Chapter 2
Chapter Two
________________
RAE LEE
“Are you sticking around?” Anson’s body covers mine. His nose travels the length of my clavicle, ending with a soft kiss he places on my shoulder.
The medal on the necklace he’s wearing is smooth. I play with the chain, swirling my fingers in the fine hair at the base of his skull.
We never left the couch. I’m not even fully naked. My rumpled skirt is flipped over my belly and my bralette is stretched out of place. My neck and left breast have beard burn, though there’s something soothing about the warm, firm skin of his bare pec that flattens my tit to my chest.
Pinned, I shrug in a “why not” manner.
Anson sits, pulls his boxers over his hips, and pads to the bathroom. After cleaning up, he stretches out beside me on his side, taking the spot on the sofa closest to the cushy pillow back. There’s not a lot of room for two people on the couch. He makes sure I’m comfortable on my back. Then he flips off the side lamp and drapes an arm over me.
Minutes later, Anson’s chest rises and falls in a soothing rhythm. However, I’m wide awake, trying not to fidget.
I don’t dislike being held afterward, but the awkwardness of staying until the sun rises and bumbling goodbyes aren’t enjoyable for anyone. I slide out from his embrace and grab my shirt from the floor.
“Where are you going?” His voice is sleep laden.
“Bathroom.” I slip my shirt on while tip-toeing towards the stairs, where I saw him go before. “Go back to sleep.”
Coming up short at the threshold to the kitchen, there is a blonde woman hovering inside the room. Her expression isn’t readable. At first glance, I thought she was content. But the jealousy emanating from her is undeniable.
“Oh, shit,” I gasp. Recognizing who she is, my fingers stretch out in front of me. “Angeline?” I whisper, but she’s gone.
I step into the kitchen, momentarily glad that Anson is a conscientious leave-a-light-on kind of guy. When I see the gold crest of his badge sitting on a laptop as quiet as a mouse, I decide to disappear, too.
I prefer quality friendships over quantity. The people who know the real Rae Lee are few. If anyone asked Layla, who I sent the selfie of Anson and me at Sweet Caroline’s to, she’d be the last to say I was reckless, especially not with my heart. Yet, she’d be the first to say my infrequent hookups with men—whom I don’t necessarily want to discuss world events over breakfast with—were cavalier. Hence, her insistence on an in-focus headshot to ensure my safety.
Though if she had to give the photo over to the police or pick the guy out in a line up, there’s probably not much hope for me, is there?
Failing to correct Anson when he misheard my name was foolhardy. In retrospect, I had a lot of audacity. Exactly whose eyes was I thinking I could pull the wool over on?
Besides mine.
I can’t blame the booze. And my resentment about not feeling normal won’t gain me sympathy when my hasty, but panty-melting amazing, fucking mistake figures out who I am.
Detective Anson Ames of the Brighton Police Department contacted me last week. I’ve assisted in a dozen cases in Eastern North Carolina but stopped years ago. Whether their duty is to remain impartial as they collect evidence or not, I don’t particularly like the suspicion I’m met with by the police. Not when they are the ones who seek me out, anyway. Just because skepticism is their job doesn’t mean I have to subject myself to it. Guarding not only my health, but my mental health in situations where grizzlier crimes have taken place takes precedence.
My abilities are no good to anyone if I’m run down. Opening up to the spirit world has lasting effects. It left me with medical diagnoses I wouldn’t wish upon my enemies—if I surrounded myself with adequate people outside of my small circle of friends to have any.
I’d broken my rule, refusing to get involved for two reasons. First, I’d consulted on a case with Angeline McCuller. At the time, she was with a neighboring police department and the viable leads were dwindling. She’d been scrupulous but kind. Quite honestly, everything about her mannerisms screamed of the golden rule.
It’s also why I somewhat forgive—and also don’t fully comprehend—her reaction to me earlier this morning. I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Angeline is protective of Anson. He identified her on the phone as a reliable friend. I got the sense he was devoted to her, or at least to honoring her memory.
Second, Detective Ames stated the victim’s family had pushed for a medium to get involved. I’m not interested in handing out a business card proffering my services and trying to pump up business. However, I’d question my own humanity if I didn’t have sympathy for people who believed you were their last-ditch effort to gain closure.
How can you say no to another human who has had the courage to hold onto hope in the bleakest of circumstances?
I walk the quiet downtown streets with my thumb poised over the emergency call button on my cell. My apartment isn’t far from Anson’s place. He lives in one of those shiny new live/work/play complexes that are all the rage. I live in the only loft unit on the second floor of an old mansion. It’s located in the historic district on the opposite side of the street and a few blocks down from the concert hall.
At home, the door bounces off of an unopened box of kitty litter. I shower, change, fall into bed and sleep until my alarm goes off past noon. I pour milk over a bowl of strawberry flavored shredded wheat, then sit alone at the small table, letting the biscuits go soggy. I throw them down the sink and flick on the loud garbage disposal, which eats my breakfast for me.
Stumbling back to the facilities, I accidentally—or intentionally—kick the bag of cat food that needs to go to the animal shelter. I stand under the shower stream. Hot tears of frustration trail down my cheeks. I wipe the snot from my nose. The water from my body. Finally, I slip into a professional black pencil skirt and scoop the tan and cream retro-style kitten heels with a buckle over the bridge of my foot from the pile of shoes by the door.
I don’t have a shoe rack. Sue me.
A blouse similar to what I wore last night finishes the ensemble. This time it’s sheer, buttoned to my throat with what your mother would call “appropriate” undergarments instead of ones that tempt a glance.
