Chapter 3
Three
I stepped into the elevator after Phillip, standing in front of him in the small, cramped space, as though I could somehow protect him. With him standing at 6’5” barefoot, it was a fat chance I’d be able to shield him from anything with my barely average stature. I jabbed at the button for the ground floor, and as the doors shut, I turned to him with a hopeful smile. “It’ll be nice to go out to a fancy restaurant,” I said brightly. “We haven’t gotten to do anything like that since, well, ever. Remember that steak you ordered the day after we met? I thought you were going to recreate that scene from When Harry Met Sally and have an orgasm right there at the table!”
“I think I did, to be honest,” he said with a grin, reaching over to ruffle my hair. “No offense to your vegan sensibilities, but I’m pretty sure that steak was in my top three life moments, both the last one and this most recent one.”
I grinned. “And what are the first two? Life moments, I mean.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Phillip’s eyes twinkled, and he brushed the side of my face. I craned my head up toward his, and he leaned into me, his sensual mouth pursed for a kiss.
The whoosh of the elevator doors rudely interrupted us as we settled on the third floor. A man clad in modern business attire—a blazer, dark-blue skinny jeans, and very pointed, very shiny black shoes—stepped into the elevator, a smallish briefcase tucked under one arm. “Morning,” he said, not looking at either of us directly to see us nod in acknowledgement. I thought he looked kind of familiar but quickly dismissed it. There were plenty of hipster tech-bros all over Savannah who looked like carbon cutouts of this guy. I turned back to Phillip as the man settled in one corner of the elevator, giving us as much privacy as possible. I took the opportunity to inch myself up and give Phillip a quick peck on his jawline. He kissed me back, but his body was a little tense. Being in a cramped space with a stranger was apt to make him feel apprehensive.
My phone buzzed in my jacket pocket, and I slid it out, hitting the unlock button and reading the message. It was from Mom. I’ve booked a table for four, it said. I’m already here. Just outside smoking a cigarette, but I can go in and order drinks for everyone if you’re close by.
I tapped out a quick response, smiling. It had been years since I’d eaten at the swanky Italian eatery, but Phillip would love the place. Not only was the food absolute carb-heavy nirvana from what I remembered, but the atmosphere, with its tongue-in-cheek mafioso vibes and dark, dimly lit décor, would make him feel right at home, to say nothing of the infamous filet mignon or the always flowing red wine. I figured Phillip and I deserved a little indulgence. We’re in the elevator on the way down. Give us ten minutes, tops, I typed quickly. The restaurant was only two blocks from our hotel. “Uber?” I asked him.
“It’s only a short distance, right?” he replied. “The air is crisp, and it’s so pretty outside. Let’s walk. I’d like to see some of historic Savannah; I’ve always wanted to do that with you.” The rest of the sentiment hung unspoken between us: let’s do this now while we still can.
I smiled. “You got it. Even though you haven’t known me long enough to have ‘always wanted to’ do anything with me.” I had to admit that a walk along the beautiful cobblestones of historic Savannah with my love, the sun shining down on our faces and a cool breeze in our hair, sounded like a slice of heaven.
As the elevator neared the ground floor, I slid my phone back in my pocket and faced the doors, hoping that it wouldn’t be crowded. I had already mapped out the fastest course from the elevator to the outer doors to keep us from being seen or having to interact with people. Despite what Phillip had said about coming clean, I was secretly hoping for a few more blissful days—or even hours—of privacy with him. I’d been so relieved when he’d rolled over in bed that morning and told me he was going to wait until after lunch to make his phone calls. It was just a few short hours, but I’d take what I could get.
I was trying so hard not to be resentful, but God, every time we had so much as a moment of peace, or thought we did, something else came up. It was never ending. I couldn’t help but feel bitter about it. When would it just be our time?
