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Chapter 17

I dreamed about the singing children again.

I was somewhere dark and damp, but the voices propelled me forward. I stumbled, blind and groping, toward some destination I couldn’t name but knew I had to reach. And then I saw her face—the old woman’s—and knew. It shone in the dark like a withered moon, and I froze in terror. She hissed in my ear, her message from before.

Whaaat . . . have they taaakennn . . . from youuu . . .

I woke bathed in sweat, heart pounding wildly. The curtains hung still. It was purple-gray outside, the sun hadn’t even fully risen, but Peter’s side of the bed was cool. I got up and checked the bathroom. His toothbrush and razor were gone, as well as his deodorant, shaving cream, and hairbrush. I threw open the door of his closet. A third of his clothes were gone.

I spotted the note, a piece of yellow lined paper torn from one of his legal pads, on my nightstand. In something like a trance, I walked over and picked it up. For a moment, I held the folded note, time standing still. The note couldn’t hurt me if I didn’t open it, if I never read the words written inside. If I never opened it, I could still find Peter, beg for his forgiveness, ask him to erase what I’d done. Erase this whole part of our lives . . .

I unfolded the paper.

I love you, Billie, but so much has happened, I need to find some clarity. The time apart will be good for both of us, I think. P.

Tears burned in my eyes, and I started to tremble. I grabbed my phone from my nightstand and pulled up my messages. Peter, I’m begging you, please call me. I want to talk. I want to fix this.

Clutching my phone, I tiptoed down the hall to Peter’s office. I pushed open the door, careful not to let it creak and wake Mere. My gaze swept the place. Everything was still in place, except his computer was gone as well as its charger. I composed another text.

Peter, you have to tell me where you are—if not for me then for Mere. Please.

The seconds ticked by.

Nothing . . .

Nothing . . .

. . . then three dots.

A wave of relief crashed over me. I would do whatever he wanted, shut down the restaurant, never speak to Jamie Cleburne again, even move back to the city. I’d move anywhere he wanted, just as long as our family stayed together.

I’m at the airport. Flight booked to New York. Please give me the space I’m asking for, Billie. It’s the least you can do.

I stared uncomprehendingly at the words. He was going back to New York? Without us? A sob worked its way from my chest and up my throat, but I jammed the back of my hand against my mouth before it could escape. I couldn’t let Mere hear me. I slipped out of the office and shut the door behind me, turning to lean against the door and jumped, startled.

Ramsey was sitting in the middle of the hallway, watching me. His eyes were wide, unblinking, and I noticed the line of fur bristling along his spine. There was something behind him, a small lump on the floor. An animal, lifeless. Ramsey pulled back his mouth to reveal a row of sharp white teeth and hissed at me, daring me to take his prize.

Like baby teeth, bared in a little girl’s mouth . . .

Mere’s door swung open. “Rams!” she cried.

I threw out my hand “Stop, Mere! Don’t move.”

She saw the dead rodent and her face fell. “Oh no, Mama. He killed it.”

“It’s okay, baby. It’s what cats do. Just go back in your room and get changed for Lilah’s, and I’ll take care of it.” She obeyed, her eyes swimming in tears, and after she shut the door, I could hear her crying.

“See what you did,” I hissed back at the cat and then charged him. He twisted around, leaping on his kill, jaws snapping protectively over it. With one last baleful glance at me, he streaked past me and down the stairs, holing up somewhere safe and hidden in the big house.

* * *

At the restaurant, the breakfast rush dragged, the hands of the kitchen wall clock ticking at half speed as I scrambled eggs, fried bacon, and flipped hotcakes. I felt smothered by my own desperation. I needed to get out of that kitchen, breathe some fresh air.

I needed to cry. Scream. Beg Peter—again—to communicate with me.

Everything that could go wrong, did. We ran out of avocado, which was in practically every dish. The espresso machine malfunctioned. Tilda Brennan dropped by to say, with a smirk, that she’d accidentally sent our delivery of croissants down to a restaurant in Atlanta. To top it off, I discovered Major Minette had brought a flask of moonshine to work and had been nipping on it all through his shift. He ended up breaking a bunch of our more expensive cocktail glasses, then banging around the kitchen storage area after which I confiscated the flask and sent him home.

Jamie kept trying to catch my eye every time I bustled past, but I kept my head down, focusing on putting out the next fire. When he’d finished his breakfast and thrown down his usual twenty-dollar tip, he poked his head into the kitchen.

