Chapter 27
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Sunshine assaults my eyes, my temples throb, and my mouth feels as though it’s filled with cotton. I roll on the bed, burying my face in the pillow, wondering why I hadn’t closed the blinds before falling asleep last night. The sheets where I roll are cool upon my exposed skin.
The memories of the night before return in snippets, splices of movie film discarded on the director’s floor. Typically, those are the scenes that are no longer wanted, and in my whisky-soaked recollections, I too wish they could be discarded.
The question remains, who were my witnesses? Who saw me in a state I can’t quite recall?
I remember both Theo and then Keith.
Quickly, I sit up, throw back the blankets, and inspect myself.
I’m wearing the same shirt from yesterday, as well as my bra and underwear.
After a quick visual search of the room, I see my blue jeans, socks, and boots neatly piled upon a chair beside the dresser.
I’m not a slob, but I am also not someone who folds dirty clothes.
I didn’t place my things there, and I’m almost certain I didn’t put myself to bed.
I remember...
Falling back against the pillow, I try to connect the pieces of a puzzle. The border is there—the edge of each vision—yet the middle is missing, resulting in gaping black holes where once time stood.
With slow, determined steps to not upset the delicate balance of my headache and twisting stomach, I make my way out of the bedroom, pulling the door open.
I peer out into the living room. The couch is empty, and with another peek, I find, so is the spare bedroom.
One last glance in the room I recently left confirms that I was also in there alone.
In the bathroom, I take care of business and then splash cool water on my face before bending down to slurp water directly from the faucet. I rinse, spit, and rinse again. Eventually, the dryness subsides and rinsing becomes drinking—copious amounts of water.
My body is a desert in need of a torrential rain.
Inspecting my face and neck, my fingertips brush a reddened area. The skin is slightly tender below my touch. Perhaps it’s hives and I’m developing an allergy to Blue Gil. Or the more likely possibility is that my flesh is tender from the abrasion of facial hair.
Squinting my eyes, I think back to Theo. Despite his attempt to break free from his father’s status, he comes across as relatively clean-cut. He has a few tattoos peeking from below his sleeves, but as I recall, his face was cleanly shaven.
And then there is Keith.
I have recollections of a car—no, his truck—parked behind the cottages.
My eyes close, but the images refuse to go away.
The awkwardness of the bucket seats.
A gearshift.
Surrounded by darkness as the windows fogged.
Shit.
“Great, Jill.” I’m back in Blue Gil for less than a week and I’m already making out in a parked truck like a sex-starved teenage slut. Thank goodness, my memories don’t include a knock on the truck’s window from Sheriff Manes or Deputy Morton.
Back in my bedroom, within the depths of my purse, I locate a small bottle of Aleve.
Sprinkling a few tablets onto my palm, I select two, place them near the back of my tongue, and swallow.
Next, I dump the remaining contents of my purse upon the messed bed.
Wallet accounted for. Credit cards and cash in place. No phone.
With a blanket wrapped around me, I begin the search for my phone. My first thought is the kitchen. In the sink are two glasses, the mystery contents no longer present.
Success.
My phone is lying on the counter, attached to the charger.
One look and I realize I slept until nearly eleven and have missed multiple calls and texts.
Before I can check further, I prioritize my needs—first is caffeine. Experience tells me that it will aid in pain relief. I fill the pot with water, add a filter, and then coffee. As I complete the complexity of the task, a noise from the front of the cottage catches my attention.
Hitting the buttons on the coffee pot, I walk quietly toward the front windows. A twist of the rod and the blinds open. In one of the Adirondack chairs is a man with dark blond hair and broad shoulders. Though he’s facing the lake, I’m mostly certain of his identity.
He’s the last person I remember from my incomplete puzzle of last night.
“Well,” I mutter, “I guess this means we’re not avoiding one another.”
A few minutes later, with my hair piled on my head in a messy bun, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and carrying a large mug of freshly brewed coffee, I bashfully open the door to the porch. Keith’s gaze silently meets mine.
“Hi...My car?” I ask.
“Good morning, Jill” —he checks his watch— “for a little while longer.”
“I see we made it past the Miss Thorne?”
The tips of his lips curl upward. “Way past, I’d say.”
Shit. I don’t know what exactly that means.
He tilts his head.
It’s been a long time since I’ve blacked out.
Even the night before with Becky and the wine, I can recount everything that happened.