Some thoughts were beginning to form, though…thoughts that contradicted how I’d been feeling all this time. I didn’t know why; maybe it was being in beautiful Savannah, or the gleam Phillip got in his eye when he talked about the past, but I wondered…maybe it wouldn’t be so bad? Maybe Phillip was right, and he’d just be a blip, a fun little story that would make a BuzzFeed or PopSugar headline and trend on Twitter for a couple of hours before disappearing, and then we could go back to our lives. In our world of constant brEAKING NEWS and new trending topics every five minutes, Phillip could quite literally be a flash in the pan. Better yet, maybe the reporter we’d seen had already packed up and left. I’d seen a headline earlier on Facebook that there was a sex scandal with some lead singer from a Nu Metal band who had harassed dozens of women, many of whom had already bravely spoken out about their harrowing experiences. Then a video had leaked with some pretty damning, undeniable proof of his depraved nature. Pretty soon, internet sleuths all over social media (because let’s face it, the Venn diagram of metal/alt rock fans and true crime junkies is a complete circle) had dug up all sorts of information on Colt Leather, information that might prove the singer was more than just a garden variety harasser; he’d also harbored some pretty heavy serial-killer fantasies. Worse, there were multiple women missing in or around his hometown. With stories like that to deep-dive into, why would anybody be interested in a Phillip Deville lookalike in podunk South Georgia?
I convinced myself it’d be okay and was thinking ahead to the luscious lemon and hazelnut pasta dish I planned to order—I’d checked the menu online to ensure they had vegan options—as the doors to the elevator whooshed open. Then three things happened so fast that neither Phillip nor I had any time to react.
First, the man on the other side of the elevator reached into his briefcase and pulled out a huge iPhone with an attached ring light and what looked to be a fancy, miniature microphone. He swiped the phone open and held it out to Phillip, so close that the phone actually brushed Phillip’s cheek and made him jump.
At the same time, we could see two other men through the elevator’s open doors, flanking either side. One held a large, professional looking camera. He turned, maneuvering to get around me since I was blocking his clear shots of Phillip. The other man I recognized from GOTHzine—Dylan Quint—the man we’d chased on the beach. He held out an iPhone as well, its tape recorder app open and recording. As he inched closer, the man in the elevator with us leaned forward and hit the “stall” button, forcing the doors to stay open. We’d been ambushed. And we were trapped.
I inadvertently glanced past the chaos in the elevator to the hotel’s whirling, circular door to see a woman standing there in a long, elegant black coat. I caught her eye for the smallest of seconds and she smiled, her lips impossibly shiny in the bright light of the hotel lobby, her long, sleek blonde hair pulled back in a French braid. She wrapped her coat around her slim frame and stepped through the spinning door and out into the night air.
I shook my head to clear it, certain I’d just hallucinated. It couldn’t have been her, could it?
“Mr. Deville, could we have just a moment of your time?” the man in the elevator was saying as he pressed the phone toward Phillip’s face. I decided to forget the woman for now and turned to Phillip, putting my hands on his shoulders, moving to pull him out of the elevator and away from the man. I had no idea how we’d get past the two photographers standing just outside the doors, though. And even if we did, all three of them were already recording. “Is it really you, Phillip Deville? Can you tell us where you’ve been all these years? Why did your family and bandmates tell your fans you were dead? Were they in on it? Why did you decide to come out of hiding after all this time? Now that you have, do you plan to release any new music?”
I kept pulling on Phillip, but he was stuck to the spot. It was like one of Lydia’s holding spells, but he wasn’t hexed; he was just stunned. And from his body language and the cacophony of angry emotions coming off him, he was only seconds from erupting in total fury. I knew the look on his face—it was one I’d seen in more than one interview toward the end of the Bloomer Demons’ peak when all the reporters had gotten too invasive, too tactless with their insensitive questions. Phillip always handled those with a charming combination of evasiveness and good old-fashioned snark, but occasionally, they’d get one over on him, one that would stun him momentarily. He’d have that look on his face that he had now, like a deer caught in the headlights, but one willing to fight you tooth and nail to get out of your car’s path. Even if it meant mowing that car down and taking out everybody in it. To someone who didn’t know him well, it was a calm, almost introspective look, but I knew better.
“You are Phillip Deville, right?” the reporter was asking, his phone close enough to Phillip’s face to graze his skin. My fingers, still on Phillip’s shoulders, began to tingle.
“Who are you ?” Phillip asked suddenly, seemingly taking no notice of my hands on his shoulders or that I was still trying to pull him out of the elevator. It was futile, like trying to pull a furious bull toward a water hole. He wasn’t moving. “And why are you accosting me on an elevator?”
