Chapter Sixteen
Riverbend, Louisiana
On the way to the Kingston Hotel, I spot a Home Depot off the interstate. I make an impromptu stop, where I turn more than a few heads, clacking up to the self-checkout in my stilettos with a shopping cart containing a galvanized-grade steel chain and a padlock the size of a small anchor.
That cut-through on my dad’s property is about to be cut off.
I whip into the valet lane at the Kingston, and something clatters under the seat. I glance at the passenger-side floorboard.
The valet opens the driver’s side door, and I step out and hand him the keys. “Hang on a minute,” I say.
I walk around to the passenger side and open the door.
If an open envelope was left in here, which it was, something could have easily rolled out.
I toggle my phone flashlight on and scan under the passenger seat.
Something that looks like a clear sandwich bag sits toward the back.
I wedge my hand under the seat and fumble for it.
“Need any help?” the valet says behind me.
“No,” I say, huffing as I extend my arm deeper. “I got it.”
My fingers snag the sandwich bag, and when I pull it out and examine its contents, my body goes numb.
“What the fuck?”
It’s a pregnancy test.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” the valet says.
I shove the baggie into my tote and sling my tote over my shoulder. “Fine,” I say.
I grab the box with the journals and folders, and again the valet is in my face.
“Can I help you with that?”
“No.”
He takes a step back at my tone. This poor kid has no idea how close to danger he is. I feel like a trip wire on a bomb. One wrong tap and boom.
I walk through the sliding glass doors into the Kingston, balancing my precious cargo.
A snappy blonde with sleek, black-framed glasses looks up from her computer behind the front desk.
“How can I help you?” she says.
I eye the long wooden bar to my right. “Just heading to the bar,” I say.
She nods and goes back to her computer.
The bar and sitting area are an eclectic mix of Victorian sofas and chairs and French antiques.
It’s dark and moody and perfect for my mood.
I find a small table in the corner and set my tote in one of the chairs.
The bar is the exact opposite of the one I sat at only a few days ago in Miami, but it still serves the same scotch.
I give the bartender, who happens to be the blond front desk attendant, my credit card.
“Macallan. Neat. Water back. Keep a tab open.”
“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” she says with a smile, then hands me the lowball glass with amber liquid and a side water. Excellent.
At the table, I open my laptop and tether it to my cell for Wi-Fi. No public Wi-Fi for me. The scotch is smooth, and I remind myself to only sip for now, even though I want to chug it.
Erin and Carl will be here soon enough. And I need to get my shit together before they arrive.
I pull out my phone and try my father’s cell. It goes straight to voicemail. I try Debby’s next, and the same thing happens.
Think, I tell myself. Work this out.
A package arrived for me from Miami. The only person I have had any contact with in that area was Laura Sanders . . . Heather.
I pluck the clear bag from my tote and study its contents through the plastic. The white parts of the test have yellowed. I examine the window with the results. It’s possible there are two faded lines, but it’s hard to say. I flip it over. It doesn’t seem to have any digital components.
Was this something Heather saved from Poison Wood? And why hadn’t she included a—
The thought snaps off. Maybe there had been a note. I’ll need to check the truck’s floorboard again. I drop the bag back in my tote and take another sip of my lunch.
So my father gets the mail on February 12, and the padded envelope is in it. Which means Heather must have mailed it before texting me on the tenth. My father opens it, and something inside literally stops his heart.
I lean back in my chair.
Why would he open it? And why would Heather want me to have that pregnancy test?
Every time an answer comes, another question comes along with it. But that’s the game I know as a reporter. Keep chasing answers until there are no more questions.
If Heather sent a pregnancy test to me, she would have included an explanation. And if she mailed it to me before meeting with me, there’s a chance she thought our meeting may not happen.
I sit up straighter. Heather sent me a text on the tenth, but she didn’t want to meet until the twelfth.
Maybe she set up another meeting on the eleventh, told her husband she was going to a spa treatment.
And does the person she met with know she mailed something to me?
And if so, what would they do to get it?
I open my phone to make notes and see a long list of unopened emails.
I open one from Dom that says I’m to cooperate with Erin and provide her with all important information.
