Chapter Nineteen
Harrington Cabin
Jill stared blearily at the coffeepot’s slow drip, drip, drip. She usually chose tea in the afternoon, but she hadn’t slept last night, and she was dragging.
Just as she’d been about to doze off last night, she’d heard a voice. Faint, but definitely someone speaking. It had scared the life out of her, but considering she was the only full able-bodied person in the house, she’d had to jump into action.
God, she hadn’t wanted to. She’d wanted to pull the covers over her head and hope it all just went away.
Instead, she’d crept out of her bedroom and flipped on the hallway light, only to realize the muffled sound was … coming from Grandma’s room. Terror had jolted her down the hall. If someone was talking, someone was in Grandma’s room. Because Grandma didn’t talk.
Even though Jill had never heard her grandmother speak, there was something about the low, raspy voice that had her holding her breath as she’d inched the bedroom door open. She’d told herself it had to be an intruder.
Something deep inside of her had known better in that moment.
In the dim light from the hall into the room, she could make out her grandmother’s mouth moving. Glenda’s eyes had been closed. Her body still.
Grandma had been talking. Actual talking. In her sleep, sure, but sounding out actual words. For a moment, Jill had thought she’d been hallucinating. Or maybe having a dream.
But it had been very, very real.
Sleep talking made some sense, since Grandma wasn’t conscious she was doing it, but Jill telling herself that still hadn’t settled the insistent beating of her heart. She’d stood there and tried to listen to whatever Grandma was saying over the echoing in her ears.
Most of the words were gibberish—actual words but not strung together in a way that made sense. Jill thought maybe she’d heard Grandma say Marie, but then she’d talked herself out of that. Grandma was just … sleep mumbling about birds or flowers or both.
Jill had stood there, not quite sure what to do. Should she wake Grandma and try to get her to talk? Accept that in sleep her grandmother’s trauma might not have as much of a hold as it did when awake?
Not that in three years of living here Jill had heard her grandma speak, even in sleep.
It reminded her of this summer, when Cal had said she’d been humming. But Grandma had been awake then, aware of what she was doing in a way. And humming was different than talking. Humming was just a noise. Talking was words.
Eventually, Grandma had quieted down and Jill had tiptoed back to her own bedroom, but she hadn’t been able to fall back asleep. Her mind had whirled, and that old hope she’d thought she’d finally given up on tried to sprout.
That there was some cure for what Grandma had gone through. That Jill could reach her. Somehow. Someway.
But Jill had brought it up to Grandma in the morning, that hope a hard, heavy thing in her throat.
Grandma had just shrugged. Just like when Jill had asked about Grandma’s meeting with the detective. Just like everything of importance.
A shrug. A brush-off. Jill felt like everything she’d built here after three years was crumbling. Her grandmother had always been a little mysterious, but ever since last spring she’d gotten more and more…
Jill didn’t even know. That was how cut off she felt.
“You’re just upset because you’re sleep deprived,” she muttered to herself.
She was always a little emotionally unsteady after a night without sleep. It was natural, and no time to make declarations or decisions. Tomorrow she’d … feel better, get a handle on this.
The coffee was done brewing, but before Jill could pour herself a mug, a knock sounded on the door. Jill just sighed.
Random knocks in the middle of the day were almost becoming par for the course.
She dreaded them, but they didn’t frighten her anymore.
She really hoped it wasn’t the detective again though.
Jill was afraid she’d just … break down and cry if it was.
Either way, she was glad Grandma was out back filling her birdfeeders so Jill could get a handle on whatever this was before Grandma had to deal.
Jill crossed to the door and opened it. “Oh. Hi, Cal.” It was relief and concern all at the same time.
Not the detective, thank God, but why would Cal be here? Alone? She looked around him, but didn’t see anyone else even though Aly’s truck was parked next to hers.
“Hey. I guess I should have called. I wasn’t … thinking everything through.”
He just looked so awful. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. The other two Bennet brothers were so … contained and stoic. Cal could employ a certain level of … slick lawyer, she’d call it. But less and less so as time went on.
Kind of like her trust and relationship with Grandma was crumbling, Cal himself seemed to be crumbling. It just made her feel depressed and like crying all over again.
“Come inside,” Jill said, shaking herself out of a clearly sleep-deprived malaise. “Is everything okay?”
