Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
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RAE LEE
My thumb hovers over the decline button. I want to send Anson Ames to voicemail for ignoring me. But I also can’t stop thinking about if he’s gotten a break in Pearl’s case. Or, if I’m honest, the night we spent together.
“If it’s important, take it.” Paisley notices my hesitation.
“Thanks,” I say, appreciating her understanding. My next breath is an airy “hello” that boldly contradicts having no desire to be at his beck and whim.
“Rae Lee.” He gets down to business. “Anson Ames. You wouldn’t have a few minutes to go over your investigation again, would you?”
“I’m sorry. I’m delivering some products at Paisley’s Boutique downtown.”
“How long will you be?”
“Another half hour or so. I can call you back when I’m finished.”
“How about I meet you outside the shop in forty-five? I’d like to talk in person. I’ll even throw in dinner.”
I peer down at the breezy pattern on my flowing skirt, the solid V-neck tee. I’ve paired the outfit with cute wedge sandals with the braided thong and silver charm that I purchased on clearance at the upscale shop. Luckily, I specifically chose something a notch above yoga pants and a hoodie to come in and drop off my wares. So I agree to meet Anson underneath the awning outside when I’m finished.
A half an hour passes, and Anson is already pacing the sidewalk. He concentrates on his phone screen. The jeans he’s wearing fit him like a glove, and the dark button-up stretches over his broad back the way his polo had when we met.
“Oh, is that him?” Layla sidles up behind me. “He’s divine.”
Staying to chat with my friend, I finger the lush fabric of some clothes on the center racks. I’m pretending I’m engaged in entrepreneurial activities, when in reality Layla’s giving me a you-go-girl pep talk. She says I can handle whatever Hottie McCop dishes out this evening, though beneath my skirt my knees are knocking.
I rarely care about a man’s opinion. So needing him to respect my gift and… well, me, because we have been intimate… is unusual.
A tinkling bell alerts Anson that I’m leaving the shop.
“Hey. Hi,” he greets me, stuffing his phone in his jeans. “Up for Mark-39? My boss told me they have a new beer on draft.”
“That’s fine.”
The pub is just up the street. Their pulled pork is a barbecue lover’s dream, and they have every imaginable topping on the menu to build your own loaded fries.
On the way inside the restaurant, I show Anson a picture of a B-52 in flight. “I went to high school here and didn’t realize that North Carolina had a nuclear mishap in the 1960s until this place opened. They still haven’t found the bomb.” My jaw drops, still incredulous. How do you lose an H-bomb? I’m glad they found the second one that the plane dropped as it broke up.
“A kid I get takeout for from here for told me that story. Are you a history buff?” he asks.
“Not at all.” If I were, I would have paid closer attention. Some teacher must’ve mentioned it in class.
“What were you doing at Paisley’s?” Anson asks after we’re seated.
“Am I here for you to interrogate me, detective?”
“Making conversation.” He shoots me a wide, toothy grin. “Our previous meal together wasn’t a get-to-know-you, and we didn’t talk much at Sweet Caroline’s.”
Heat creeps at my neck. The only things Anson said to me in between were dirty. I think about what he and I did constantly.
“I create one-of-a-kind jewelry.” I roll my eyes and shake my head, shaking it off. “My landlord works for Paisley and showed her my website. Paisley decided to stock some of the wrapped crystals and gemstone necklaces.” I hold the oblong sunstone around my neck up. “The store was out of stock on concentration bracelets—they’re made of stones that sort of ground you. Some people use them as prayer beads. Others just like the way they look. I’d also gotten a request from her for more sunstone and wanted to balance that out by offering Paisley some moonstone before posting those online.”
“This is what you do for a living?”
“It keeps me busy. Helps pay the bills. I’m not really cut out for anything else. And if I make too much money, I lose my disability benefits.”
“I’m not trying to be mean, but you seem young and healthy.”
“I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis in my early twenties. I’d also been taking medication for migraines when I lost my balance and fell at work. Got a concussion. The ER doctor ordered a bunch of new tests and come to find out the stiff joints were fibromyalgia.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I am and I’m not. I don’t have to make excuses for falling asleep anymore or explain why I’m having problems sleeping.” My day is what I make of it. I rest when I need to and stay awake as long as I can manage. “I just wish I understood what I was doing to my body sooner.”
“What do you mean?”
“When Angeline was alive, I did a lot of consulting. And even more readings. The kind you’d expect in a big room filled with people: dead and alive. Opening yourself up like that takes a toll. I wasn’t smart about it.” I hadn’t built good barriers dealing with the dead, and it drained me.
“I think I used my abilities to gain acceptance. It backfired and instead I became the friend no one wanted to hang around with because her spooky powers and crazy health problems were more than they could deal with.” I wiggle my fingers in the air like I’m casting a spell. I’m certain Anson believes this is all woo-woo, anyhow.
“That must bother you?”
“I live a quiet life, detective. Having fewer people to count on might not appeal to anyone else, but quality over quantity is good for me, and in my book, that’s what counts.”