“Kevin Ramford, VICE,” the man said in a practiced, perfunctory tone, then he pushed the phone even closer to Phillip; had he wanted to, Phillip could have stuck his tongue out and licked it. “Can you tell us about your life these past twenty-three years? Your fans are dying to know where you’ve been.”
“Oh, are they dying?” Phillip responded, his mouth curling into a slow, sinister smile. Uh oh .
“Mr. Deville, you have to know that your fans, those who have loved and mourned you for over two decades, are eager to know how you’ve suddenly reappeared after being—as we thought, anyway—dead all these years,” the man said, his tone giving off a hint of exasperation, but it felt like pretense. He was performing for an audience, the crowd of narrative-starved, faceless consumers on the internet, frothing for the latest livestream or hot take. “Don’t you owe it to those fans to tell them what happened and why you allowed them to think you were dead for twenty-three years?” He smiled, then pressed the phone harder into Phillip’s face. “Don’t you think you owe them an apology?”
It was as though all the air in the elevator was suddenly sucked out. Things were deadly silent for a moment, and then Phillip Deville growled , a low rumble coming from deep in his chest like he was a feral feline ready to devour its prey and suck the meat off its bones.
The man, Kevin, shrunk back to the elevator’s wall, one hand bracing behind him, his eyes wide. He seemed scared, as he should be, but the excitement in his eyes was hard to miss. This was going to go viral. I could almost hear his inner monologue, and my hands were absolutely buzzing with rage.
I had to diffuse the situation.
I turned to Dylan Quint, the reporter outside the elevator doors. “I thought you worked for GOTHzine,” I said to him stupidly. “But he said he’s with VICE.”
Dylan Quint’s face was very pale beneath his dark, bushy beard. “Yeah, huh…VICE bought out GOTHzine last year. It’s a subsidiary now.”
“Oh. I should have known.” I shook my head. “What gives, Dylan? Why would you guys think it’s okay to ambush us like this?”
“Well, you haven’t come down in two days. We didn’t know when we’d get another chance,” Kevin said, even though I hadn’t been talking to him. He held the phone out to Phillip again, but he had enough good sense to keep it a little further away this time. His hand shook a little, which gave me great satisfaction.
As I stared at him, I realized why Kevin Ramford seemed familiar. Just a few short days ago, when I’d been staying here with Roberta, I’d run smack into a man in the lobby. The papers in his briefcase had gone flying, and I’d been so embarrassed, gushing apologies as I’d tried to hastily help him organize everything. He’d been understanding and told me not to worry about it, and before I’d had a chance to apologize further, he’d disappeared. Now I knew why he’d been so gracious—he’d been tailing me.
I’d brought Phillip to this very hotel, thinking we’d be able to lay low. Instead, I’d led him straight into an ambush. Kevin Ramford was peppering Phillip with more questions, but I didn’t register them. I was too busy feeling guilt roll around in my belly, making me queasy.
“Are you aware that I’m standing in an elevator?” Phillip asked calmly. “You’re harassing me and distressing my companion and filming us without our consent. Is this really what you want to do?”
Every word had been polite and firm, but the threat underneath was loud and clear. Kevin took another step back and gave us a dazzling, professional smile. “Of course, Mr. Deville. My apologies. Let’s step out of the elevator and talk somewhere more comfortable.” He gestured with an outstretched arm for us to exit.
But as we stepped out of the elevator, the heavy doors finally sliding shut behind us, that safe haven now gone, Phillip whirled back on the reporter. “Actually,” he snarled, his eyes flashing, “I’m late for a lunch, thanks to you. We’re leaving.”
“But you said?—"
Phillip advanced on Kevin, stopping inches from his face. “Back off, dude,” he hissed.
Dylan Quint stepped forward and touched Kevin on the shoulder. “Dude. Back off the guy. Give him some space.”
With a sigh of resigned exasperation, Kevin stepped back and turned off his phone. Then he reluctantly shut off the ring light and stared at us. “Fine. I’m done.”
Phillip smiled. “Looks like your colleague has more sense than you do.” He looked at Dylan Quint. “Though I’m still pissed at you for spying on us at the beach. Give me your card, and when I’m ready to chat, I’ll consider giving you a call.”
