Chapter Fifteen
I lie in bed wide awake the next morning. I’m not sure how long I’ve been awake. Long enough to watch the sky lighten. My body and my mind ache for sleep, but neither get their wish. Every time I close my eyes, I see that tape playing over and over again.
I sent Charles a text before falling asleep, and he responded he could meet me at the police station today, this afternoon, after the sheriff’s news conference at the bayou.
I’m not sure if I’m relieved or terrified.
And those feelings continue to fight each other as I scan the other messages waiting for me.
Three are from Rita, and the last one says she’s on her way over. It was sent twenty minutes ago.
I trudge to the bathroom and splash water on my face.
What the mirror shows is not kind. Dark circles float under both eyes, which are red and puffy.
My hair is wild and tangled, and the long T-shirt I chose is starting to stink.
I realize I haven’t done any laundry since I’ve been here.
Which is how long? I count backward. Five days?
Six? A week? I glance in the mirror again. It looks like I’ve been here for years.
A loud knock sounds downstairs, followed by an even louder voice. “Dr. Watters? Hello? Is anyone home?”
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, Rita knocks again. “Dr. Watters, are you home? I want to visit for a minute. I promise I won’t take up much of your time.”
I weigh my options. The smartest would be to stay quiet and let her move on.
But I have a sinking suspicion she’ll be back.
Rita doesn’t strike me as the type of woman who will tolerate being ignored.
Besides, I’ve already toyed with the idea of talking to her.
But I wanted it to be on my terms, not hers.
Maybe I can keep this on my terms. Control the narrative.
Maybe Rita, as frightening as it is to offer myself up to her, might be able to help me.
Information flows both ways. And this woman is full of information.
Another knock, and I open the front door to a sticky morning and a wide-eyed Rita Meade. She is glossy to the point of reflecting light. Her face looks airbrushed. Her hair blown into silk. Her smile blinding. A few days ago, I would have been jealous. I can’t imagine what she’s thinking of me.
As she studies my face, she says, “You didn’t get my messages.”
It’s a statement, not a question. I smile the best I can and shake my head.
“I told you I was stopping by.” She smiles her full-wattage smile. “Thought I’d take a chance.” She’s wearing all black today. She must be sweltering. As if she’s read my mind, she glances over my shoulder and adds, “Do you think we could talk? Inside?”
It’s not too late. I can say no and shut the door. Tell her I’m not interested and to leave me alone. But a part of me is interested, or maybe intrigued is a better word. And if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve reached the point where all I can think to say is fuck it.
I shrug and leave the door open as I walk back to the kitchen. I hear Rita’s heels behind me.
“This place is beautiful,” she says. “And thankfully air-conditioned.” She laughs, but I keep walking in silence.
When I reach the kitchen and scan the room, I realize my mistake.
The license plate is still propped on the counter next to Eddie’s dolls.
I turn to redirect Rita back to the front of the house, but she’s already moved around me and pulled out a chair at the table.
Her eyes dart around the room as she sits, and I’m sure she’s seen the plate, but she doesn’t acknowledge it.
I pour us each a coffee, setting hers in front of her with the creamer and sugar. I sit opposite her and run my hands through my knotted hair.
“Thanks for letting me in,” she says.
I nod, look down at my chipped nails, then back to her polished ones. I exhale what little energy I have left. “I’m not sure I’m up for a long visit.”
She plucks a cell phone from her purse and sets it on the table. “I won’t be long. I promise.” She points to her phone. “I’d like to record this. Make sure nothing gets misconstrued.” She straightens her narrow shoulders. “At any point, you can say off the record.”
“Off the record.”
She squares her shoulders, her long red fingernail hovering over the record button. I stay silent. She stays silent. Finally, I exhale and lean back in the chair. She wins.
“Fine. This can be on the record.” Then I add, “To start.”
She presses record. “Please state your full name.”
“Dr. Willamena Pearl Watters.”
She looks down at her phone. “Broken Bayou interview. August nineteenth, 2018.”
I gasp. “Today is August nineteenth?”
Rita looks up. “Is that a problem?”
A memory flashes so hot and bright in my mind that I want to shield my eyes from it.
Mama flitting into the upstairs bedroom at Shadow Bluff, holding a lopsided chocolate cake with at least two tubs of Betty Crocker chocolate frosting sliding off it onto the giant silver serving platter.