He nodded, but he stepped into the cabin. “I wanted to sit down with Glenda for a bit. That okay?”
“Sure. Sure. Did you not have court today?”
“Landon and Aly went, but I decided to sit today out. I, uh, probably have to be called up to the stand next week, so everyone thought a little break would be good for me.”
Yeah, from the looks of Cal, he probably needed a break. Still, she couldn’t help but ask… “And that’s when they’ll introduce Grandma’s statement? After your testimony?”
“That’s my understanding.”
Jill kind of wanted to be there for that. And kind of didn’t. She didn’t want Grandma to be there for it though, so that meant she’d be here. Sitting. Waiting.
Driving herself crazy.
“She’s out filling the birdfeeders. I can go get her. Or, if you don’t mind waiting, you can just sit and have some coffee. She won’t be long.”
“Waiting is fine. Thanks.”
“Sure. Have a seat. You want anything in your coffee?”
“Black’s fine.”
She poured him a mug and doctored her own. Then she handed him his mug and slid into the only other seat at her tiny kitchen table. She knew she should say something, some kind of small talk conversation. Not the trial. Not anything revolving around murder. Maybe Aly and Landon’s wedding next year?
“You know, if you’ve got any more lawyer questions for your book, I can answer them,” he said, before she could think up anything positive to talk about.
It was a kind offer, and it made her smile. “Well, I really appreciate it. Really, but I think I got everything I needed. At least for the current book, and you were a big help. I’m almost done with it. Already thinking about the next.”
“What’s that one going to be about?”
Jill opened her mouth, but no words came out. The one she wanted to write next would not be the one she wrote next. The one she already had three chapters on wasn’t going anywhere. It was just for her because the idea wouldn’t let her go.
Because she hadn’t been able to resist putting words to an idea about someone with traumatic dissociative amnesia. She wasn’t going to send it to her agent. She wasn’t going to do anything with it. That would be crossing a lot of lines she knew were wrong.
But part of her needed to write bits and pieces, just to work through what she was witnessing.
But she wouldn’t … couldn’t do anything that might … hurt Cal. Or Aly. Or any of them. It would be wrong to use their horrible trauma as some kind of book fodder. So she had to put that idea away and focus on the one she’d send her agent.
Unfortunately, she had nothing for that one, and she was too tired to come up with a lie. “Well, it’s all bits and pieces,” she finally answered lamely.
“Let me guess. Something to do with traumatic dissociative amnesia?”
His tone was bitter, so she met his gaze. “No.” She said it firmly, because it was true. She felt guilty because it wasn’t off base.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Really. It’s not. I’m not saying it didn’t … cross my mind, that I don’t have ideas, but it feels predatory and gross. I don’t … I’m not trivializing what you went through by turning it into a book.”
“I’d think if you were a good writer, it wouldn’t be trivializing.”
Jill didn’t have anything to say to that right away. It was almost insulting. She had a sort-of successful-ish writing career. She was a good writer. But… “Are you making a case for me to write about your…”
He raised an eyebrow, and heat crept into her cheeks because she literally didn’t know how to finish that sentence. Your problem? Trauma? Mental health issue?
“Ask your questions, Jill. Really. If I don’t want to answer them, I’ll just say hard pass. Next. Go for it. Write about it. What the fuck do I care?”
Jill hesitated. It felt wrong, but he was telling her to, and the truth was … she didn’t have to use it. And even if she did use it, it wouldn’t be trivial, or like stealing from his life. It would be something totally different.
Because she was a good writer, damn it. He could always read it before she sent it anywhere. Veto it.
And he sat there, sipping his coffee, all detached kind of challenge. It was better than beat down, she thought. So why not lean into it?
“At some point, you became aware you didn’t remember this thing, after not even knowing there was something there to remember. How does it feel then? In that … in between?” Right after Cal had remembered, they’d all come to her cabin needing help.
There’d been a storm, so they’d all been wet and muddy and shell-shocked.
But none of them had anything on the shaking, pale mess Cal had been. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to get that memory out of her head, because she’d never seen someone look so utterly destroyed.
But she suspected there was something leading up to that. And that was what she wanted to delve into in her book that she probably wouldn’t write. But maybe … if he was okay with it, maybe.