Dylan Quint’s face brightened. “If you would, Mr. Deville, that would be great. And sooner, rather than later, preferably?—"
“You don’t call the shots, buddy.” Phillip’s arm hovered in mid-air, and for a moment, I thought he was going to punch them both, but he was only reaching to take the slightly sweaty looking card from Kevin’s trembling hand. “I’ll call, and I’ll even give you an exclusive.” Dylan Quint’s eyes widened. “But on two conditions: one, when I fuckin’ feel like it, and two, you delete ALL the footage, and I mean all—videos, photos, audio, and whatever else you have. If you leak even one gigabyte of the shit you took today, the deal’s off. And I’ll fucking sue you into oblivion, to boot.”
“Yes. Of course,” Dylan answered eagerly. “You got it; everything’s deleted. We won’t post anything until we hear from you. Do you think you’ll be calling this evening, or?—"
“I said when I fuckin’ feel like it,” Phillip snapped, putting a hand on the small of my back. “And don’t think about getting my exclusive and then leaking all that shit after the fact, either. When I show up for the interview, I’ll have something in writing for you to sign. Deal?”
“Yes, okay,” Dylan agreed readily. Kevin Ramford and the cameraman stood there dejectedly, as though they’d been cut out of a deal. I supposed, in a way, they had.
Phillip steered me forward, and we exited the building without more disruption, though we could feel the eyes of everyone in the foyer—guests, staff, and reporters—on us as we left. Their gazes burned into my back like a brand. I had no doubt that the footage they’d gotten, even though Phillip had refused to answer any questions, would’ve been plastered all over social media and TV before the hour was up if Phillip hadn’t cut that deal. Every part of my body quivered with relief. We’d come so very close.
But so had they. I wondered if Kevin Ramford and Dylan Quint realized how close they’d come to being dismembered in an elevator. They were damn lucky that Phillip—and me, for that matter, since I could still feel the almost-painful, frenzied buzzing in my fingers—had spared them.
“You wouldn’t have hurt them,” Phillip said, in my head as always, putting a protective arm around me and pulling me close as we resumed walking. “As for me, well…we’ll just say I didn’t want a murder charge on top of everything else.” He laughed. “Let’s get you that hazelnut pasta thing. You’ve been fantasizing about it so hard that it’s stuck in my head.”
I giggled, but my brain was awhirl. My hands buzzed, and I pressed my fingers so hard against my palm the nails cut into my skin. Phillip might be certain I wouldn’t have hurt those men, but I wasn’t so sure.
I had been looking forward to this dinner, but as we slid into the booth in the dimly lit Italian restaurant to see Roberta and my mother sitting across from us, their faces dour, I knew it wasn’t going to be a night of socializing.
As glad as I was to see Roberta, my skin prickled at the sight of her. My newfound friend, normally bubbly in the worst of circumstances, looked truly harrowed today. “What’s going on?” I asked as the waitress placed our menus on the table.
Burt waved a finger as if to say “hush,” ignoring my curious look. We ordered our drinks—red wine and a glass of water for Roberta, Phillip, and me, and my mother primly ordered a Shirley Temple, the first time I’d seen someone order one in the wild—and waited for the waitress to retreat. Phillip’s hand on my leg was a welcome and warm presence, and he gave me a gentle squeeze. After the incident in the hotel foyer, we were both on edge.
As soon as the waitress was gone, Burt immediately asked, “Ready to go on vacation again?”
“I wasn’t aware I’d ever gone on one,” I said with a dry laugh, trying to ignore the feeling of dread creeping up my chest. “You’re counting the Wolfden as a vacation spot?”
Burt chuckled. “Everybody sends their regards, by the way,” she said with a brief smile. “Jamie and Nikolai especially; they’re all so appreciative of what you guys did for us with Elvin. Rescuing Benny and Lydia and Renee. They haven’t called because they were giving you guys some time to enjoy being alone together.” I smiled at her. “But I’m supposed to tell you that the Wolfden is your home— both you guys—and they want you back just as soon as your little legs can carry you there.”
