8. Ezekiel
8
Ezekiel
T he grounds are damp, although it’s not raining anymore. My shoes will be ruined. It doesn’t matter, though.
I walk guided by memory. The Bishop and St. James properties stand back-to-back. When Jericho took over the Bishop house after Carlton’s death, he had the wall between the properties brought down, uniting the vast grounds. Matty will be the inheritor of the estate but that won’t happen until he’s eighteen and he’s far from that. But the real reason he did it isn’t for Matty, who’s too young to know anything about the history between our families. He did it for his wife, Isabelle. She, too, is a Bishop. Ironic how life plays with us. He vowed to destroy the Bishop name, to wipe it from the face of the earth and here he is putting babies in her belly. Babies that will bear his name.
Love is a strange thing.
I stop.
Love.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve used the word. Given it any thought at all.
With a shake of my head, I continue on, the bottoms of my pants sodden from the damp earth. At least Jericho is maintaining the gardens.
It takes a little bit but soon I see the lights of the St. James house. It was my home once. It doesn’t belong to me anymore. I’m not sure it ever did. I was more of a caretaker until my brother returned. It was always going to be his. He’s first-born. And I don’t begrudge him that. That house holds far too many ugly memories for me, hanging my failures in front of me almost as if to remind me. As if I could forget.
From here, I see the curving path leading from the edge of the Bishop line to where the St. James property starts. I cross the now invisible barrier and push my hands into my pockets, the air damp and chilly. I make my way not to the house but take a turn toward the small graveyard on the property. It’s just for the family.
The chapel’s tabernacle lamp burns inside, it’s red glow visible through the narrow slit of a window as I approach from the side. I’m glad to see the graves are maintained, the small fence that had been rotting has been replaced. I enter through the gate, which doesn’t creak like it used to, and stop, taking in the fresh flowers that stand in two spots. I should have brought something, I think too late.
I walk to the first one. Kimberly’s grave. The stone has recently been cleaned and the flowers are fresh. I crouch down to look at it, brushing off a little bit of dirt. Kimberly is Angelique’s mother. She and Jericho were engaged when she was killed while pregnant with Angelique. Her death was the catalyst that changed his life in ways I don’t think he ever knew it would.
But she’s not who I’m here to see. She never belonged to me and truthfully, I never belonged to her, either. Kimberly was always Jericho’s.
I straighten, wipe off my hands and turn to the Mausoleum wall. It takes me a moment, the guilt that had grown subtler in the last two years that I’ve been away taking on its old, familiar sensation, a twisting presence in my gut. A weight on my chest. I grit my teeth and force a smile as if she could see me. I approach the wall where the second small bouquet of wildflowers is. My throat tightens as I get closer, and I glimpse something different. Something new. There’s a small photograph of her. Zo?. It wasn’t here before.
Three years I’ve been away. Three years I haven’t been to visit my sister. There’s a hole where our father’s bones had been resting too close to hers. It was wrong for him to be close to her in death when she did what she did to escape him in life.
Jericho did that when he learned the truth. I should have done it myself. I should never have allowed him to be interred near her, but I couldn’t, not without telling the world what he’d done.
Too late I found out. Too late I saw. She was long gone by then.
He paid in the end. I collected on my sister’s behalf. It wasn’t nearly what he deserved.
I take in an audible breath of cold, damp air and tell myself to get it together. Zo? has been dead longer than she was alive. She was just sixteen when I found her. My sister. My twin. The person I was supposed to have an unbreakable bond with. A connection deeper than any other. But still, I didn’t see it. Not when it was right in front of my eyes.
I touch the marker of her name then shift my gaze to the photograph. I wonder why he did it. It must have been Jericho. Or maybe it was our mother. But I find I’m glad it’s here. Glad to see her like this. Like she’d been before. Young and happy. Although it’s bittersweet.
“I’m sorry I’ve been away so long,” I say.
There is no answering breeze. No chill to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. There was, once, but she’s gone. I should take comfort in that, perhaps. Knowing that she’s at peace. But I don’t deserve comfort. Even after what I did, punishing the man who put her in her grave far too early, I don’t deserve comfort. I need to remember her and along with her memory, my own failure.
