Page 56 of The Locked Ward
“Mandy? You okay?” Scott’s voice yanks me out of my thoughts.
It’s almost closing time at Sweetbay’s. The kitchen has been cleaned and swept, the dishwashers are churning, and only two stragglers are parked on bar stools.
“I’m good. Why don’t you head out?” I smile at Scott.
After I left The Penguin, I took an Uber back to Tony Wagner’s office complex and got my car.
A police cruiser was in the parking lot, and I spotted an officer checking out everyone who passed by.
I wanted to ask if they’d learned whether Tony’s death was from natural causes, but I knew attracting more attention to myself wouldn’t be wise.
The whole drive home, my battered mind tried to absorb everything I’d seen and heard. I knew I needed to protect the thumb drive, especially if it’s the only copy that exists. So I downloaded the videos onto my phone, then stopped at the bank where I keep a safe-deposit box.
Inside the box is a slim envelope holding a few Polaroid pictures. No one but me knows about them; I’ve never shown them to a soul. I keep them locked up here for Beth. I locked the thumb drive in with them.
Right now I can’t gauge if it’s more vital to pursue the questions swirling around my sister’s life, or dig more deeply into those around mine. And I can’t shake the fear that if Georgia is right and someone put a tracker on my car, they’ll know exactly where I am tonight.
One of the two men remaining at my bar puts the phone he’s been scrolling into his pocket, signs the bill Scott left by his drink, and walks out.
The other guy keeps nursing his beer. He isn’t peering at his phone or trying to talk to us. He’s just staring into space, like he’s thinking deeply about something.
I take a closer look. I haven’t seen him at my bar before.
He’s in his early fifties, with steel-gray hair cut military-short.
He’s got the physique of a boxer, and he’s wearing a wrinkled blue T-shirt with a pink pelican pattern and a gleaming gold Rolex.
It feels like an odd juxtaposition of details.
A month ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about him. He looks up and meets my eyes, and I quickly turn away, wiping down an already clean counter. I feel a prickling between my shoulder blades, a physiological warning that I’m being watched.
I whip around, expecting to catch the guy staring at me, but I see Scott standing there instead.
“I was thinking about what you said the other day.”
I raise my eyebrows in a question.
“The crime in the area. It’s not a good idea for you to close up alone. I’m staying until you leave.”
“You don’t have to—” I begin. But the warm relief pouring through me makes me realize how much I want him to.
Scott said this loudly enough for the guy to hear. Deliberately? I wonder. Maybe he also thinks there’s something sketchy about the guy.
Or maybe I’m experiencing paranoia.
A moment later, the guy swallows the remaining two inches of beer in his glass and sets it down. He leaves without a word.
Instead of rinsing out the glass and turning off the lights, Scott reaches for a bottle of Johnnie Walker and fills two glasses with ice. He pours a generous splash of the amber-colored liquid into each. “These are on me. You look like you could use a drink.”
I take a sip. The welcome burn fills my throat and chest, warming me in places I didn’t know I was cold.
“You’re right,” I tell him. “But they’re not on you.”
“We’ll argue about that later. C’mere.” Scott leads the way to a two-top. I follow and claim the chair across from him.
“What’s really going on?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Mandy, come on. You forgot about six things tonight. You jumped out of your skin when Clarissa dropped a tray. And you just look… sad.”
I want to confide in Scott. It would be such a relief to unload on someone, to get a fresh perspective. But if even a fraction of what Georgia is telling me is true, I could be putting Scott in danger.
Before I can say anything, my phone rings. I glance down at it. The number is unfamiliar, but the area code is Charlotte.
“Excuse me a sec?” I ask Scott. He nods.
I pick up and say hello.
“Hey, hon. That picture you showed me of the woman you think is your mom?” The voice of the bartender I spoke to earlier today at The Penguin comes over the line. I can hear the clatter of dishes in the background; she must be closing up, too.
“Yes?” My heart starts pounding.
“I asked around. No one knew her.”
“Oh.” Disappointment sears through my voice.
“Hold on, now. Him , he’s a different story. One of my old-timers recognized him, but he’d grown out his hair and shaved off the mustache he used to have. Said he came in here most Sunday nights, but a long, long time ago. He used to work for the Cartwrights. How does your mother know him?”
Pecan Tree Corp. It must be one of the many companies the Cartwrights own. My parents lied to me about that, too.
“Hon? Still there?”
I blurt out: “I think they were friends.”
“Well, if she’s hooked up with him, that’s trouble.”
Everything shudders to a stop. I whisper, “What are you talking about?”
“Word is he disappeared one day. Silver, jewelry—he took whatever he could from the Cartwrights and fled town.”
I can feel my heart breaking.
Because maybe that’s where the extra money came from the year I was born. My father stole it from the Cartwrights. Maybe he shaved his mustache and let his hair grow longer so the Cartwrights wouldn’t recognize him.
“Thank you,” I manage to whisper.
“No problem. I hope your mother got rid of him.”
I hang up and drop my head into my hands. Maybe my father stole more than silver and jewelry. What if he stole me, too?