Page 43 of The Locked Ward
“You don’t like grits? How come I never knew? That’s practically a felony in Mecklenburg County!”
On that night almost two years ago, Colby was laughing. Colby hadn’t had much to laugh about in life. A domineering father, two cruel older brothers, and a mother who was emotionally checked out equaled a dangerous formula for a sensitive, awkward kid.
People assumed the two of you were dating because you were spotted eating at a couple of restaurants and walking through a farmers’ market sharing an umbrella on a drizzly Saturday morning.
But the gossip mill was wrong. You’d reconnected after Annabelle’s birthday party at the Asian restaurant, but only as friends.
Colby wasn’t in love with you. He’d harbored a crush on the other Cartwright sister for years.
You hadn’t even noticed him at Annabelle’s party. Colby wasn’t the kind of guy the limelight favored; he’d been in a corner, nursing a bourbon and stealing looks at Annabelle.
Colby reached out to you a few days afterward, saying he’d love to catch up. But he had an underlying motive. He’d spotted it, too: the way Honey and Dee Dee looked at Annabelle—and the way the senator looked at Annabelle. It was a dangerous triangle.
You met at a restaurant where he ate all of his grits as well as yours. The two of you fell back into the rhythm you’d established as children. You were outsiders in your own families, finding solace in your shared exile.
By the time you’d emptied a bottle of wine, you’d revealed what you’d seen in the butler’s pantry.
Then Colby told you a story that made your insides curl.
A year or so back, Colby had finally gotten up the courage to ask Annabelle out.
He was taking her to a Mardi Gras–themed party thrown by one of his neighbors, complete with a rollicking jazz band and Cajun-inspired menu.
Colby brought a sparkling green-and-purple headdress for Annabelle and a gold mask for himself.
He wasn’t sure if she realized it was a date because they’d been friends for so long.
Annabelle could be a bit dense, or perhaps she was used to guys having crushes on her and enjoyed stringing them along.
Either way, she seemed blithely accepting of his attention, smiling her big smile, chattering in that way everyone found charming as they drove to the party.
Colby knew he’d learn the truth about whether Annabelle liked him as a friend or was interested in more when he walked her to her door at the end of the night and tried to kiss her.
They never made it to the party, though.
He was driving with Annabelle in the passenger’s seat when flashing blue-and-red lights appeared in his rearview mirror. He steered to the side of the road and waited for the sheriff’s car to pass. But it didn’t.
“License and registration, son,” said the uniformed sheriff at his window, and Colby handed them over.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?” the sheriff asked.
“No, sir,” Colby replied.
“One of your taillights is out.”
Colby was surprised; his car was fairly new, and he had it serviced regularly. He promised the sheriff he’d have it fixed right away. He assumed he’d be sent on his way with a warning.
Instead, the sheriff leaned closer through the window.
“Have you been drinking tonight, son?”
Colby hesitated. He’d swallowed a shot of bourbon for courage before he’d left the house to pick up Annabelle. But just one, and he’d had a big lunch that day.
The sheriff didn’t seem to like the hesitation. He told Colby to step out of the car and walk a straight line, heel to toe.
Colby aced the test.
When he finished, the sheriff was holding up a small Ziploc bag.
“This fell out of your pocket,” he told Colby. “Want to tell me what it is?”
“It isn’t mine,” Colby protested, hot-cheeked with embarrassment as Annabelle witnessed everything from inside the car. He was about to be read his rights and put in the back of the sheriff’s car and taken in for possession of marijuana while his dream girl watched.
But Colby was allowed to make a phone call first, in a departure from procedure. Colby knew he’d been offered this privilege only because the sheriff recognized his name.
Colby called the one man who could save him. He pleaded for help, embarrassed that Annabelle could hear his voice cracking: “It wasn’t mine, Dad! It must have been on the road already… That’s the only explanation I can think of.”
The senator asked to speak to the sheriff, and Colby handed over the phone.
He waited, certain the sheriff would tell him it had all been a misunderstanding and wish him a good night. His father was a fervent supporter of law enforcement. It was the one time in his life that Colby felt grateful for his father’s deep, intricate web of connections.
Instead, the sheriff listened for a moment, then said, “Yes, sir.” Then he took out his handcuffs and arrested Colby.
You’d interrupted Colby’s story at that point, aghast: “Your father told the sheriff to arrest you?”
Colby nodded, his shoulder slumping. You could see in his expression a reflection of all the other times his father had gutted him: the ski trip and the hunting trip, the times he’d turned his head while Colby’s older brothers tormented him, the way he’d derided Colby’s lack of athletic ability to whoever would listen.
But that wasn’t the worst part. Not even close.
The sheriff then handed Colby’s phone to Annabelle, telling her the senator wanted to speak to her. And while Colby was being taken to jail, the senator drove over to pick up Annabelle. Colby’s car was left by the side of the road, where it was towed to an impound lot.
The senator took Annabelle to dinner, telling her she looked too pretty to be sitting at home all night alone. Colby was held in a cell until the next morning, when his mother came to spring him.
The charges against Colby disappeared. So did his chance with Annabelle. When he texted her to apologize and ask for a second chance, she came up with excuses until he stopped trying.
“What kind of father would do that?” Colby asked you.
You shook your head. You had no words.
“Sometimes I wonder if my dad set me up,” Colby said.
“The brake light being out, him being home and available—which he never was. Maybe he even got the sheriff to pretend to find the weed on me. When I saw my dad with Annabelle at her party, it felt like more than wondering. It feels like certainty. He didn’t want me with Annabelle because he wanted her for himself. ”
It was a dark accusation.
What you didn’t know at the time was Colby—gentle, soft-spoken Colby—possessed a streak of darkness himself. Maybe it was inherited from his father. Or maybe he’d just been pushed around too long, and finally snapped and pushed back.