Page 17 of Poison Wood

I hop out and dry off, then slip on my silk pajamas and climb into the antique iron bed.

I pull the sheets up and remind myself to do what I try to do after some of the more harrowing days I have on a story. I try to think of something simple. Something happy to focus on so the nightmares will stay at bay. But when I finally close my eyes, the night terrors greet me.

I wake up early with a jolt to dark dormer windows. I shake my head to rid it of the images—Broken Bayou, barrels and zip ties. I work my jaw side to side to relieve the tension from my clenched teeth.

Downstairs, Debby is dressed in crisp, dark-blue Wranglers and a snap-button shirt, pouring herself a cup of coffee. The three dogs are all under the table, chewing bones. I help myself to a coffee as well and sit.

“Any word from the hospital?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says, sitting next to me. “But it’s only six in the morning.”

“But shouldn’t they have called? I mean, don’t we need updates or something?”

Debby leans onto her elbows. “No news is good news.”

“Well that’s a bunch of bullshit.” Debby frowns. “I mean.” I sigh. “Whatever.”

I slide my phone open and google Laura Sanders and Key Biscayne. No news articles come up. I’m way ahead of the pack on this one, even the local pack. I check the time. “I’m going to get dressed and go up to the hospital,” I say, calculating how quickly I can get a flight out today.

“Wanna ride with me?” Debby says, taking her cup to the sink and rinsing it out.

“I’ll bring my dad’s truck,” I say. “That way I’ll have a car if I need it.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m navigating the quiet streets of Riverbend in my father’s ancient Ford pickup, scratches and scrapes grooved down both sides from his off-road adventures on the property. This truck is as much his baby as the three dogs back at the house. Two hundred and fifty thousand miles and counting. Although he could stand to clean out the inside. Mail is piled up on the passenger-side floor, and every time I take a turn, something clatters under the worn leather seats.

Seats that still smell like his woodsy cologne. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel in order to keep myself in check. No falling apart. Not now. Not ever.

I steer the truck off the empty interstate. Rush hour in Riverbend is anything but. It’s just another hour in the day, and in under five minutes I’m at the only local coffee shop, which sits in a converted old house, with no option for a drive-through.

Unlike the interstate, the place is packed. I place my order and give the barista a fake name, Rose; then I find a spot in the corner to duck into and keep my head down. I don’t need someone recognizing me like on the plane last night. I’m not in the mood for small talk or trying to catch up with someone I haven’t seen in years.

But as soon as I think it, I hear a name called out from the coffee bar that stops my pulse a beat too long: Summer.

I fish in my tote and pull out a Texas Rangers ballcap and put it on. Then I glance toward the register and see her.

She is unmistakable, and even though I haven’t seen her or the woman next to her in over a decade, I recognize them both immediately. Summer Chamberlain and Katrina Donovan.

Summer’s striking beauty is still intact. The guy helping her is stuttering. Her Nordic features and natural blond curls are still stunning people into silence. Katrina is trying to match that beauty but not quite getting there, even with the injectables in her lips and her $300 jeans. Katrina always had to work hard to cover up being average, and I always believed a part of her resented Summer for having beauty come so easily to her. But from the looks of it, they remained friends despite that.

I’ve kept up through social media, so I know they both live three and a half hours south of Riverbend in Baton Rouge. What the hell are they doing up here?

But as they start toward the door, an image of the newspaper article I received from Laura Sanders comes to mind and I know the answer. That fucking school.

I look away before they see me and watch them as they start to exit through the glass door.

“Rose,” the barista yells.

I notice Katrina stop for a moment, but then they keep walking and the door shuts behind them.

Chapter Five

Riverbend, Louisiana

Wednesday, February 13, 2019

7:45 a.m. CST

When I arrive at the hospital, Debby is waiting for me by the elevator.