“Thought you’d make your way out here.”
I turn to find Jericho standing with an umbrella. I realize it’s started to rain. He steps closer, shielding us both from the rain.
“I like the photograph,” I say.
He looks at it, smiles. “That was mom. It’s good to remember her that way.” He turns his gaze to me, studies me. “You shouldn’t have stayed away so long, Zeke.”
“I’m not back, Jericho. Not to stay.”
He looks like he’s going to say something but, after a long moment, nods. “The girl?”
“Asleep.”
“Come to the house. They all went to bed hours ago. No one will see you.”
“I should get back. I have to prepare things.”
“We need to talk. I’m a part of this too, remember.”
That he is, especially considering what Blue told me about where she got her information. I nod and we walk to the house in silence. I’m not sure how I feel seeing it again. I lived here most of my life but it’s not home. I don’t have a home.
We walk in through the doors at the back and, as he said, the house is dark and quiet. I recognize the smell of the place and breathe it in. Every house has a smell that belongs to it. It’s made up of lives being lived and memories of the past, good and bad.
He shakes out the umbrella and sets it aside. I follow him into the study. The desk lamp is on as is the one beside the couch. I take in the old, familiar space, noting he hasn’t changed much.
“Whiskey?”
I nod, taking a seat on the couch. He brings over the bottle and two tumblers, pours, then sits on the leather armchair across from the sofa.
“You must be tired,” he says.
“I am.” I’m jet lagged but my plan wasn’t to stay long enough to adjust to the time difference. I was going to handle Blue and get out of town before anyone found out I was even here. But things have changed. She isn’t what I expected.
My phone buzzes in my pocket alerting me to a text. I take it out and read it. It’s from Robbie.
Robbie: Check your email.
That’s all. No odd remark, no jokes. Just a straightforward text.
“What is it?” Jericho asks.
“Robbie.”
I set my drink down and click into my email. I open the first of several attachments. It’s a photo of a woman about Blue’s age but it’s not her. Although if I look closely, there’s some resemblance in the particular shade of blue of the eyes, in the slant of the nose. This woman, though, has blond hair and pale skin. Blue’s natural hair color is dark, and her skin has an olive tint.
I peer closer. There’s something strange in the woman’s expression. Something absent.
Jericho comes to sit beside me and looks over my shoulder.
“Who is that?”
I scroll down and read her name. Wren Thorne. Age 21. Resident of Oakwood Care Facility, admitted half a year ago. Attached to it is a copy of a check written by B. Thorne.
Thorne.
Not Smith. Not that I believed it was.
“I think that’s Blue’s sister.” I scroll back up to look at her photo again.
“Oakwood,” Jericho says.
“Medical facility. Their patients are mostly children and adults who have sustained a brain injury.”
Another email comes in just as my phone rings. I glance at the display and answer.
“I’m not waking you, am I?” Robbie asks, again no joking in his tone.
“Nope. What is this?”
“Figured it’d be easier to call and explain. That picture is of Wren Thorne. Or at least that’s the name on the documents used to admit her to the Oakwood Care Facility as well as the facility she was at before that in sunny Orlando, Florida.”
“She’s Blue’s sister,” I say.
“Half right.”
“What does that mean? Wait, I’m putting you on speaker. My brother’s here. You remember Jericho?”
“Sure do. Hey Jericho, how are you doing?”
“All right. You?”
“Fine. Enjoying Amsterdam.”
“Robbie,” I say, getting him back on track.
He clears his throat. “The last name, though, it’s not hers. The documents used to admit Wren were forged. Well, at least tampered with. I just sent you another email. I marked where the last name was doctored and honestly not very well.”
“The checks, B. Thorne. Is that Bluebird Thorne?”
“No, the account belongs to a Bethany Thorne and the only transactions over the last two years are checks written to Oakwood where Wren is living now. Before that, they were written to the facility in Florida. Just sent those your way.”
“Who’s Bethany Thorne?”