Seventeen bright candles burned on top. “Happy birthday, darlin’.
” She pointed an acrylic nail at another candle off by itself.
“One to grow on.” Mama popped her hip out to the side.
“Now, hurry up and make a wish before my arms fall off.”
A soft hand touches mine. Rita clears her throat. I blink, shake my head. “You know what. Now may not be the best time for me after all.”
Rita pauses the recording. She drums her nails on the table, then sighs. She shows me her phone screen, exits out of the recording, and drops it back in her purse.
“I think you and I have more in common than you know. Two southern girls who made right, despite having the odds stacked against them. We both deal in media, just different aspects of it. We’ve both been accused of sleeping with a man in order to advance our careers.”
I think of Christopher and the rumors. “I—”
She holds up a hand. “I know it’s bullshit.
” She leans onto the table and adds, “And who cares if it isn’t.
See, what I care about is a good story. When I saw you the other morning in that shitty diner, I knew I had one.
” She straightens again. Her eyes dart to the license plate on the counter, then back to me. “You’ve definitely got a story.”
“Yes, I do.” I’m too tired to argue with her, and I’m way past needing to practice what I preach. Honest healing isn’t as easy as I make it sound in my book or on my podcast.
Rita says, “That was your mother’s convertible, wasn’t it?”
Instead of answering, I clear my throat and force myself to sit up straighter.
“I’ve done my homework, Dr. Watters.”
“And what has that homework revealed?”
“That many years ago, a man named Zeke Johnson bought a red convertible and gave it to a woman who worked for him. That a few weeks later, Zeke went missing.” I keep my face neutral, but my insides twist into a knot.
My breathing quickens. I have to get her out of this kitchen.
Rita continues, “Not a huge shock to most people who knew him. He was a bookie and running bets through his business. He was into all kinds of things. Some people even claim he had connections to the Marcello family in New Orleans, but my guess is he started that rumor.”
“I don’t know . . . I think . . . maybe we should do this later.”
She continues as if I’ve said nothing. “I’m pretty sure Zeke disappeared that summer because he got busted running drugs through his office.”
Tell her to leave, I prod myself.
“Hope your mom wasn’t hung up in all that.”
Tell her to leave now.
“That guy’s been in and out of jail ever since and now serving time in a federal pen for tax evasion.”
Rita keeps talking, but her words are indistinguishable from the rushing sound in my ears. The entire kitchen feels as if it’s tilted sideways. I plant my bare feet on the floor under the table to steady myself. “Wait,” I say, interrupting her. “Did you say he’s in prison?”
“That’s right,” she says.
I spring up from the table so fast that Rita recoils. I want to hug her, thank her, but I say, “You need to go.”
“What?” Rita blinks at me.
“I . . . I forgot I have to be somewhere,” I lie. “I’m late.” I grab her purse from her chair and push it into her arms.
She fumbles with her bag. “Well, when can we pick this back up?”
“I don’t know. I’ll call you.” I lead her back to the front door and practically shove her through it.
She stumbles onto the porch but recovers quickly and smooths her shirt.
“I’m going to hold you to that. I can be your best friend or your worst enemy.
It’s up to you. Personally, I think we’ll be friends.
You’re a smart woman. You know I can help you.
Share your story the right way.” She points her long finger at me.
“Between that car and those barrels, I see a George Polk Award in my future.”
“Sounds good,” I say in a rush and slam the door in her face.
I spin around and take the stairs two at a time up to the second floor and don’t stop until I’m in front of the television, fumbling with buttons on the VCR.
I tap my hand on the side of my leg as I wait for the television to spark to life. He’s alive, I keep repeating to myself.
The tape starts to play where I left off.
Mama and Mabry are no longer on screen. Just the car.
I stare at the image and minutes tick by.
Come on. As I wait, I force my mind backward again, to the night on the Delaroux property.
Travis and I were near the bayou. He handed me his keys and was about to leave when he looked in the window of the convertible.
“What about all this other stuff? You dumping that too?”
I followed his gaze to the piles of crap behind the front seats, items moved from the old car to this one. “Maybe we could put it in your truck.”
“Fuck that. I’m not putting anything in my truck.”