“That’s really sweet,” I said, flushed with pleasure. I had loved the Wolfden, the little trailer and RV community just outside of Hinesville, from the moment Roberta first brought me there. I’d met some great people whom I’d formed friendships with. Of course, it turned out those people were all friends of mine in childhood, hence the instant connection I felt with them, and as my memories had started to return, I’d realized just how close-knit a group we all were. The thought of going back there, among people who I shared such a history and kindship with after being so lonely for so long…well, I could think of much worse prospects.
“What do you say?” I nudged Phillip with an elbow. “Should we get a trailer and hitch it at the Wolfden?”
“I’d be just fine with that,” Phillip responded easily.
“You’d live in a trailer in dry, dusty South Georgia?” I asked incredulously. “A rich and famous rock star like you?”
“In a heartbeat,” he said with a smile. “Why wouldn’t I? As long as I’ve got you, I’m happy. Plus, I like it here.”
It appeared I wasn’t the only one who felt a genuine kinship with the Wolfden. I leaned forward and kissed Phillip on the lips, beaming.
“Ugh, y’all are gross,” Burt said, smiling. Then her dour face was back. “We’ll work out the logistics of the big move later, though. I wasn’t kidding about the vacation, Stormy. We need to get down to Florida. Quick.”
I sighed, tracing circles of condensation on the table. “Right. This is about my dad, I assume…?”
“Yes,” Roberta said. “We’ve had…some news.” She turned to my mom, biting her lip. “Laureen, did you want to…?”
“What is it?’ I demanded, my mouth going dry.
Mom looked down at her lap for a moment, a gesture I’d come to associate with her now-sober state. It seemed she did that when she was gathering courage to talk about something difficult. She looked up at me, her face pale. “Stormy, honey…they’ve…they’ve found a body.”
“What? Who has?” I asked though I already knew.
Her face was ashen. “It was in the wreckage at your father’s house.”
“Is it Daddy?” I gripped the table, hard enough for my knuckles to go white. Phillip’s arm was around me in a flash.
“We don’t know,” Mom said. A wave of relief crashed over me, followed by a smaller wave of hope, hope that it could be somebody, anybody else. “They can’t, um, they can’t identify the remains…they were too burned…it’s going to take a few days. You know, DNA testing and all…” She took a long gulp of her Shirley Temple, seemingly unable to continue. I was so distracted I’d never even seen the drinks arrive.
“What else do we know?” Phillip asked Roberta, his arm around me tight, holding me up, which was a good thing, because I felt so woozy I thought I might faint dead away right there at the table.
“Pretty much nothing,” Roberta answered. “We only know about the body because Dee called Laureen and asked you guys to come.”
“That’s interesting,” Phillip said. His voice had gone all business, and I loved him for it. I could barely think straight. “That the current wife would call the ex-wife and ask something like that. You’d think she’d let the police do it.”
“From what I, um, what I gather, the police aren’t being much help,” Mama replied, her voice wavering, as though she were fighting back tears. “I was surprised she called me too, but I’m glad she did. The police are investigating, but they aren’t looking at this as anything but an accident, a run-of-the-mill house fire. They don’t seem to think it was arson. Dee suspects otherwise. She thinks someone set the fire deliberately. She’s scared whoever did it might come for her and the little one. And she wants us down there for when they identify the body.” Mama reached forward and touched my hand. “So if it is Chad”—her voice broke—“we’ll be there to find out.”
“I guess that’s kind of Dee,” I said because I didn’t know what else to say.
“Yes,” Mama said. It appeared she didn’t either.
“So when should we head out?” Roberta asked softly.
“When did I say I was going?” I asked, sitting up.
“What?” Mama looked at me in surprise. “Honey, I know all this has been hard, but he’s your father. We can’t just stay here and do nothing.”
“Why not?” I asked. “Let the police identify the body, and once we know, we know. If it’s not him, we can determine that something is up, and cross that bridge when we come to it. But if it is him, well…” I shrugged, briefly looking down at my water glass. “We can move on.”
“Stormy!” Mama’s voice was a breathless, shocked whisper.
“This has been really hard on her, Laureen,” Burt explained, though her dark brown eyes gave away her disappointment in me. “It’s no wonder she doesn’t want to get involved, is it?”
