Page 42 of The Locked Ward

I awaken from an uneasy sleep, peeling open my eyes and looking around my bedroom. The chair I propped beneath my door is still in place. My window is open a couple of inches, just as I left it. I wanted the sound to carry in case I screamed in the night.

Thoughts roar into my brain: My parents’ deception. My fear that someone was trying to break into my bar. My certainty that someone had broken into my apartment.

I can’t remember how long I was in my apartment after that.

I rinsed my plate and put it in my dishwasher, as is my habit because my sink is so small I can’t let dishes pile up in it.

I think I used the bathroom, but I’m not certain.

I might have checked my reflection in the mirror and brushed my hair or rubbed in hand lotion.

But I can’t remember. Those tasks are so mundane and repetitive my mind didn’t even register them.

It’s possible I left less than four minutes after I put the pizza into the refrigerator. Maybe it was my fault the door didn’t catch.

I climb out of bed and head for my refrigerator, opening the door and staring at the contents.

Why would someone look in here? There’s one precious item, but it’s something that’s valuable only to me: a sealed mason jar of apple butter my mother made shortly before she died.

My mother hated picking the apples off her beloved espalier tree because they looked so pretty splayed across the fence, but when they began to turn soft every year, she gathered them and brought them inside and made batches of apple butter in her slow cooker, filling the air with the aroma of vanilla and cinnamon.

The last thing my mother ever gave me is right where I left it, in the middle of my top shelf. Nothing else seems amiss.

I head back to my bedroom and notice a new text on my phone: Hi Amanda, it’s Colby from the ALS fundraiser. I’d love to take you to dinner. Any chance you’re free one night this week?

I mentally run through the list of all the things I need to do, including sorting through the rest of my dad’s paperwork for more clues. I’d planned to go to the bar early today to tackle that task.

But I can’t miss this chance, and not just because of Georgia’s whispered instructions. There’s a connection between my parents and the Cartwright family. Colby is my best way in.

I write back: Love to. Tonight is actually best for me if that works for you?

Three dots appear quickly, as if he’s been anxiously awaiting my response. That’s perfect! What time should I pick you up?

There’s no way I can agree to him picking me up. I’ll be coming from Georgia’s apartment, since I’ll need to re-create a version of the woman Colby met at the gala the other night. Given that Colby and Georgia were lifelong friends who briefly dated, he knows where she lived.

I text back: Which restaurant? I’ll meet you there.

He gives me the name and provides a link pinpointing the location and says he’ll see me at 7 P.M .

By the time I show up at the restaurant to meet Colby, I’m frustrated and my back is sore from bending over paperwork all day.

There wasn’t anything else out of the ordinary in my father’s tall metal cabinet or desk drawers.

But my search meant I had to skip a few of my usual tasks to keep the bar running smoothly, including taking inventory and holding my weekly staff meeting.

I know my employees are wondering about my absences. So I told them a version of the truth: I have a date tonight. I pretended to throw a cup of water at Scott when he made theatrical kissing noises.

The restaurant Colby chose is called Teo.

I arrive a few minutes early, wearing a pair of Georgia’s knee-high black boots and jewelry and my own short black dress—I figure it’s plain enough to pass as designer—but Colby is already waiting at a cozy booth for two by the window.

It’s a prime seat in this high-end place, where the tables are draped in heavy white cloths and classical music plays softly from hidden speakers.

He stands as I approach, and I flash back to my father rising from the table at my graduation dinner.

I shrug off my bad mood. The woman Colby is expecting to meet is confident and friendly.

I smile brightly and greet him with a quick, friendly hug. I once read that smell is the sense linked most strongly to memory, which is why I’m wearing Georgia’s Chanel perfume tonight. I hope when Colby inhales, she floats into his mind.

“I’m so glad you were free tonight,” he says. “You look beautiful.”

He stares at me for long enough that it makes me a bit uncomfortable.

I thank him and tell him the restaurant looks wonderful.

After the waiter comes to take our orders and delivers our drinks, I tell Colby that I graduated from UNC Chapel Hill and left my marketing job after my parents died.

But I have to muddle in some fibs, too: I don’t reveal anything about my bar, instead implying that my parents’ deaths were more recent and I’m taking a little time off to process everything.

“Your parents sound like wonderful people,” Colby says.

I’m surprised by the tears that spring to my eyes. “They were,” I say quietly. As hurt and angry as I am at them, I can’t deny their goodness.

I take a sip of my icy-cold chenin blanc and force myself to lean into the segue that just presented itself.

“Are you close to your parents?”

Colby’s shoulders slump.

“Not exactly. My father—do you know who he is?”

I’ve vowed to lie to Colby as little as possible. So I nod. “I do.”

“I guess my last name is a clue.” He gives a little laugh, then spears a piece of asparagus with more force than necessary.

