Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
CHARLOTTE (NOW)
When I push inside the pawn shop, a computerized doorbell chimes from the back.
It’s a narrow space, cramped with junk of all types.
A glass counter runs along the right wall, containing antique coins, all manner of rings, and watches.
Above, from metal hooks in the pegboard wall, hang purses, artwork, a neon sign that reads “Life Is Good” in hot pink.
Dangling from the ceiling are a giant antler chandelier, a disco ball, and a gaudy, oversized fixture of white glass beads that would be at home in a Vegas casino.
The floor is cramped with boxes, some opened, some not.
On the left is a rack of women’s clothing, a shelf of designer shoes, and above it, musical instruments hang by their necks on the pegboard.
“Help you?” a man’s raspy voice calls from the shadows, making my skin jolt.
I give him a glance. He’s got thin reddish hair and a long, scraggly beard. His giant belly stretches his faded red T-shirt and his bare, fleshy arms are decorated with tattoos, the story they tell faded, almost warped.
Morgan’s guitar and violin are not on the wall, so I approach the man. “I’m looking for something you may have bought recently. ”
His beady dark eyes narrow. “You some kinda cop?”
“No.”
He clucks his tongue. “Afraid I can’t help you then.”
“I only need to know if the items passed through here.” I shake my head to clear the frustration already building inside me. “Not who sold or bought them.”
He crosses his arms. “What’s it worth to ya?”
“Excuse me?” I grit out.
A low chuckle rumbles up his throat. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
I hold back from begging. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s how to play the cards that I’m dealt. “It’s against the law to buy stolen goods, right?”
He grunts.
“I’ll make you a deal. If the items I’m looking for turn out to be stolen, I’ll put in a good word for you with the police.”
He rolls his eyes. “How about you do a little shopping first? I got some nice purses. Shoes.” He glances at the ceiling. “Maybe you’d like a little home décor?”
“Or I could tip off the police that you’re buying stolen goods from drug dealers.”
He flashes his palms. “Whoa there. Don’t be stirrin’ up shit that don’t need to be stirred.”
I cross my arms and tuck my shaking fingers out of sight. “What’ll it be?”
The man’s purplish lips purse for a moment. “What were they?” he says on a sigh.
I pull out my phone and open it to the picture I’d saved. “A Martin D-28, and a Holstein Bench Strad violin.” Saying these words aloud—here, of all places—is like chewing glass.
The man frowns. “Violin? Nah. Don’t remember that. The guitar though…” He shifts to the corner of the glass case and wiggles the mouse attached to an ancient computer and grimy keyboard.
My breath feels too fast in my throat as he scrolls with the mouse, his beady eyes focused on his screen. “A Martin D-28,” he says slowly. “Nope.”
“What about a trumpet?”
He arches his eyebrow at me. “Sounds like a band breakup gone wrong.”
I keep my gaze firm and steady.
He sighs and returns to his computer. Scrolls a little more. Types something. “Nope.”
I’m torn. If the instruments came through here, then I have a chance at tracking them down and getting them back.
Now there’s only one person I can turn to, but I don’t have any idea how to find him, and even if I did, confronting him alone would be unsafe.
R.J. took advantage of my sister, ushering her right off the edge without so much as a second thought, and I’m sure he wouldn’t think twice about hurting me too.
It makes me feel useless that I can’t help Zach bring this crook to justice.
Is this what William felt back then? Sometimes my rage is dormant, like a snake in hibernation. Other times it’s so hot and sharp I can’t breathe.
Because of my work, I keep business cards handy at all times, and dig one out of my purse. You never know when you might land the gig of your life. “If those items come in, I need you to call me.”
The man glances at the card I place on the glass. “Uh huh.”
“I’ll buy them all back at whatever price you deem fair, no questions asked.”
This gets one of his eyebrows twitching.
“Thanks for your time.” I turn for the door.
I wait until I’m in my car with the doors locked before I exhale my anxiety in one full gush of breath, folding over the steering wheel.