“She’s been really obtuse about going down there for days,” Phillip said, and I cut him a dirty look. “She knows she’s the key to all this…this madness.”
“Yeah, and I’m sick of it.” My voice came out sullen and angry. “And you can all stop talking about me as if I’m not here. I am sick of it, all of it. Every time one stupid obstacle is out of the way, here comes another. Y’all expect me to just wave my magical fingers—which I still don’t even know how to properly do, by the way—and make all the big, bad problems just disappear, and nobody understands that I don’t want to! ”
“I do understand,” Roberta said, reaching across the table and putting her hand over mine. “It’s bullshit, Stormy. We all know that, and we know you want to go back to your life. Of course you do! But we can’t just stand by while your father is missing. It might be related to everything else that’s happened…You won’t be going in alone; you have all of us at the Wolfden, and Phillip, and your mom, too—all of us backing you. And we won’t ever let you go in alone. Not ever again. I promise.” Her eyes were pleading with me.
“Are you offering to form a coven with me?” I asked with a slow, silly smile.
She looked surprised. “Haven’t we done that already?” She squeezed my hand. “Why else would I be here, offering to help you find your father?”
Tears sprang to my eyes. Not wanting to appear emotional, I busied myself with grabbing a breadstick from the basket the waitress sat down on our table. As she took our orders—I ordered the decadent lemon hazelnut pasta I’d been dreaming about, Burt ordered eggplant parmigiana, and both Phillip and my mother ordered steaks—I was grateful for the moment it gave me to gather my thoughts, to control my feelings, and to decide what to do.
I’d only been down to see my father, Dee, and Shably once since he’d moved to Panama City Beach. It hadn’t been for his lack of trying. He’d called to invite me to pretty much every holiday since I’d been married to Tess. So had Mom, if I was giving credit where it was due, though she’d always been drunken and slurring as she made grand promises about the meals she’d cook and what a good time we’d have. Tess’ father was long dead, and his mother had no real interest in him after she remarried and moved to Oregon, so he had missed the family dynamic and had gotten along famously with my mother. He’d never found her drunken rambling or chaotic life to be a real bother, despite my constant embarrassment. He’d had a slightly more aloof, cool relationship with my father, but he’d genuinely liked him too.
“We all had shitty childhoods. You can get over it and be an adult, or you can wear it as armor the rest of your life,” Tess had said once, cracking open a Natty Light. “Ain’t no question, if you ask me.”
It was one of many things Tess had said to me over the years that, while technically right, had been an asshole thing to say.
I could make amends with my mom. As a kid, she’d neglected me, but I’d always known she loved me. And after Daddy left, we’d tried to patch our relationship, even before she’d quit drinking. Now, knowing that she’d gotten sober and seeing her put everything into helping Roberta and me, I was certain she’d never given up on her devotion to me. She’d just been sick, that was all.
Daddy, though, was another story. He’d shown little interest in me from the very beginning. I had no memories of him teaching me to ride a bike, or taking me fishing, or watching morning cartoons with bowls of cereal in our laps. He had not accompanied me to father-daughter dances or taken me out for ice cream. The only real memories I had were of him sitting on our worn couch, watching football or wrestling. Many a night, I’d sat watching WWF or WCW, all the wrestlers I’d come to know as pseudo-celebrities: Sting, Hulk Hogan, Ric Flair, Macho Man Randy Savage. I’d watched, pretending not to realize it was all a “work,” and even as a kid, I had given those guys credit for the sheer amount of choreography and artistry that went into faking such a sport. But it hadn’t really been my thing, at least not at first. I’d done it for my dad. So we would have something to share.
Dad loved his wrestling. Those were really the only outings he’d ever taken Mama and me on, wrestling at the flea market. Which, incidentally, was where I’d first seen Benny, a memory I had only recently uncovered. But even those excursions were few and far between.
Most of the time, he had been parked in the living room, blitzed, zoning out as if the TV were a spaceship that might suck him from the atmosphere. The few times he did leave, he’d stay gone for hours or even days at a time. I found out in adulthood that he’d been out on benders, cheating on my mother with anything that moved. She’d told me recently that he’d even had a woman on the side who lived right under our noses in the same trailer park as us.