“Bethany Thorne is Wren’s mother. The address, Philadelphia address by the way in case I didn’t mention it. Anyway, the address on the checks is where Wren and Bluebird a.k.a. Blue Masterson, lived. Thing is, Bethany Thorne disappeared four years ago. Whoever is using the account, and my guess is it’s Blue, makes cash deposits in the same amount as the checks that are written monthly. Now on to you being half right about Wren being Blue’s sister. Bethany Thorne was married three times, last time to a Thomas Thorne. Now he sounds like a real winner. According to Wren’s birth certificate, though, he’s not her father. Her father is James Johnson, Bethany’s husband at the time of Wren’s birth. They divorced shortly after, and Bethany married Thorne. She had his child, Bluebird, two years after Wren’s birth. I attached her birth certificate.”
“So they’re half-sisters?”
“Yep. Thomas, or Lucky Tommy as he likes to be called these days, although Unlucky might be more apt, considering his current circumstances, is Blue’s father but not Wren’s. Bethany, however, was lucky. For a time. She’s in the paper for having won three hundred thousand in the lottery a few years back.”
“Well, good for her.”
“And, surprise of surprises, that’s when Tommy, who’d been gone for some time, moved back in. I guess the money made him realize how much he loved his wife and daughter.”
“Sounds like it.”
“A few months after that, Bethany disappeared. You catching on?”
“Yeah. Sounds like a gem. Where is Lucky Tommy now?”
“Prison.”
I glance at Jericho, my eyebrows rising. “What put him there? Did they find Bethany?” Jericho asks.
“No, she’s still a missing person. Someone called in a tip on an armed robbery and police picked him up at a strip club near their home. Timing is interesting. Wren’s brain injury came a few years ago. Evidence turned up out of thin air a few days after her mental condition was diagnosed. Poor kid. She’d been accepted to medical school before things took a turn for her.”
“Did she have an accident or something?”
“Or something. Blue took her to the hospital. There are photos of both girls. I’ll send those your way as soon as I can. Police got involved but Blue swore they’d fallen down the stairs.”
“Both of them?” Jericho asks.
“Mhm.”
“And did a window break Blue’s fall and give her that nasty cut across her face?”
He snorts.
My chest tightens, my hand clenches, unclenches.
“Anyway, Lucky Tommy was never arrested for it. Not even sure cops ever questioned him. At least, not for that. However, the night he was picked up for robbery, the girls disappeared. Took mom’s car and got out of town. They’ve been MIA ever since. Until now, of course.”
“How bad is Wren?”
“It doesn’t look like she’ll ever make a full recovery. I’ll dig into more details on her if you like?”
“Yeah. Do,” I say, not sure why. I ignore my brother’s raised eyebrows.
“There’s one more thing you need to know now, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Lucky will be up for parole soon.”
“How? Doesn’t armed robbery carry a longer sentence than three years?”
“Made a deal with prosecutors turning in an associate of his. Turns out Lucky wasn’t holding the gun.”
“But none of this answers the question of how this Blue Masterson or Thorne or whatever her name is got her hands on the information she’s using to blackmail my brother,” Jericho says.
“I’m still digging into that. I will tell you this. You’re not her first mark. She’s done this twice before and I am thinking it’s how she was able to pay for her sister’s medical care and house and feed herself at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.”
“And here I thought I was special. Keep digging and send me everything as you get it. Send whatever you have on Lucky too, will you?”
“Will do. You boys should get some sleep,” he says more casually.
We say goodbye and disconnect the call. I pick up my whiskey and sip it.
“What did you find out from her?” Jericho asks.
“Well, she says she got her information from the hotel manager you spoke with over in Austria.”
“What?”
“Turns out he held onto the duffel I’d thrown away.”
“That piece of shit.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not saying I believe her just yet so sit tight. No impromptu trips to Austria. But maybe let’s track him down.”
“That’s a good idea. What’s your plan?”
“I have her phone. I’ll go through it in the morning and see what I find.”
“And she’s asleep now?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “Just decided to take a nap?”
“With a little help.”
“Anyone going to miss her?”
“I don’t think so. Apart from her sister, at least.” I stand. “I’m tired.”
He gets to his feet, too, and nods. “Let me know what I can do, okay?”
“I will. Goodnight, brother.”
“Night.”