“Billie?” he said.

I looked up, face flushed from more than just the heat of the stove.

“You okay?”

I wiped my forehead with my arm. “Yep.”

He looked puzzled. “Well, alright then. Good to see you.”

“Always.” I vanished back into the line and tried to jump into the flow at the griddle. But I couldn’t concentrate and ended up scorching the sourdough toast and overcooking the poached eggs. I was useless here. I needed to go.

I called Lilah and asked if she’d be willing to keep Mere overnight. Temperance had invited her to sleep over on previous occasions, but Peter had always said he thought she was too young. She might be, but everything was different now. In leaving me and his daughter, Peter had forfeited his parental vote.

I paused, hands on hips, surveying the restaurant. In spite of the day’s rocky start, everything seemed to be running smoothly now. Falcon could handle the kitchen. I could call Cam to come fill in as manager, and tomorrow was Saturday, which was my day off.

I was free to go. To point the Jeep in a direction, any direction, and drive until I found someplace to drown out this misery. Someplace far enough away that no one recognized me. Certainly not at The Dredges, the dingy little pool hall several blocks down from the square. I needed to be anonymous. To sit in silence and drink until my out-of-control mind quit spiraling in every imaginable direction. It wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but I’d do healthy another day. Right now, I was desperate.

After I promised him a few precious days off in the next weeks, Cam agreed to come in. In the hot kitchen, I pulled Falcon aside. “A minute? I’m going to need the rest of the day, if that’s all right with you. Cam’s on his way over.”

“Sure, boss. Everything okay?”

“It will be. Thanks, Falcon.”

I hung my apron on a hook and went back to the office to grab my purse. I shut the door of the office, pulled Major’s contraband flask off a high shelf, and reached for a mug from one of the shelves above the computer. After wiping it out with the bottom of my T-shirt, I poured a slug and knocked it back, wincing. Then I repeated the action. I breathed out, low and slow, feeling the burn in my chest. And an instant calm. I tucked the flask in my purse, zipped it closed, and slung it over my shoulder.

Outside, I let the humidity and heat envelop me like a comforting hug. I turned toward my car, which was parked in the alleyway behind the restaurant, and nearly ran into a young man in a sheriff’s uniform and hat. He was Black, tall, and broad shouldered, but carried his size awkwardly. He looked fresh out of the police academy or wherever sheriff’s deputies went.

“Whoops, pardon me.” I stepped back then blinked in recognition. He was the deputy I’d seen that first day in Juliana, at the mill, rolling up the yellow crime tape.

“Ms. Hope?” he asked. I was definitely staring.

I tightened my grip on my purse and the contraband moonshine inside. “Yes?”

He handed me a business card. “Deputy Isaac Inman with the Bartow County Sheriff’s Department. I wondered if you’d mind answering a few questions for me.” He said it like a book report he’d memorized for English Lit.

“Sure. Can I ask about what?” I asked.

“Your property. The Dalzell-Davenport place.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I wondered if you’d seen anything out of the ordinary there since you’ve moved in. Around the place . . . or inside.”

I had the impulse to burst out laughing. Strange, you say? Oh my God, where to begin? The dreams and nightmares and sleepless nights? The feral cat? Or what about the cryptic carvings in the baseboards? For the children . . .

“Ms. Hope?” He was watching me closely. I wondered if he could tell I was tipsy.

“I’m sorry. You know, funny you should mention it, there have been a few strange things about the place. The day we moved in, we were told that there was an old well, different from the one that supplies water to the house now, that had not been properly capped. We were warned not to let our daughter wander the property in case she might fall in it. My husband searched all over, but he never found it. And he couldn’t find any record of it in the plat at city hall.”

“Interesting.”

“It was really getting to him for a while there. He was obsessing over finding it. Worrying about our daughter. He’s been having trouble sleeping and then sleeping all the time. He had nightmares, these really intense and realistic dreams about all these fantastical creatures—”

He was staring at me, eyes narrowed, and I shut my mouth. It occurred to me that I was talking way too much and possibly sounded utterly insane. The thing was, I didn’t care. I was tired of it all—the situation with Peter. The questions about this town. I was ready for some answers.

“Go on,” he said.

“He went to see a doctor, Dr. Belmont St. John, here in town, but we haven’t gotten any test results back yet. He’s thinking about getting a second opinion.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I honestly have no idea, but the lack of sleep can’t help. I don’t think he’s happy here. He actually—” I sent him a tired look. “He left earlier today. Left me, that is.”