When I pull away from the curb, I call the Finn River Sheriff’s Department, then ask for Deputy Zach Hayes.
He answers in his cop voice.
“Zach, it’s Charlie.”
“Hey,” he replies. “Everything okay? ”
There’s no quick answer to this, so I skip it. “I just left the Pinedale Pawn Shop. I’m trying to track down something that my sister may have sold or lost.”
“Ah.” In the background, a door clicks shut. “Didn’t find it?”
“No.”
“Is it pushing my luck to ask if you’ve questioned R.J. Feldman?”
“You think he’s connected to these items?”
“I think R.J. may have taken them as a trade. Or…just taken them.”
“Huh.”
He hasn’t answered my question, which is information in itself. “Just…if you should happen to come across an expensive violin, guitar, or a trumpet, I’d do just about anything to get them back.”
“How expensive are we talking?”
“My trumpet is more sentimental. But the Holstein goes for about four grand. The Martin a little less.”
He whistles. “You played trumpet, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” A part of me hoped I’d play it again someday.
“All right. I’m texting you my work email. Send me any details you have. Pictures too.”
“Okay. Thanks, Zach.”
“You bet.” I think he’s going to end the call when he adds. “Any chance you’ve come across Morgan’s phone?”
“Is it missing?” I wish I could take the words back because duh . My internal alarm starts humming. What does Zach want with Mo’s phone? “I’ll have a look.”
“Appreciate it. How’s Morgan doing?”
“She’s hanging in there.” I know this is my broken-record answer, but it’s true, and nobody wants the full story.
Though…I’m not being fair. Zach would listen.
Sofie would too. I rub my forehead, because the list is much bigger than that.
Rowdy and Jesse. Wren and Emmie. The Huttons. And of course, William.
It’s me. Hi. I’m the problem.
But I can’t hurt them again .
“That’s good to hear,” Zach says, breaking the spell of longing in my chest. “If there’s anything we can do, please let us know?”
A soft warmth has begun to glow inside me. When I fell in love with William, I fell for his family too, and I’ve missed their kindness. Especially in moments like this. “You’re doing it.”
“See you Sunday?” he asks. “Dinner at our place.”
That hit of warmth morphs to anxiety. “Oh, um…”
“Everyone’s excited to see you,” he adds.
Stepping further into Zach and William’s circle feels risky, but I force in a steadying breath. It’s just dinner. My suddenly eager stomach perks up. “I’ll be there.”
We end the call just as I turn into Evergreen Hospital’s entrance. After parking on the second level by the skybridge, I type out an email to Zach with my best pictures of Morgan’s violin, guitar, and my trumpet, plus the details he asked for, then head inside to visit Mo.
When I enter the lounge area and head for the table with the Christmas stamp puzzle, I’ve barely begun testing pieces when a tall woman walks toward me. She’s wearing gray slacks and a pink silk shell with an off-white cardigan.
“Charlotte?” she asks, her serious eyes steady on mine.
I jump up. “Did something happen?”
She gives me a reassuring smile. “Everything is fine.” She extends her hand. “I’m Dr. Shreve.”
When we shake, her skin is smooth and warm. I try to lean into the possibility that she’s trustworthy. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. I thought, since Morgan is still in group, you and I could talk?”
“Oh, sure.”
Dr. Shreve turns and leads me down a short hallway lined with closed doors, each with a slider indicating “IN SESSION.” Behind a few of them come the whir of a white noise machine to mask the evidence of whatever emotional turmoil is going on inside.
I force down a swallow .
Dr. Shreve leads me into a square room with a window at the back, high up enough to give a view only of trees and blue sky.
Sunlight streams in, making the pale yellow walls, soft fabric couch, and wingback chair feel welcoming.
There’s a simple wood desk and chair and shelves at the back, with a laptop on the desk and a coffee cup.
Along the left wall is a small cart with mugs, boxes of tea, and a sugar bowl.
The top of the neighboring mini fridge houses the water boiler and a coffee pot.
