Voices Carry (Stowaway #1)

Chapter 1

One

Grady

“There is no friendship, no love, like that of the parent for the child.”

Henry Ward Beecher

“Maybe if you were nicer to her, she’d take you back,” my father says, for not the first nor tenth time.

“Again, Dad, I left Brenda. Not the other way around. I don’t want her to take me back.”

What I want is to see my daughter. Brenda won’t give me that without a battle since I didn’t give her everything she thinks she deserved in the divorce. Which would have been everything I have.

Dad wants the same—more time with Paige—even if it means putting up with my ex-wife. He doesn’t like her any more than I do.

“Well, maybe if you were nicer to her, she’d let you spend more time with Piglet.”

“Only if, by nicer, you mean giving her more money,” I mutter, looking out the front window when I hear a vehicle approach.

It’s late afternoon, the light beginning to die its daily death. Summer is coming, and soon, this time of day will be full of that bright orb we worship so much in the Pacific Northwest.

For now, we only dream of dry and bright as we fight the depression the gray, damp weather brings to so many of us. It never bothered me. My mom told me once that if we waited for the rain to stop, we’d never get anything done. I guess I embraced that.

“Is she still letting you have her over the summer when we come to visit?”

“That’s the deal we made. My attorney is adding that time to the revised custody agreement as a yearly nonnegotiable visitation.”

“Lawyers. Bunch of bloodsucking assholes,” he mutters before continuing his tirade about how he got screwed over by one, once, when he was trying to buy property in Eastern Washington.

The car passes my driveway, an older sedan with a dented front bumper and broken headlight, then pulls into the short one next door. My brow furrows as it sits idle in front of the garage.

“Are you listening, Grady?”

“Yeah, sorry,” I say distractedly. “Someone just pulled up to the Jackson house.”

“Juliet?”

“No, she’s still in Milan,” I say and shift to get a better view as the garage door opens and the car pulls in. “Besides, she wouldn’t be caught dead in a car older than a few years. And this one was rolled off the line decades ago, at least.”

The garage door shuts after the car is fully inside. A few minutes later, a glow comes from a light being turned on inside the house.

“Call the sheriff,” the old man says.

“I’ll try to get in touch with Juliet, first,” I tell him, scowling at the house across the way that is supposed to be empty. Or, at least, mostly has been since Irma Jackson died last year. She was the perfect neighbor.

A sweet old lady who took pity on me after I left Brenda. Irma made sure my refrigerator was always full of home-cooked meals and my cookie jar was always full of my daughter’s favorite treats.

Even though she was my mother’s best friend, she never asked anything of me.

I kept her lawn mowed and her apple trees pruned anyway.

It was the kind of peaceful give and take you hope for with neighbors.

Especially living outside of a small coastal town.

Ours are the only houses this far down the rural road.

We kept an eye out for each other. We were family.

Now, Irma’s granddaughter, Juliet, owns the house, but she hasn’t lived in it since we were teenagers. Technically, she lives in Portland, but her office is mostly hotel rooms around the world.

“Be careful,” he says, losing some of his normal grumpiness in favor of concern.

“I will, Dad. Talk to you soon. Say hi to Mom for me.”

Juliet doesn’t always answer quickly, since she’s often halfway across the globe.

But I type a text to her, then grab the two salmon burger patties that I had prepped before Dad called to make sure I’m still alive.

We normally talk every few days, but it’s been a busy week, and time got away from me.

Stowaway is a quiet town, other than when the summer tourists move in. As one of only three EMTs and firefighters the county has on payroll for this area, summer is the only time I’m very busy.

This week, however, was unusually active.

It happens, especially with mostly elderly full-time residents.

We had three calls to the assisted living facility, a fire at the Redding farm, and, weirdly, five separate calls for animals getting out of their paddocks.

Twice cows, once goats, once chickens, and once the exotic peacocks that Mrs. Crayborne breeds.

That falls in our jurisdiction only because we don’t have much of a police force here, either.

We all work together to take care of the community however we can.

Including finding wayward animals because teenagers think it’s funny to let them loose.

Or that’s what we assume is happening, anyway.

Out on the back deck, I check to make sure the barbecue is at temperature, then throw the patties on, satisfied with the audible sizzle.

Popping the cap on a bottle of beer, I take a seat at one of the chairs around the outdoor dining set.