I notice his index finger sticks straight out, rather than curling around his fork with the rest of his fingers, and the knuckle is slightly misshapen. It looks like an old injury.

Colby probably has too many people in his life interested in his dad. I don’t want him to think that’s why I’m going out with him. I decide to go in a different direction.

“I’ve been so busy with everything going on I haven’t had time to meet people recently,” I say. “This is nice.”

I hope Colby will reciprocate and talk about his dating history. I want to draw him out about Georgia.

But he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he points to the untouched grits on my plate. “You haven’t tried the grits.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I haven’t had grits in years.”

“Then what are you waiting for? They make them with sage butter here.”

I scoop a tiny portion onto my fork and taste it. He reads my face: “No way! A Southern girl who doesn’t like grits?”

“Guilty as charged,” I laugh. “Feel free to have mine.”

“You’re only the second person I’ve met who—”

His words abruptly cease, like they’ve fallen off a cliff. His smile drops away, too.

And I know: He’s thinking about Georgia.

I didn’t have to apply her perfume or search for a segue to get him to think about my twin. All I had to do was be myself.

“Who was the other?” I struggle to keep my tone casual.

His eyes are faraway. I desperately wish I could plunge into the memory I’m sure he’s lost in right now.

“She’s a friend,” he finally says.

“Did she grow up here?” I prompt. “Because you’re right, it’s hard to find a born-and-bred Southerner who doesn’t eat grits.”

For a moment, I think he’s going to answer me. Vulnerable, trusting Colby is actually going to start talking to me about Georgia.

Then the worst possible thing happens: We’re interrupted.

Colby reaches into his pocket and pulls out his buzzing cell phone. He looks down at the number.

“Oh no, I have to take this. I’m so sorry.”

He answers and listens. Then his face fills with resignation. “How long until you’re here?” He closes his eyes and shakes his head slightly. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

He hangs up and twists his body so that he isn’t facing the window. Then he asks me to do the same.

My brow wrinkles in confusion, but I comply.

“I’m sorry, but someone snapped a picture of us through the window. It’s already online. One of the gossip sites just called my dad’s office for a quote. They want to know who the brunette is with Colby Dawson.”

“Why would the press care—” I cut myself off as it hits me. Colby’s brief relationship with Georgia garnered headlines when she was arrested for Annabelle’s murder. My appearance in Colby’s life will give them a fresh angle to dredge up the salacious story.

“There might be more reporters out front now. One of my dad’s guys is on his way here to get us out.” He looks down at his plate. “I should’ve asked for a different table… I wasn’t thinking.”

“Hey, it isn’t your fault.” I start to reach out to touch his hand, then yank mine away. I don’t want to give the photographer any more ammunition. “Look, I’m having a good time.”

“Yeah?” Colby looks up, his eyes hopeful.

“Next time we’ll go to a quieter place.”

I’m trying to act unconcerned, but my heart is racing. I don’t know how recognizable I am in the photo. Georgia warned me to stay invisible.

“Will you excuse me? I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

“Of course.”

I put my napkin on the table and stand up, keeping my face averted from the window.

I cross the restaurant and find the sign indicating the bathrooms. I step inside and lock the door behind me, then pull out my phone and fire up a Google search. I find the gossip item quickly and zoom in on the picture.

I exhale. My hair is loose, and it’s swinging forward and covering part of my profile. Colby is the main focus of the photo, not me. I can’t imagine anyone would recognize me.

I put away my phone and check my reflection. I can’t see a way to alter my appearance, so I’ll keep my head down and trust that Senator Dawson’s guy can get us out unnoticed.

I unlock the door and step out of the bathroom.

Then I freeze.

The blond man with owlish eyes I thought I saw in my bar, the one who introduced himself as Reece DuPont at Annabelle’s funeral reception, is walking through the restaurant.

His gait is unhurried and he isn’t a physically imposing man, but there’s something about him that makes me think it would be a bad idea to get on the wrong side of him.

Colby stands up and shakes his hand. Any second now, Colby’s going to tell him I’m in the bathroom, and they’ll turn and look my way.

My body reacts, spurring me into movement.

There’s only one other way out, but luckily I know exactly where it is: Bars and restaurants always have exits through the kitchen in case of fires.

I pivot and push through the swinging double doors.

Cooks and dishwashers turn to look at me, but I’m moving so fast no one has time to stop me.

I race out the back door into the cool night. A guy in a white chef’s coat is leaning against the back of the restaurant, smoking.

“Escaping a bad date?” he asks, smiling.

“Something like that,” I reply as I pull up my Uber app, setting my pickup location for two blocks away. Then I hurry in that direction, my feet protesting in Georgia’s high-heeled boots.

On the way, I send Colby a text: I thought it would be easier for you to get out without me there as a distraction. I slipped away and I’m heading home. But I’d really love to see you again soon.

As bad as it would be to be spotted by the press again, something tells me it would be far worse if Reece DuPont saw me.