Chapter Twenty-Seven
Riverbend, Louisiana
Willa’s voice is in my head, saying words like chaos seeking and self-sabotage, as I wait at the gas station near the farmhouse for Johnny Adair’s Project Innocence liaison.
I’ve heard stories from victims’ families about how flashbulbs now trigger them. For the first time, I understand why.
Grant shows up twenty minutes later in an Uber. He hops out and spots me parked by one of the far pumps.
When he opens the passenger door and climbs in, I say, “Have you heard from him?”
He nods.
“Johnny’s been busy,” I say.
Grant nods again. “Yeah.”
I pull away from the gas station and head south. “So did he tell you he turned in the red coat to the police?”
“He did.”
“But he hasn’t brought the car back?” I say.
“I told him to keep it today. He’s coming to get me tomorrow, though. We need to be in Natchitoches.”
“Media’s gonna be there,” I say, turning off the main road for the neighborhood behind the farmhouse.
“We’re aware of that.”
I turn off the neighborhood road onto the muddy path.
Grant looks around. “This is interesting.”
“No way I’m taking you through the front gate. We’d be on the front page of the Riverbend Times tomorrow morning.”
“A reporter hiding from reporters.” He smiles. “I like it.”
I hop out and unlock the gate. As the heavy chain falls from the fence, something in the mud catches my eye—footprints.
They lead from this side of the gate onto my father’s property then disappear into the woods.
I try to keep my pulse in check. It could be Debby or my father or a neighbor or . . . or I may need to call the sheriff.
I climb back in the truck, pull through, then jump out and relock the gate.
“Where are we exactly?” Grant says, surveying the woods around us.
“My father’s house.” I ease down the narrow trail.
“Ha ha,” he says. I look over at him. “Wait. You’re serious?”
We exit the woods, and I steer us into the farmhouse driveway. Debby’s truck is sitting in the garage as I pull into my dad’s space. Great.
I kill the engine and look at Grant. “Wait here.”
He gives me a look.
“Please.”
I scan the perimeter of the house for muddy footprints, but I don’t see any. Then I walk into the kitchen, and my father is sitting in his chair at the head of the table. Debby sits next to him in a bubble-gum-pink sweatsuit. The kitchen smells like spices and roast.
I come in guns blazing. “Were either of you out walking around by the back gate?”
They look up from their plates.
Debby tilts her head. “No. Well, maybe. It’s possible. I did walk the dogs back there earlier.”
“I saw footprints,” I say, and as I say it, I realize how paranoid it sounds.
But being paranoid can also mean being prepared.
Locking something out, even with a steel chain, doesn’t guarantee you can’t get hurt.
My memories have taught me that. The things we want to keep out the most always seem to find a way in.
And the last person I want finding their way in here is the person who killed Laura Sanders or Archibald Crowley.
Debby motions toward my father with her hand. “Your father is back home. Early.”
I shake my head. “Yeah, sorry. Hi, Dad. I’m glad you’re back home . . .” I trail off as I study my dad’s face. “You saw the news,” I say.
He nods.
“All of the news?” I say.
He nods again.
Debby shakes her blond bouffant. “That school,” she says, but she doesn’t mention the news about my mother. She doesn’t need to.
“You knew, didn’t you?” he says.
Now it’s my turn to nod. I lean against the kitchen counter. “Did you know anything about him? Archibald Crowley?”
He shakes his head. “Just what everybody else knew. That he was a thief. And that once he was gone, it was good riddance.”
“Did anyone reach out to you after Crowley left the school?”
“Why are you speaking to me in your reporter voice?”
“This isn’t my reporter voice, Dad. This is my concerned-daughter voice.”
“Nobody reached out to me,” he says. “Do you think I would have kept that man’s death a secret if I knew anything about it? What kind of person do you think I am?”
It’s a rhetorical question, and it’s one I thought I could answer a week ago. Now the answer seems a little more complicated.
“It’s going to be okay, kid,” my dad says, and something in my heart cracks and pops and splits open, and I’m horrified to realize I’m about to cry.
I dig my thumbnail into my palm until the pain is strong enough to distract whatever is happening inside me.
I’ve pushed so hard on my skin I’m afraid I may have drawn blood.
Then my father’s eyes widen as he looks over my shoulder.
I turn, and Grant is standing behind me.
“What happened to waiting in the car?” I say to Grant.
“I did wait,” he says. “Now I’m done waiting.”
I start to say something, but he holds out his hand and approaches the table. “I’m Grant—”
“I know you,” my father says in a voice that sounds as if he’s on the bench. “You were speaking at that conference for Johnny Adair.”
“Hello, Judge,” Grant says. He drops his hand since my father hasn’t offered his.
“Hello, Grant,” Debby says. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Debby.”
“Hello, Ms. Debby.”
My father turns his gaze to me. “What’s going on, Rita?”
The word kid is gone now. Rita’s back.
“Grant and I have some things to discuss.”
Debby pushes back from the table and takes her plate to the sink. “Grant, can I get you something to eat?”
One thing about Louisiana is no matter how awkward a situation, food will always be offered. Nobody’s going hungry in Debby’s kitchen, even if it’s only four in the afternoon.
“No, thank you,” Grant says even though I can see him eyeing the Crock-Pot.
“Mississippi pot roast,” Debby says. “Only five ingredients but it’s darn good. Secret is the peperoncinis. How about just a bite?” Debby takes a plate to the counter and dips out about a thousand bites from the Crock-Pot. She piles the plate high and brings it to Grant along with a roll.