Daddy had very little interest in his daughter, but that was almost welcome, considering how he treated my mother. He’d looked at her like she was a fly buzzing around his head that he couldn’t wait to swat out of existence. He’d verbally abused her for my entire childhood, calling her awful names, telling her she was ugly, she was fat, she stunk, that her drinking would put her in an early grave. He told her she’d lost her looks and that no other man would ever want her. And I’d been there to hear it all. Just my father, staring into the TV as though he could will himself into it, casually hurling abuse at my mother. That had been my normal.
Folks were always coming over in those days – usually some ne’er-do-well who looked worse for wear, unwashed and rude, sitting on our couch, waiting as my father doled out whatever they were buying in little knock-off brand plastic baggies. Elvin was one of those people. His dealings with my father birthed the arrangement that caused my entire undoing. Everything, including whatever I was now—a witch, I supposed—and everything that had happened, then and now, ,my meeting Phillip; all of it was orchestrated by some long-ago arrangement that my father had made with Elvin. All to get cheaper weed. All to feed a high that never seemed to satisfy him, to try and escape from a life of his own creation.
I never knew whether Daddy had invited me down so many times because he was genuinely contrite and wanted to make amends for my childhood, or if he just wanted to show off his new life—his pretty, much-younger trophy wife and his beautiful baby daughter who was everything I’d never been. Simply so he could play pretend at a family life that we’d never had. Neither option appealed to me. I wasn’t interested in making amends. If Daddy felt bad about the way he’d treated Mom and me, that was his business. Let him work it out with a therapist or live with the guilt; I owed him nothing. And if he just wanted to show off and play the big family man to feed his own ego, well, I obviously wasn’t on board.
I was a grown woman now, and I’d seen my share of heartbreak. I’d made many mistakes, all of them born from the trauma I’d experienced as a kid. I just wanted to move on; why was that so hard? Why did my past keep trying to drag me back?
I realized everyone was staring at me. I’d been sitting there, lost I thought, holding my food in mid-air for who knows how long. I dipped the crunchy breadstick into a dish of olive oil sprinkled with fresh basil and nibbled on the end. Pure heaven, but I felt like hell. “I hate this,” I said finally, chewing. “I just fucking hate it. You know?”
“I know.” Roberta’s expression was sympathetic.
She did know. Burt’s own father was much worse. I sighed.
Her soft brown eyes were kind and full of empathy, probably more than I deserved. I was being a total brat. “Once it’s all over, it will be well and truly over forever, Stormy,” she assured me. “We just have to like, get these last few ducks in a row. I know it. I feel it. And then we can go back to our life at the Wolfden. All of us. I promise.”
“Are you sure that’s a promise you can keep?” I asked.
She nodded. “There aren’t many people I would swear to, but I’m swearing it to you right now. We’re going to end this shitty, terrible situation once and for all. Close the chapter on our shitty childhoods. Finito. So what do you say? Are you on board?”
I stared at her for a moment, Phillip’s warm, strong arm a constant presence around my shoulder, buoying me. God, I loved him so much. I thought for a moment, still chewing.
“Let’s say we go down,” I said, Roberta’s shoulders dropping in relief. “What are we going to do? The local police are investigating his disappearance and the fire, and even if Dee thinks they’re doing a subpar job, we can’t just take over. How are we realistically going to help?”
“I figured we’d talk to the locals first,” Roberta explained. “Benny knows a couple of people who live in Panama City just over the bridge from the beach. We can connect with them, start asking around, see if anyone knows of your dad, knows of any of the stuff he was involved in. We’ll keep our eyes and ears open. Just hang around and…see.” She swallowed, then continued. “While we wait for them to identify…the body.”
I took a sip of my wine and, with my other hand under the table, squeezed Phillip’s. He squeezed it back immediately, making me feel better. “So what are the chances that ol’ Uncle Elvin has something to do with this?”
Roberta looked at me strangely. “My dad’s dead, Stormy.”
“I know,” I said, staring right back at her. “But dead people don’t always stay dead. This lunk of meat right here is your proof.” I nudged Phillip’s sturdy frame with my shoulder and blew him a kiss. He responded by flipping me off before breaking a breadstick in half and shoveling it into his mouth. “God, you’re classy.” Now that I’d stopped fighting everyone and agreed to go to PCB, I felt much, much lighter. Funny, that.
