me. Not gonna lie, the cramped quarters of the camper had started to get to me and just feeling the sand between my toes and the salty breeze makes me feel better.
I set my sights on the pier, which I estimate is about a mile away and start walking, willing the thoughts that ran through my head all night to go away.
Here’s the thing, I’m eighteen, I’m allowed to make mistakes. I’m allowed to do stupid things like fall in love with the wrong guy, who I was convinced, at the time, was the perfect guy.
Mason’s smart. Wise. Talented. Handsome in a hipstery-geek kind of way.
He likes good music. Good food. Artsy films. Everything every other boy in my school has zero interest in.
He also has the gift of reaching out to people and making them feel good about themselves.
He did this to me, and even now I don’t doubt his genuineness.
From the first time I saw him I knew there was a spark.
I didn’t care if he was off limits. Or that we were playing with fire.
He made me feel good and at that point, feeling good about myself was important.
Because most of the time I felt like crap.
Having a famous mother is hard. Having an absentee father is worse.
It was well known that Summer, the mature, responsible daughter would do the right thing.
People loved to discuss my maturity. The fact I could talk to adults.
That I was polite and gracious and helpful.
I could cook my own dinner, do my own laundry. Pay for my own trip to France.
I was also lost. Struggling. Lonely.
But Mason? Mason made that better.
He was there for me…until he wasn’t.
He was my rock…until he slipped away like quicksand.
And I miss him. God, I miss him but there’s no way I could stay back home. No freaking way I could go on that trip and be so close to him but not be with him.
I wipe the tears off my face and step onto the boardwalk that leads to the pier.
I’ve walked this whole way, wallowing in my misery.
I pad down the wooden slats, passing the edge of the sandy beach until I’m walking over the crashing waves and then on to the deeper water.
Out here it’s quiet, away from the waves pounding on sand, just the rolling dark water and the sun peeking over the edge of the water.
I spot a cluster of surfers way out past the pier and think how nice it would be to be that free.
At the end, I lean over the railing and let the wind dry the tears on my face. I can’t keep doing this to myself. I came on this trip to forget about him. To move on. Not cry like a baby every damn day.
“Hey,” a deep voice says next to me. “You okay?”
I look over at the man next to me. He’s a mix, really, part boy and part man, his face innocent, but his body large and muscular—an athlete’s build. His nose is a golden brown and it matches the rest of his skin. He has no hair, it’s shorn close to his head. Bright green eyes watch me carefully.
“I’m fine,” I say, not wanting to talk to anyone, much less a stranger. “I’m just, you know, having a pity-party of one over here.”
I notice the camera hanging around his neck. He holds it up and takes a few shots of the sunrise, then the surfers, before lowering it again.
“I find it hard to be depressed when I come out here.”
I stare at the sun inching up. The water sparkles in a line from here to the horizon. “It’s beautiful.”
His jaw tightens and he lifts the camera again, taking a few more shots, moving wider. I step out of the frame. “Sorry, I’m sure you don’t want me in the photo.”
“Why not? I’m out here taking pictures of beautiful things. I’m pretty sure you count.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay sure. I’ve got red eyes, a runny nose and my hair looks like it lost a fight with a tiger.”
He shrugs. “Haven’t you ever heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder?
” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just takes a few steps back down the pier.
I try to ignore him but can’t help taking a final look over my shoulder.
I catch him angling the camera to his eye and taking one last shot before walking away for good.
I face the water again, inhaling and exhaling the early morning air and watching the sun creep toward the sky. I realize on my way back to my car that maybe that guy is right, it’s hard to be depressed out here.