“We’ll take it upstairs,” I say to him.
Debby goes to the refrigerator and returns with a large glass of milk. She holds it out to Grant.
“Thanks, Debby,” I say, taking the milk.
Milk is not the drink we need right now.
“We’ll be upstairs,” I say to them.
Debby makes a tsk sound, but I ignore her.
“Nice to meet you both,” Grant says. “I’ll bring the plate down when I’m done.” He holds it up. “Thank you.”
I’m not used to men with manners. The men I’ve dated, like most of the people I’ve worked with, compete with me.
They would have turned their noses up at Debby and her pot roast, made a joke about it as soon as we were out of the kitchen.
A kitchen the men I’ve dated have never been in.
I’ve never brought a guy here. Except for the one I snuck in when I was a teenager.
The one who bought me my ticket to Poison Wood.
It’s no wonder my dad’s gaze feels like it’s burning a hole in my back.
I pause on the first step on the back staircase. Love interest? I glance back at Grant, who is smiling. Now I’m even more unsettled.
He follows me up the stairs to my old room, and with each step up, I know I’m doubting what I’m about to show him. This decision may not turn out to be the best one. I’m about to trust him with something I’ve never trusted anyone with. It feels reckless but somehow still right.
I stop at my bedroom door and open it before I can change my mind. The contents of the old suitcase are still scattered and stacked across the floor along with the journals I didn’t hand over to Erin. Grant steps in behind me and studies the mess.
“What is all this?”
“This is Poison Wood,” I say.
He bends down, sets his plate on the floor, and picks a journal. “What is all this?”
“My past.”
He looks up at me. “Why are you showing me all of this?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, glancing down. “I need someone I can trust right now. And I want to trust you.” I meet his gaze again. “I think I might like you.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “That’s good. I think I might like you too.” He finds a spot on the floor and sits. “Do we need to talk about what happened the other night?” He takes a bite from his plate. “Damn. That’s good.”
I set the milk beside him. “I’ll be right back,” I say.
Downstairs, I beeline to the bar and grab the Macallan and two glasses of ice, ignoring Debby’s sour stare and my father’s worried look as I march back upstairs like a petulant teenager.
I shut my bedroom door behind me and join Grant on the floor. I pour two glasses, handing one to him.
“Now, let’s talk,” I say.
He removes his suit jacket. “You first.”
“The other night.” I sip my scotch. “Was unexpected.”
“I’d agree with that.”
“But not entirely unpleasant.”
“Not entirely.” He smiles and sips his drink; then he points to his plate. “You want a bite of this? It’s incredible.”
My stomach growls, and I nod. Grant hands me his fork.
I take a bite, and it feels as if someone has wrapped their arms around me and hugged me. “Damn,” I say.
“Right?” Grant says.
I eat several more bites, and this urge comes over me to finish all of it. I have to stop myself. Old habits are knocking. But I tell my body it needs this food. I’m going to need fuel to get through everything that is happening.
“Do you think Johnny would talk to me again?” I say, handing the fork back to Grant.
He takes a bite and swallows. “Probably.”
“When?”
“Maybe at the hotel before I check out.”
I shake my head. “Too much press there.”
“Maybe the bed-and-breakfast in Natchitoches where I’m headed next.”
The fact he’s opted for a bed-and-breakfast makes me like him even more. Something about it hits different. I’m used to men who want to flaunt their wealth with fancy hotel suites. They would turn their noses up at a small-town bed-and-breakfast.
“Sounds good,” I say.
I rub my hands together. The shaking has stopped, but the pit in my stomach has expanded. Erin would not be pleased if she knew I was setting something up with Johnny. I need to include her. She’s included me.
“Would Johnny be willing to meet with my colleague as well?”
Grant shakes his head. “Let’s not push it. One reporter at a time.”
“I won’t be talking to him as a reporter,” I say.
Grant takes another bite. “That’s good. He doesn’t need to be grilled.” He sips his drink. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
And it will be an easy promise to keep. I don’t want to talk to him for a story or an award; the next conversation I have with him will be for me. And for the man sitting at the kitchen table downstairs.
I scan the papers on the floor. “I buried Poison Wood,” I say after another sip.
“I buried it deep inside of me. I didn’t want to think about it, any of it.
I really didn’t want to think about Heather.
” Grant is watching me closely. I know he’s wondering where I’m going.
Thing is, I don’t even know where I’m going.
I feel like I’m on that windy path to the graveyard behind Poison Wood with confusing switchbacks and forks and dead ends.
“Do you know what it’s like to just want to pretend everything is fine? ”
Grant sets his drink down. “Yeah. I know exactly what that’s like.”
I study his face, his eyes, and I see what I saw in him at the bar at the Kingston. An understanding.
“Who’d you lose?” I say.
He exhales. “My dad.” He sighs. “He and my mom divorced when I was kid. He was in and out of jail for years. His last stint, though, was the longest, and when he was released, he was never the same. He couldn’t acclimate.
It was like he wanted to go back to prison.
After he died, I swore to myself I was going to help people. ”
“I understand.”
He touches my hand. “Who’d you lose?”
“My mom.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I’ve heard those words dozens of times over the years when people find out about my mom, but there’s something about the way he says it that tugs at my heart differently. Like he found the part I usually keep hidden.
I bite my lip. He opens his arm out for me, and I take the invitation.