“I watched as they buried him,” Roberta said in a low voice. She clearly didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t blame her. Her feelings for her father were very complicated, and she’d been through so much worse than I had, and only a few short days ago. I’d never get the image of Roberta, tied up on a dirty couch, her face streaked with tears, out of my head. “I made sure. Damn sure. He was in that casket when it was lowered into the ground. And I stayed to watch the dirt get dumped in. So unless some graverobber came and dug him back up, Elvin is gone. For good.”
“Okay,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Roberta waved that away, taking a sip of her own wine, appearing thoughtful. “But you know…Elvin and Guthrie weren’t the only ‘bad guys,’ Stormy. We’re talking almost twenty years of their dealings. They had associates all over the place. Guys like Shank and Tess who were on Guthrie’s payroll. Thugs, basically. Who’s to say one of them hasn’t cropped back up and is trying to exact a little revenge?”
“But what purpose would that serve?” I asked. “It seems like with both Guthrie and Elvin being gone, they’d just scatter.”
“No,” Roberta said. “When you cut down a weed, another one just grows to take its place.”
As she said the words, a person in the back of the restaurant, loitering in the hall near the bathrooms, caught my eye. He was tall and thin, almost underweight, with a shock of greasy, burgundy hair falling down over one eye and large gauges in his ears. He looked out of place in his Hawaiian shirt and cargo pants. He was looking intently at me, but when he noticed me looking back, he darted into the men’s bathroom. I stared at the closing door for a moment, then shook it off. I was seeing spooks everywhere, and likely, it all meant nothing.
“But why ?” I asked Roberta, turning back to the conversation. “Why here; why now? Why would an outsider care about Guthrie and Elvin? I mean, magic is kind of a niche interest. Not your everyday mob stake.”
“It’s not just about the magic, honey,” Mama spoke up, her voice quiet. She was holding onto her Shirley Temple glass so tightly it looked as though it might shatter in her hand. “It’s never been just about that.”
“What?” This was news to me. “What do you mean?”
“Elvin and Guthrie loved magic shit, sure,” Roberta explained. “As fanatical as they were, that was just their private hobby; it wasn’t their business . Their ‘organization,’ if you wanna call it that…” Roberta sounded matter-of-fact. “…it’s always been about drugs.”
“Oh.” Of course. I’d never even thought of it, but it was the logical explanation, one that I should have put together a long time ago. Elvin’s whole preoccupation with my magic had been mainly just about him and his own weird, kooky obsessions. But the business that he and Guthrie—and Lee and Shank and Tess and Sloan and everyone else in between—had been in was just normal, run-of-the-mill drugs. Had I really been so arrogant to assume it was all about me, about some dumb magic? For god’s sake, I had known all along that Guthrie was originally Phillip’s dealer—that’s how they’d met in the first place. “Well, I feel dumb.”
“Oh, give yourself a break,” Roberta said. “You’ve barely had time to think. There’s still a lot to fill you in on. Twenty years’ worth, give or take.” She crunched on another breadstick. “We can talk more on the trip. Since y’all are going?” Her large brown eyes were full of empathy and hope, but a fiery determination burned there too. This trip was about more than just helping me. It was Roberta’s way of exacting justice, of making things right. For all of us.
I sighed.
I looked at Phillip. His face gave nothing away, but a familiar flash of his eyes and another quick squeeze under the table told me all I needed to know. He was leaving it up to me, but he wanted to go. Phillip Deville would never, ever, opt out of such an opportunity.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the waitress making her way back to our table, her tray loaded with our meals. My stomach rumbled painfully. “Maybe I’m just saying this because I want to shovel that pasta in my face and stop talking about this shit,” I said with a dry chuckle. “And I’m sure I’ll regret it later, but…fuck it. We’re in.” I turned to Phillip with a goofy smile. “I guess we’re going to Florida?”
“I love the beach.” Phillip shrugged, holding up his hand to make the devil sign beloved by metalheads everywhere. Then, with a sly grin, he let his thumb pop out, wiggling his hand to make a hang ten, laughing uproariously at my grimace.