We order. A burger and beer for him. Beer and steak fries topped with sirloin, salsa verde, and cheese for me.
“You’re going to share those, right?” Anson drools when the waiter leaves us alone at our table.
I shouldn’t notice him licking his lips after his first sip of beer. He glances at me over the rim of his pilsner glass, holding my lingering attention. Those thick lashes entrance me again. I notice his pupils dilate.
Don’t fool yourself, Rae Lee. This restaurant has low lighting.
“During the walkthrough, did Pearl tell or show you anything about a head injury?” Anson clears his throat, knocking me back to reality. He takes his phone back out to jot down what I say.
I cup my temple. “I had a hot, sticky sensation here. My vision got fuzzy, like blood was trickling into my eyes and blinding me.”
“What about Mr. Turner? Can you run me through that again? Were there any other indications that you had that he might’ve sexually abused her?”
He continues taking notes, but most of what I recount seems redundant and counterproductive to what Anson needs to solve the case.
“I’m not sure any of this has been helpful.” I frown, fisting my skirt under the table.
“It has. I’ve actually been tracking some leads.”
“You have?”
“I met with Pearl’s best friend, and today a judge signed off on a warrant. I can’t give you any more details than that since it’s an ongoing investigation. But both things are encouraging. I planned to tell you, we hadn’t gotten that far in the conversation.”
“What I saw helped?” Butterflies zoom in my belly.
“It absolutely did.” He leans in and whispers, “You might’ve made me a believer.”
The server brings our food, and the table grows quiet. I pick at my plate of fries. Anson’s confession makes me antsy. Grasshoppers spring off my insides, tickling me along with the butterfly wings. I want to know more about him. And maybe I’m curious about what’s kept him from keeping me apprised.
“Do you date?” Why did I ask that? “I, uh, I got the impression that you and Angeline were involved.”
“We’d dated some.”
“Was it serious?”
“It would’ve gotten there, eventually. Angeline’s divorce had just been finalized. We were… Taking it slow. She’d had a rough couple of years and her primary concern was her son, Grant.”
Mothers put up with a lot of crap for their kids. Mine still does. But when I was a kid, my mom’s patience ended with another adult messing with me. Angeline was the same. Deep down, I firmly believe Angeline understood her situation would only get worse. Yet, like most women, she hadn’t wanted to give up on someone she once loved. I remember the news reports about the fallen officer. Angeline took her power back when Grant’s father’s threats became physical toward their son.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I offer my sympathy.
Anson shrugs. I think he’s resigned, past the heartache, until his lips flatten and his chin pebbles.
“I’m sorry for Grant. Angeline was a great cop and a wonderful mom. I’ve done what I can so that the kid has a guy in his life. But Grant lost out on having an actual parent when his dad was convicted.”
“You think they could have co-parented, even with the domestic abuse?”
“I think… I think Grant deserves someone in his corner, and I try to be that person.”
“You want kids?”
“Not anymore. You?”
“Not really. Not if they have to go through what I do.”
“How did you find out you were like… this?” His palms open wide, hovering over the tabletop.
I lean back, sliding my hands between my knees. “I was four when I realized something was off. My nana couldn’t live alone after my papa died and moved in with my parents before I was born. She took care of me while they worked.”
“You must’ve been close.”
The uncontrolled huff, little laugh, and smile bubble up, ringing out from a place deep inside of me. “We were. She was frail, but still got on the floor to play. Nana had a cough she couldn’t shake, but no one seemed concerned. My parents went out for dinner. Nana baked me chicken nuggets and fries. After I finished eating, she’d told me to go color. I had a desk and a chair. It was about yay high.” I gesture, measuring the level. “Nana took the phone into her bedroom and came back out a few minutes later. She sat down in her recliner, watching me choose what crayon I’d color with next. She said that I was a good girl, that Mommy and Daddy would be home soon, and that I shouldn’t worry.”
I wasn’t afraid. Nana’s face had been pinched while she was scraping my plate. I thought she was angry with me for wasting so much ketchup. But then she was happy. Smiling. I stopped worrying that I’d done something naughty by squeezing the bottle too hard. I felt like she was proud of me for trying to be a big girl.”
“When my parents came home, my dad walked past Nana. My mom was hiding her panic—not very well. She asked where Nana was. But when I turned to say she was right there, Nana was gone. My dad found her in her bedroom, clutching the phone to her chest. She’d called them instead of 911.”
“Wow. I’m… Speechless. Did you have any other experiences as a kid?”
“All sorts. Everything from knowing bad things were about to happen to being approached by people others couldn’t see. Sometimes, friends would ask me why I was talking to myself. You can only find so many excuses before they label you and decide they don’t want to hang out with a weirdo anymore. I’m glad for the invent of wireless earphones.”
“Because now everyone looks like they are talking to themselves and everyone around them assumes they’re talking on the phone,” Anson supplies with a grin.
“You got it.”