“I’m sorry.”

I let out a caustic laugh. “But that’s not what you wanted to know about.”

“It’s fine.”

“Are you investigating the kids who were doing drugs at the mill?”

He furrowed his brow.

I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “I actually saw you there, the day we got into town, back in April. You were rolling up the yellow tape. Although I thought yellow tape was only used for when they find a body.”

Deputy Inman looked stricken. His mouth opened then closed, but no words came out. I cocked my head, the pieces falling into place.

“Wait. Did you find a body there?” I asked.

The guy looked like he wished the earth could swallow him whole.

“Because Jamie Cleburne definitely told me it was just kids messing around with drugs.”

His eyes shifted from right to left. “I can’t really—”

“What the hell is going on, Deputy? We live right down the road. I think I deserve to know what’s going on.”

“I can’t—”

“You can.” I stepped closer to him. He straightened but didn’t back away. “Please, Deputy Inman. You can trust me.”

He clenched his jaw then seemed to relent. “This stays between you and me, all right?” he said in a low voice. His face held an expression I couldn’t read.

“No problem. Whatever you say.”

“It was actually the same day you and your family moved in,” he said. “It was bones, some clothing, and jewelry. I was the one who found them. Purely by accident. I was fishing on the river on my day off.”

Bones. I swallowed. “Who is it? Was it?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know, and I didn’t have much time to find out. As soon as I reported it to Sheriff Childers, he took over the case. Told me to go back, get rid of the tape I’d rolled, and leave it to him.”

“Okay.”

“I think it was probably one of that group that used to hang out with Wren Street—”

“The ones who were squatting in my house?”

He looked surprised I knew about this but nodded. “—but he didn’t agree. And then he said I was no longer needed on the case. He said that he would handle it.”

I considered this. “So, Wren Street’s friends . . .”

“People called them trustafarians. Trust fund babies who live the life of neo-hippies. Pretending they don’t have money. Doing drugs. Panhandling. Then drawing a thousand out of the bank to fund a trip to Paris.”

“Marie Antoinette pretending to be a milkmaid.”

He nodded. “Exactly. People around here weren’t too happy about them hanging around town. They were dirty, you know. Looked strange with the dreadlocks and the no-bathing thing. Folks thought it sent the wrong message. A welcome sign to more bad elements to come to Juliana.”

“And you think one of them died at the mill?”

“Or at your house and they moved the body. But it has to be. Or someone passing through. Nobody around here’s been reported missing.”

I absorbed this. “My God. Do you think it was an accident? An overdose?”

“I don’t know.” Deputy Inman was regarding me closely. So closely, I started to feel uncomfortable. “But it doesn’t matter because I’m not on the case. Technically.”

“But you’re here questioning me. And it’s been . . . what, almost four months? Seems like you’re not confident the sheriff’s doing his job.”

He said nothing, and we stared at each other, each of us trying to assess the other’s trustworthiness. I couldn’t seem to figure out what exactly this man was after. Or whose side he was on.

“I’m just trying to do the right thing,” he finally said, “by whoever it was.”

I nodded. “The squatters, the trustafarians, left carvings around the baseboards of one of the bedrooms. For the children. I don’t know what it means. There were initials, too. MBEDWS. ”

“The WS is definitely Wren Street. Emmaline Dalzell might be the ED . I don’t know the other one.”

“That’s all I’ve got. Sorry.”

He clicked his pen. Jotted some notes. “I appreciate it.”

“Are you from Juliana?” I asked. “I don’t remember meeting any Inmans yet.”

“You wouldn’t have,” he said. “My family’s from Cooper Creek. A little west of here.” He clicked the pen and returned it to his shirt pocket, never averting his eyes from mine. Discomfort rippled through me. “Ms. Hope, I don’t mean to . . .” He trailed off.

“What?”

“Is there a chance you’ve been drinking?”

I stared at him, unable to formulate an adequate lie. I found myself touched, in some odd way, at his concern. “What if I have? Could you blame me?”

Now he smiled at me. A kind smile that held an edge of humor. “No, I wouldn’t blame you. I just want you to get home safe. Sometimes the safest place to be when you’ve had a hard day is at home.”

“I thank you, and I really appreciate you confiding in me.”

He looked a bit regretful.

“I’ll be careful. And . . . I hope we can talk again. If you learn anything interesting about . . . anything.”

He pursed his lips. Nodded, all business again. “Yes, ma’am. You have my number.”