Last night, my goal may have been to leave the world momentarily behind, but being blackout drunk was not my desired endgame.
I detest the feeling of not knowing, of wondering what I don’t remember. “My car?” I ask again.
“Still at the Walleye Tavern. I can drive you into town” —he scans my disheveled clothes— “when you’re ready.”
“I’m sorry, Keith. I have some missing memories. I’m guessing you brought me here.”
He nods. “It was better than letting you drive.”
“Thank you.” I can only imagine my father if I was pulled over for DWI.
I exhale, settle in the other chair, and peer out at the lake. A breeze is forming small waves, some dotted with white, out upon the water’s surface. “I’m embarrassed,” I admit.
“Don’t be. With a few drinks in you, we had the most honest conversation I’ve had with anyone since I arrived in this godforsaken town.”
“What did we talk about?”
“At the Walleye Tavern or here?”
Here?
In my cottage or his?
I’m not sure I want to know.
“The Walleye Tavern?” I ask trepidatiously.
“Not much. You were upset about your sister Julie and your dad.”
I close my eyes. “I had no right to burden you—”
A subtle smile comes to his lips as his eyes lighten. “You didn’t burden me. I’ve spent the last few weeks thinking this place is full of the coldest sons of bitches I’ve ever met. And last night you showed me that being raised here doesn’t automatically result in a lack of empathy.”
I wrap my fingers around the mug of coffee. “I’m still sorry. My family isn’t your problem.”
“You’re back here because of mine. I’m still here because of yours.”
The coffee in my otherwise-empty stomach percolates. “Did I say that...that I’m here because of your family?”
“You said you were here to learn truths. Last night you told me what I’ve been thinking all along.”
I slowly lift my gaze to his. “Would you mind repeating whatever wisdom I imparted? Again, I’m at a bit of a disadvantage.”
“You said you think there’s more to Craig’s death than we’re being told.”
“And you think that too?”
“I would say I don’t only think it, but instead, I know it, except I hit a fucking brick wall at every turn.” He takes a deep breath and looks out at the lake. “You also said that you suspect there is a connection between Craig’s death and what happened to your sister and Marty Thompson.”
I join him in looking out to the waves. “You’re saying that I confessed my deepest secrets?” When I’m met with silence, I turn to him. “Keith, last night...in your truck...”
“The way I see that,” he begins, “is that last night in my truck, and for a while in your living room, there were two consenting adults. However, as time passed, your level of consent was a bit compromised, so we didn’t.
..” He smiles. “Jill, you’re a great kisser, by the way, and it could have gone further, but tucking you in seemed like the right thing to do. ”
“You folded my clothes.”
He scoffs. “Sorry. Military before police academy. I don’t even think about it. I just do it.”
“No, thank you.” I take another sip of my coffee.
“Not all Gilberts are assholes.”
My heart thumps against my breastbone as I take in this man.
More than my gut tells me that Keith isn’t like his brother.
Craig had a cockiness about him, a self-assuredness that caught everyone’s eye. He was handsome in a pretty way. He not only knew it, he used it. Craig made a good football coach because football is a game of superiority, where stats are the road to success and coveted positions hold domination.
In Craig’s mind, he outshone every one of the players he coached.
He was a college star whose name was known throughout the Big Ten. His players longed to be like him—as good as him, as fast, as strong. They longed to emulate him. Every teenage boy wanted to learn not just from him but how to be him.
Every teenage girl wanted to know him better—in every sense of the statement.
Accomplishing that biblical knowledge was a conquest, a status of superiority among high school girls. Until it wasn’t.
That was six years ago.
A time long gone.
A time, as my mother says, that I need to simply let go.
In my mind, times have changed, but I don’t know that for sure.
As I take in Keith’s profile, I see someone different than Craig. Keith is confident and content. He isn’t showy or all about conquests or accolades. If he were, I would have found him in my bed, not on my porch.
The conversation with Theo comes back: everyone is trying to prove something...
“Who was older?” I ask.
“Who are you talking about?”
“You or Craig.”
“Well, I’m still alive.”
I exhale. “Who was born first?”
“Who do you think?”
“You. And not just because military, police academy, and making detective take time. I haven’t seen your brother in a long time, yet you seem to have a calmer sense of confidence. It’s like you’re not trying to prove yourself. Craig was constantly aiming for the next rung.”