Dream a Little Dream Eden
Dream a Little Dream
Eden
Home.
Empty, barren. I spend as much time away as I can. I’m a road warrior, traveling weekly. I’m not in Atlanta more than seven or eight days a month, and even that is too much. My boss loves me for this.
And while I enjoy the life I’ve built for myself, I’m treading water, and have been for years. Traveling allows me an escape. Alone on my still-not-broken-in couch, I have too much time to think. To worry. To wonder. To plan and plot and drive myself mad with what-ifs.
And yes, to search for Andrew. To dream of the day he reappears in my life.
To dream of today.
I imagined a hundred different scenarios, him and me, and yes, he died in them all. But when I was finally face-to-face with that monster, what happened? I lost my composure and bungled my lines. Instead of attacking, I let him walk away.
I slap my face. “You’re weak. You’re nothing. You’re a loser.” Slap, slap, slap, until my eyes sting and my cheeks are flaming, and fury courses through me like a cleansing fire.
There. That’s better. Now I can think again.
Andrew disappeared ten years ago. The day they dropped the charges, he slipped away into the fabric of the universe. No one has seen or heard from him since, including his parents.
Enough. I don’t want to think. I want to act. So, once I dump my gear, I open a bottle of wine, pour a full glass, quaff half of it, then call Detective Theresa Lee.
The phone rings so many times I assume Lee is sending me to voicemail, but finally, she answers, her tone low and exasperated. “Hello, Eden.”
“Hello, Detective. I’m calling—”
“For an update, yes, and I don’t have one for you. I’ve told you several times, Eden, if something comes up, I’ll call you.”
“Well, something has come up, Theresa. Are you sitting down?”
The voice is slightly less sharp now. “Actually, yes. I’m at my desk. What’s going on?”
“I found him.”
“Andrew? Where?”
“He was on my plane from Nashville to Atlanta today. With his family. His new family.”
I hear no response, but I can imagine the scene: Theresa with her feet up on her desk after a long day doing nothing, just existing in that tiny town’s police station until she finally retires, the stink of failure clinging to her like fresh mulch.
It doesn’t matter how many cases you solve; when you have a young, pregnant mother murdered, and it’s a cold case, that’s all anyone remembers.
My news has shocked Theresa, certainly. Her breathing is ragged.
I bet her mouth is gaping unbecomingly, her eyes wide and staring.
I smile. After all this time, it’s nice to finally have the upper hand.
Though she plays it cool, Detective Lee is as obsessed with finding my sister’s murderer as I am.
Maybe even more so, if only to force the confession we all know he was holding back.
She wants to close the murder case and ride off into the sunset.
“You still there?”
“I’m here,” Theresa says, softly now. “You’re sure it was him?”
“Without a shadow of a doubt. He goes by Trey now. His wife, Brooklyn Thomas Locke, is a photographer of some note and works for a food magazine. They have two very nice kids. They were heading to Italy.”
“You spoke to him?”
The incredulity. Of course I’d spoken to him. What kind of human would allow the man who killed their sister to walk away fully unscathed? Maybe I hadn’t handled it as well as I could have, but I was sure I’d had quite an effect on him. I decide to let it pass for now.
“I did. And guess what happened? He pretended not to know me, then bailed. Left the airport and disappeared somewhere, leaving his family behind. I ended up helping Brooklyn. I babysat while TSA took her and the plane apart. Someone called it in, thought he might be a security risk to the flight.”
“Someone being you, I assume?” There is a hint of amusement now and something else, awe, maybe, in Theresa’s voice.
“Okay, yes, I might have sounded the alarm. Wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Listen, he saw me, and he bolted. I needed to stop him from disappearing again, and I didn’t think his wife was safe at all.
I thought security would catch up to him, but he managed to leave the terminal entirely before they even thought to look at the cameras.
I wasn’t surprised that he ran when he saw me.
I just didn’t expect him to leave his family behind.
” I pause a moment. “Though how stupid of me. Loyalty never was his strong suit. Of course he bailed on them. Of course he ran. That’s his MO. ”
And now I’m fighting the urge to slap myself again because I drove him away. I pinch my arm, hard, hard enough to leave a bruise. It helps me focus.
“Some things never change,” Theresa says.
I’m not sure if she is referring to Andrew or if she’s somehow able to peer through the phone and see me damaging my fragile skin.
I put my hand flat on the table. My nails are bitten to the quick; blood is oozing from my cuticles.
When did I do that? I broke that bad habit years ago. Hadn’t even realized.
I grab a tissue and wind it around my fingers. “Theresa. He’s in the area. I have all his details. I want you to reopen the file, and we can start looking for him. His wife wants to know where he is—she’ll help us. He lives in Tennessee now, and—”
My phone beeps. I glance at the screen. A text. From Brooklyn Locke.
Holy. Shit.
Are you still up?
“Hold on, Theresa—actually, I’ll call you right back.”
I click off without waiting and dial Brooklyn’s number. She answers, distressed. Her credit card is not working, her sister is coming . . . I barely listen, joy coursing through my veins. This was meant to happen. This was meant to be.
I reissue the invitation to stay with me, which Brooklyn accepts. I hang up, stupefied, and call Theresa again.
“Change of plans. Brooklyn is coming here to stay tonight, with the kids. Something is wrong with her credit cards. How quickly can you be here?”
“You want me to come to Atlanta? Now?”
“Damn straight. Bring the file. We have to tell her what Andrew did to Chloe, and you are the only one she’ll believe. She’s starry eyed over the creep.”
“Women always are,” Theresa murmurs. “All right. I’m on my way. It will be a couple of hours. I have to wrap up a few things here.”
“Thank you.” I mean this sincerely. Without Theresa as my foil, I fear there is no way Brooklyn will hear me out when I share the truth. That her husband murdered my sister. My sweet, stupid, also starry-eyed sister.
I have to warn Brooklyn. If Andrew is acting erratically, his new wife will no doubt be next. I can’t have another dead girl on my conscience.
“Eden? Good job.” And Theresa is gone, leaving me staring at the phone in wonder. She’s never taken the kind route before.
This day just keeps getting better.