I bought this before the dining room table when I moved out here after the divorce.

Truth be told, I’d rather do everything outside. Eat, sleep, whatever. Paige is the same way; she inherited that trait from me. Her mother, my ex-wife, considers staying in a three-star hotel too primitive for her. She’d never dare sleep outside.

Brenda wasn’t always that way. I don’t know exactly when the change happened, but somewhere along the way, her personality shifted.

Mom thinks this is who Brenda always was, and that she pretended to like the things I did to get close to me.

It seems like that could be the case, but I’ll never understand why.

It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway. I forgive her for all her faults for the sake of our daughter. I didn’t always, but life is short, and I don’t want to waste any more of it by being angry at her.

If only she felt the same.

The ocean is a slow rumble, even though the house is set far back on the beach.

It’s almost a half mile of gently sloped dunes between my back door and the waves.

Yet, it’s not loud enough to hide the unusual voice from next door.

A woman’s voice barely carries over the fence line that separates the two homes.

It’s not loud enough for me to understand.

Just enough of an intrusion of what my normal evening soundtrack is.

My curiosity tries to tempt me closer to it to get a peek at this stranger in my childhood friend’s house. I want to interrogate the woman like I’m some dominant alpha ready to piss all over his property.

Except that’s not my property, and she obviously had a way into the house.

Strange that Juliet didn’t let me know to expect someone, though. She has always told me if she or a friend was coming to stay in the house before.

The voice quiets, and I hear the back door shut moments before my cell vibrates in my pocket.

Juliet:

Hey, yeah, sorry. Everything happened very quickly, but my friend, Lou, will be staying there. Indefinitely. Not my story to tell, but please keep an eye on her.

Me:

Will do. Should I go over and introduce myself?

Juliet:

Probably not a good idea. I did tell her to ask you if she needs help with anything, though.

Me:

That’s fine. You can give her my number, too. Just in case I’m not around.

Juliet:

Thanks, Grady. I appreciate you!

Me:

Anytime, Jules.

I flip my burgers and run her texts on repeat in my head.

The stranger’s story isn’t my business, but Juliet asking me to keep an eye on her sets alarms off.

Jules knows me well enough to know that what little information she gave me would be enough to have my guard up for the woman next door.

And I know Juliet Jackson well enough to know that if a woman needs a place to hide, she’d be the first to help.

Assumptions aren’t my favorite thing, but it’s probably a safe bet that Lou is in a tough spot.

I’m halfway through my first burger when my phone notifies me of another text.

Juliet:

Do you have food? Lou wasn’t able to stop for groceries and there’s nothing in the house.

I eye the second burger on my plate with some sadness.

Me:

I have a freshly barbecued salmon burger with a side of Miss B’s pasta salad.

Juliet:

OMG, I would kill for some of Miss B’s pasta salad right now. Which sounds stupid since I’m in the birthplace of pasta. But, whatever. Would you mind parting with it?

Me:

Sure thing. I’ll drop it over on the front porch. I’ll knock so she knows it’s there, but I won’t stick around for her to open the door.

Juliet:

You are wiser than your years, old friend. Thank you.

Me:

Of course.

I transfer the burger to a fresh plate, add some pasta to it from the container Miss B packed up for me earlier today, then scrounge around in my kitchen for some basic provisions that I have spare of.

Within a few minutes, I have a paper grocery bag filled with some dry beans, a bag of rice, a pound of coffee, a box of granola bars, and a variety of fresh fruit.

It’s enough to keep her from starving for the next day, anyway. Besides, it’s just how we work here in Stowaway. We take care of our own. As long as Lou is living in the Jackson house, she’s one of us.

Even if that means I have to give up half my dinner, which I cover with foil since I can hear that rain has started to fall on my sheet metal roof.

The tinkling sound has always been comforting for me, but I fear the weather would too quickly ruin my impressive barbecue skills if it sits out for more than a few seconds.

As promised, I place the food on my neighbor’s doorstep, knock, and retreat. I’m nearly back to my own front door when I hear Lou exit the Jackson house. It’s a reflex, a natural reaction to look up and see who is there.

Lou freezes, her eyes wide and wild, though they’re trained on the ground somewhere between us like she’s a submissive pup and me the alpha she’s too frightened to make eye contact with.