“Can I get you coffee or tea? Water?”
“Tea sounds great, actually.” If nothing else, to warm my chilled fingers. And to give them something to do besides fidget.
Dr. Shreve’s movements aren’t hurried, and I let myself relax a little on the couch while I wait. That she’s not harried by an overcrowded schedule is another reminder of the quality patient care at Jackson.
Dr. Shreve brings two mugs to the coffee table and sets one close to me, then lowers into the wingback chair with hers.
Because her short hair is mostly gray, I had placed her in her mid-fifties, but up close, there’s a youthfulness to her face and a grace in her movements that makes me think early forties, tops.
“Do you have any questions for me?” she asks, bringing her mug to her lips.
Asking how much longer Morgan will be here sounds insensitive. “I know you can’t tell me specifics, but…is she doing okay?”
“She is engaged and willing,” Dr. Shreve replies. “Good signs. As you know, progress isn’t linear.”
I lift my tea to my lips and blow across the top before taking a small sip. “Is there anything else I can do to support her?”
“Morgan shared that you’re helping with the horses she cares for. And that you brought some of her things.”
“I’ve started cleaning her place too.” I sip from my tea again. “I do...worry about the, um, cost of treatment.”
“Would you like me to have our billing department contact you? I do know that her care has been covered. ”
I glance up from my mug. “Covered?”
She gives me an apologetic smile. “Our billing department can give you specifics.”
Unease heats low in my belly like the beginning of a cramp. “All right.”
Dr. Shreve nods, like we’ve settled something. “Charlotte, Morgan reacted to something yesterday, and I wonder if you can shed some light on it for me.”
“I’ll try.”
“Before I get ahead of myself, I need you to know that Morgan signed a release of information that allows me to share this with you.”
It must be something pretty big if I’m getting the privacy clause warning. I wish I knew what Dr. Shreve expects in return. “Understood.”
“She was in the day room, and the windows were open. I wasn’t there but apparently there was music coming in from the parking area. Morgan had a strong reaction to it. Can you think of why?”
I sip from my tea but I go for too big of a gulp and the hot liquid scalds my throat. “Do you know what the music was?”
Her eyes turn serious. She stands up and walks to her desk, then brings me a piece of paper. “It was this one.”
The song title is written in slanted printing. I set my tea down and pretend to study it while my stomach drops.
“What kind of reaction?” I force myself to meet her gaze.
Dr. Shreve’s eyes turn earnest. “She slammed one of the windows so hard it shattered, followed by a very strong stress response.”
Shit . “I wish I could help you.” And I do. But I can’t.
Dr. Shreve’s eyes fix on mine. Seconds pass, but I don’t say more, and neither does she.
Twenty minutes later, when Morgan comes into the day room, I’m still sorting Christmas puzzle pieces, my mind numb.
My sister’s eyes are red and she looks wrung out. I stand and she hurries over, letting me wrap her in my arms.
“I told them,” she whispers between her silent sobs. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t feel like practicing, but I head to Crosby’s studio and commit myself to the three hours I’ve set aside.
I have my audition pieces memorized. My first solo comes from Mozart’s Concerto No.
4, and the second, my favorite, is from Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
There are eight orchestra excerpts too, but these are less familiar so I set up the sheet music on the stand.
I also may be asked to sight read, so I’ve been choosing some random pieces to test myself.
But the moment I cradle my violin, the familiar cool wood against my skin and the tight press of the strings beneath my calloused fingertips only sharpens my swirling thoughts. I manage a quick tuning, then run through my scales to warm up, my muscle memory taking over.
But Morgan’s words rise through the vibrations.
I told them. I’m sorry.
I beg the music to help me forget. For the powerful vibrations to wrap my heart in safety the way it always has. For the earthy scent of resin and the friction from my bow against the taut strings to help me transcend the sense of shame and regret.
But it’s like the vigor of my notes only makes the emotions build inside me. Tears sting my nose and prick my eyes.
Shut inside my borrowed room, I don’t bother to hold them back.