My phone with the constant low battery has enough juice to alert me that the rideshare I ordered is waiting outside. So that it doesn’t influence what I see, I’m kept in the dark about the places I visit. I tap the screen and show the driver a pdf I haven’t opened before listing the address I’m headed to.
The ride share driver stops a good ten miles away on a residential street. I recognize the other vehicle in front of the house as the same one I slid by while entering the condo past midnight. Detective Ames waits in the driver’s seat.
I don’t have much of a reputation, but as we both exit the cars we’ve traveled in, I can admit it’s tarnished.
Detective Ames clenches his jaw. If he bared his teeth, I’d expect him to snap and bite. “It’s you.”
I should hold out my hand, but I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear instead. “Yeah, me.” I sigh, ready to apologize. “I know this is unorthodox, but—”
“Which part exactly? Lying to me, or the charade you’re about to pull on the Turners?” His hands find his waist, pushing his sport coat behind his hips and revealing his holster. The motion pulls the fabric of his thin-striped plaid button-down taut.
I swallow both out of regret and lingering desire, remembering the breadth of his chest. Sun glints off his badge, which is affixed to his jeans. But the time to revel in his rugged good looks or the take-charge attitude that had increased my attraction to him once we were alone has passed. Anson Ames spits venom at me.
“You know what? It doesn’t matter. Let’s get this shit show over with. Do you want me to introduce you as Miss Chatham?”
“Rae Lee is fine.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he mutters, giving me his back. Detective Ames doesn’t wait, storming up the walkway towards the front door.
I follow with my eyes downcast, focusing on the worn spots on the underside of his loafers. As we approach the house, I release the barriers I’d held tightly to the previous evening. Opening my mind, I perceive everything Detective Ames brought me to this house in search of.
He rings the bell. An older couple answers the door. Detective Ames makes the briefest of introductions. I see matched skepticism to the detective’s etched on the Turners’ faces… And the underlying, unyielding hope that someday someone will provide them with answers.
I also see what they can’t.
The four of us enter the living room, but we aren’t alone. Unbeknownst to Susan Turner, a twelve-year-old girl sidles up next to her. The child clasps her hand around her mother’s forearm. Mrs. Turner frowns. Her opposite hand brushes the sensation away, and the girl takes a step back.
Sadness washes over me.
The fearful child is why I’m here. Sometimes, she cries when Mrs. Turner dismisses the attempts she makes to gain her mother’s attention.
I see something gray and sparkly and a brilliant white openness.
“Your daughter was named after a gem,” I blurt.
“Pearl.”
“That’s a beautiful name.”
“Thank you. It was my first husband’s mother’s. Am I allowed to tell you that?”
“Maybe stick to yes or no,” Detective Ames suggests kindly to Mrs. Turner. I receive a glare.
“That would be best,” I agree, pretending I’m oblivious to his ire.
“You and Pearl don’t use the same last name?”
“No.” Mrs. Turner looks at her husband, Harvey, desperate to elaborate.
“Do you have any other children?” Mr. Turner stands closer to me. I move, focusing the questions on Mrs. Turner.
“No.”
“Not for lack of trying.” Mr. Turner flashes me a grin that feels like I’ve gotten hit by a sledgehammer. My belly sinks and rolls. I’m nauseous as he hugs his wife from the side.
“Oh, good.” I bob my head, looking around the room.
“I had several… losses. After losing Pearl. Maybe I was just supposed to be her mom.” Mrs. Turner rests her head on Harvey’s shoulder. Her eyes brim with tears.
I’d express sympathy, but I don’t have the least bit of remorse, and Pearl isn’t sorry either.
I see the little girl age down. She’s seven or eight now, angrily sending her fist through Mrs. Turner’s lower gut. She tries to shove Mr. Turner out of the way. She fights him like an animal, clawing and punching.
Something skitters up my thigh, and my heart begins to race. Oh, this is not good.
“I gather you’re not Pearl’s father?”
“Her dad was my business partner. He died before Pearl vanished.”
Early death. Natural causes. Well, I mean, heart attacks aren’t classified as foul play, are they?
The hatred Pearl has for Harvey Turner surges over me and I wince.
“Would you… Could you leave for a few minutes, Mr. Turner? I’m sorry.” I apologize to Mrs. Turner out of politeness. “I’m—” I shake my head and push my palms to my cheeks. “I’m feeling a little distracted. As if the puzzle pieces I have need to be rotated around.” My fingers pinch into the ASL sign for more and twist. “They’re stuck.” And where I don’t know the exact reason I’m here other than the unmistakable—Pearl isn’t among the living. “Your husband can come back later.” Hopefully, when I’m gone.
Mr. Turner exits the room. I double over with nausea, grabbing my knees. The last thing I had in my stomach was beer. I probably should have choked down the cereal.
“Would you like to sit?” Detective Ames places a palm on my back and holds me steady by the arm. “We’d like to finish this today.” There’s no inflection in his voice, but the threat is obvious. Don’t play me for a fool again.
“I’ll be okay.” I breathe deeply, trying to center myself. I doubt breaking the news will come as a shock to Mrs. Turner. “Your daughter passed away when she was young.”
Mrs. Turner inhales sharply. Her lips pinch and her chin trembles. The news isn’t anything she hasn’t already accepted. Her grief washes over me. She removes a tissue from her pocket and wipes her nose and the tears trailing down her cheeks. “Yes,” she finally responds after composing herself.
“You never got her body back.” The statement feels obvious.
Pearl’s mother shakes her head back and forth, dabbing at her red eyes.
“Can you tell us anything about the night Pearl disappeared?” Detective Ames cuts to the chase.
“She says she left on a dare,” I wince, reaching up to clutch the side of my head. My left temple feels hot and prickly, like something is pouring down my face. My vision blurs on that side. I think it’s blood.