He clarifies I will be treated as a witness on this, not a reporter, and that Erin will make a disclaimer about my connection before every one of her broadcasts.
He also says NCN will be issuing an apology.
For any other job, this would be overkill, but not for this one.
The few seconds before I spoke live from that beach had been enough to do this much damage.
I delete the email and look at the others.
A few are from other journalists, some asking for information, some wagging their fingers and telling me how shameful it was that I didn’t disclose my connection to a story to NCN. I delete all those as well.
Then I scan a text from Katrina asking if we are going to meet up again, and a thought occurs to me. A flutter starts in my chest. Katrina had said they were staying close by. I don’t picture Kat in a cozy bed-and-breakfast in Natchitoches. I look up this hotel’s number and punch it into my phone.
The phone at the front desk rings, and the blonde standing behind it answers. “The Kingston, how may I direct your call?”
I turn my back to the desk and press the phone to my ear. “To Katrina Donovan’s room.” I hear typing.
“Hold, please,” she says.
I hang up before the call can be connected, take another sip of my drink.
If Erin Stockwell has even one brain cell, she’ll already know about Kat and Summer. Our three names are all over the police report from 2002. And now she’s staying at the same hotel as them. Terrific.
I pull up my notes on my phone, to the list I’ve started.
The list I should have deleted along with the emails, since this is not my story.
Dom made that clear. But like that first step into the dark basement at Poison Wood a couple of days ago, I find myself taking another step away from my line in the sand.
The box of journals sits next to me. Maybe two steps.
Although I’m going to give Erin this box, I filtered the journals she gets to read. The ones I brought only belong to Heather. If I find something in the others, I’ll let her know, but for now, those stay with me.
I refocus on my list. I’ve talked to Kat, Summer, Martha Lee, and Rosalie Adair, sort of. I look at Johnny’s name. Of all the names on this list, I want to speak to him the most. Easy, cowgirl, the voice trying to keep me in check says.
My boss just told me I’m a witness, not a reporter. But . . . I could talk to him as Rita, the witness. One witness to another. That’s it.
Another name on my list is interesting as well. Dr. Janet Fontenot. She knew the most about us. Would she have known if one of us was secretly involved with Crowley?
Archibald Crowley.
The girls and I had been called into his office more than once. The pranks, the talking back to our teachers, the breaking curfew.
When he was fired my senior year, the school called us into an assembly and told us Mr. Crowley would no longer be serving as headmaster and, in the interim, B.O. would step in. She walked out in front of us and smiled like the Cheshire cat.
Thing is, I don’t remember much about Crowley except how pompous and proper he was. We had started rumors about why he was fired, ranging from secret satanic rituals to having an affair with B.O. But then the article in the paper came out about him stealing money and killed our fun.
I’d watched from one of the classroom windows alongside Kat and Summer as some of the staff escorted him from the building.
We all assumed he left the country and envied him.
We pictured him on a yacht in the Mediterranean, laughing and spending the school’s money.
In reality, if my thinking is correct, he only went as far as the school basement.
I dive into my search engine, and as the hours pass, I explore rabbit hole after rabbit hole, chasing names and saving any articles I find.
Dr. Janet Fontenot stayed in Louisiana as well.
It appears she is still practicing and lives in New Orleans.
Her LinkedIn profile picture looks like she did when she was a counselor at Poison Wood, angular jaw, Roman nose, and mean eyes.
I can picture her, scribbling away in her notebook as she watched us in group.
I study the 504 number listed on her profile and tap it before I can think better of it.
To my surprise, she answers.
“Dr. Fontenot here.”
Holy shit.
“Hello?” she says.
“Hi,” I say. “This is Rita Meade.”
There’s a pause; then she says, “Hello, Rita.”
Her voice is softer than I remember. I always pictured her as this looming tyrant who judged us, but her voice sounds . . . compassionate.
“What can I do for you?” she says.
I sit up straighter. She’s thrown me. I always expect to go in with a fight. This woman is doing the opposite. “I’m sure you know what I’m calling about.”
“Poison Wood,” she says.
“Yes,” I say.
“Okay. Is this conversation professional or personal?”
I take another sip of scotch and set it on the table, and say, for the first time ever about a story, “Personal. This will all be off the record.”